Bollocks: Foiled again

After a long bout of seven day working weeks, it would appear that my abused brain and body decided to force me into shutdown mode.

I began house and cat sitting for a friend on Friday. Having a house to myself for five weeks means I have a writing space that does not have to be dismantled at the end of each day, so I excitedly arranged the kitchen table in preparation not only for a long weekend of chapter seven composition, but for five weeks of productivity.

Thwarted Before I Began

Saturday morning, I awoke. I rushed to the bathroom and set the pattern for the rest of my weekend. I spent the long Easter/ANZAC Day weekend rushing between the bed or couch and the ladies powder room developing an intimate relationship with the flushing porcelain item in the corner. I shall say no more.

The same thing happened to me last Easter as well. Hmm? And I was house and cat sitting for Alisya then too! Weird.

So no, there was no productivity, although I am close to feeling cleansed. (Cleansed, but not yet refreshed.)

Now there will just be the stress and guilt associated with the loss of four precious writing days to deal with. For the sake of my productivity, I will try to forget about it. Let’s look on the positive side. After a long stint of seven day working weeks, I must have needed a break to cleanse and refresh.

I think it is fast getting to the stage where I may have to totally withdraw from the world or my Magnificent Octopus/Blasted Thesis will never be finished! Can one survive with no income I wonder?

Whatever happened to those wonderful days when rich people would serve as patrons to artistes enabling said artistes to bum around, I mean, dedicate themselves to their creative endeavours? Sigh. I wish I was a doctoral student about two hundred years ago.

I think it might be time to have another hissy fit and abscond to London.

The Bard of WA?

The Bard of Western Australia

It would appear from the latest jottings in my notebook that I have come over all Lewis Carroll lately. I seem to be obsessed with The Walrus. It is a good line, something something, The Walrus said. (If you do not know what I am talking about, I suggest you get yourself to the library – online or a real one, if they still exist – and grab a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and start reading before it is too late and your life is ruined forever!)

I submit these latest poetic gems for your judgement/amusement. I give no apologies for any offence these offerings may cause. They were not written with such intent. I was trying to be amusing. On a scale of 1 to 10 – 1 being ‘hideously bad’ and 10 being ‘poet laureate in the making’ – what do you think? QI-type scoring, i.e. minus scores, will be accepted with a hearty giggle in public and an uncontrollable fit of weeping despair in private. Having said that, some things are probably best left uncommented on. I suspect this may be the better option with regard to the offerings below.

I suppose I should offer a ‘Readers Should Proceed With Caution’ warning. So, okay, Readers Should Proceed With Caution.

Poetic Offering Number 1

“The time has come”, the Walrus said,

“To f…ing do something!

We’ve idled for quite long enough.

It’s time to move our lazy butts!”

And so the Walrus, with fierce intent,

Found himself a home to rent.

He set himself to his task,

And when fini, in glory basked.

“Now all is done and said,

I shall get me to bed.”

And with that, he did.

Poetic Offering Number 2 

“Well, look what you’ve done,” the Walrus said

“Your life is a right mess!

You keep making decisions

That turn out dodgy, at best!

The time has come,” the Walrus exclaimed,

“To let me take control.

Let’s stop procrastinating

And get your life on a roll!”

Lisa’s Lament – La Mauvaise Coiffure

It is no secret that I yearn for liberty and am counting the downs until I am back in London, but nothing brought home this yearning more than when I looked in the mirror yesterday and… wait for it… saw the result of 15 minutes in a hairdresser’s chair the day before. My locks have been massacred. My hair is not so much layered as resembling, say, a mountain top after an avalanche, chunks of debris everywhere.

I miss my Sue-Hair. Sue is the Best Hairdresser in the Universe. No, I do not say this lightly. I always leave Biba’s Hair and Beauty Salon on Marchmont Street, WC1 with fabulous hair. Twenty minutes in the hairdresser chair with Sue wielding the tools of her trade results in luscious, perfectly coiffed locks. I provide illustrations to prove that I am not having one of my Lisa Liberal Moments of Gross Exaggeration.

Having a Good Hair Day dining in Paris with Jenny-Anne

Having a Good Hair Day spending money in Melbourne with Jenny-Anne

I have found good hairdressers in Perth before. My honorary sis was styling my hair last year earning her the title of the Second Best Hairdresser in the Universe, but now she is teaching the trade rather than plying it. So I began searching for the Third Best Hairdresser in the Universe, or at least, a hairdresser who would not massacre my hair, leaving me with a case of Bad Hair Day Until the Next Coiff. Sadly, the  five-month run with my current hairdresser has come to an end.

Okay, it may seem a little perplexing to those of you who have seen me lately that someone who is exhibiting all the signs of not giving a stuff about her physical and personal appearance is lamenting the fact that her hair is looking quite awful. Yes, I have been comfort eating my way out of a reasonably respectable size 16 and have been leaving the shaving of the legs until the hairs are long enough to braid. Yes, I have purchased face paint with the intention of using it, only to conclude that I just cannot be bothered wasting time that is better spent in bed than trying to turn mutton into lamb. However, this does not mean that I am content with having awful hair! I like to let my hair blow free, but one cannot do that when her coiff looks like she’s been attacked by a bunch of ill-intentioned smirking drunks armed with scissors! We girls do not call Bad Hair Days “Bad Hair Days” just because our hair is not looking its luscious best, but because a Bad Hair Day filters throughout your entire psyche and makes every part of you feel absolutely awful. If we don’t feel like we could just walk onto the set of a shampoo advertisement and start swishing our lovely hair around our whole day is marred and nothing short of quaffing an entire magnum of pink champagne is going to restore the bubble of our personality.

Well, I am off to dig out my Kate Ceberano baseball cap and my Bates Gatsby to cover my Bad Hair, and then to Liquorland for some pink champagne so I can attempt to drink myself from this…

into a state of being in which I believe I am looking more like…