SURVIVING SUBURBIA
I've come to the conclusion that I am not going to grow old, and so this blog must therefore change in name from "Grow Old, Not Up" to something more suitable - or at least something less unsuitable. It's a pity that "Surviving Suburbia" is the best that I can come up with because, sooner rather than later, one of the many forces ranged against me is going to be successful in their efforts of doing me in (as embarrassingly as possible) - and so I'll not have survived suburbia anyway. Oh well, what are you going to do? Kill Me? Take a number mate, take a number... Please be patient.
OF TRENCHES AND FENCES
The trench is gone, cut down in the dawning spring of it's youth; the victim of people who want to put a fence around our property. Pity, I was feeling rather good about the (limited) progress of the digging of The Trench (please note, it had a title), given my feelings towards physical labour of all kinds and my (even more limited) semi-muscular physique. Then I was told that the pile of dirt that used to be solid ground, before it was moved to make way for The Trench, was in the way of The Fence and had to move forthwith. With heavy heart and heavier shovel (and much swearing out of hearing of impressionable young minds) I filled in The Trench and surrendered to the inevitable - Telstra's coming in on Tuesday to dig the bloody thing for me...
NO E-MAIL, AND NO SNAIL-MAIL EITHER...
It's a sad state of affairs when the only thing in your e-mail inbox is spam. It's sadder still when the only thing filling your letterbox is junk mail. Australia Post, it seems, has taken to hating me too. Why else would they decide that it's just not worth their while to deliver our mail to our letterbox, and instead keep it for collection at Hoppers Crossing Mail Delivery Centre? No doubt they tried letting me know about this rather interesting turn of events prior to being asked about it in person by my wife, and being Australia Post they did it by letter...
"Mail Delivery Centre" in this instance is a highly amusing choice of words given their performance since late December, which is to do everything possible to avoid delivering anything at all. Complaints fall on deaf ears, along with appeals to reason and questions regarding the physical and mental suitablity of various members of their staff to operate heavy machinery or (worse still) breed. After today's (non-productive) session of pain on the phone with their customer (dis)service line I have been advised, as a "temporary" measure of course, to hire the use of a post-box (KA-CHING!) and then re-direct the mail that is currently being re-directed from our old address (KA-CHING!). I now know why postal workers go on shooting sprees, it's a case of "Get them before they get you"...
I've come to the conclusion that I am not going to grow old, and so this blog must therefore change in name from "Grow Old, Not Up" to something more suitable - or at least something less unsuitable. It's a pity that "Surviving Suburbia" is the best that I can come up with because, sooner rather than later, one of the many forces ranged against me is going to be successful in their efforts of doing me in (as embarrassingly as possible) - and so I'll not have survived suburbia anyway. Oh well, what are you going to do? Kill Me? Take a number mate, take a number... Please be patient.
OF TRENCHES AND FENCES
The trench is gone, cut down in the dawning spring of it's youth; the victim of people who want to put a fence around our property. Pity, I was feeling rather good about the (limited) progress of the digging of The Trench (please note, it had a title), given my feelings towards physical labour of all kinds and my (even more limited) semi-muscular physique. Then I was told that the pile of dirt that used to be solid ground, before it was moved to make way for The Trench, was in the way of The Fence and had to move forthwith. With heavy heart and heavier shovel (and much swearing out of hearing of impressionable young minds) I filled in The Trench and surrendered to the inevitable - Telstra's coming in on Tuesday to dig the bloody thing for me...
NO E-MAIL, AND NO SNAIL-MAIL EITHER...
It's a sad state of affairs when the only thing in your e-mail inbox is spam. It's sadder still when the only thing filling your letterbox is junk mail. Australia Post, it seems, has taken to hating me too. Why else would they decide that it's just not worth their while to deliver our mail to our letterbox, and instead keep it for collection at Hoppers Crossing Mail Delivery Centre? No doubt they tried letting me know about this rather interesting turn of events prior to being asked about it in person by my wife, and being Australia Post they did it by letter...
"Mail Delivery Centre" in this instance is a highly amusing choice of words given their performance since late December, which is to do everything possible to avoid delivering anything at all. Complaints fall on deaf ears, along with appeals to reason and questions regarding the physical and mental suitablity of various members of their staff to operate heavy machinery or (worse still) breed. After today's (non-productive) session of pain on the phone with their customer (dis)service line I have been advised, as a "temporary" measure of course, to hire the use of a post-box (KA-CHING!) and then re-direct the mail that is currently being re-directed from our old address (KA-CHING!). I now know why postal workers go on shooting sprees, it's a case of "Get them before they get you"...
1 comment:
Hey Mr J, did you post on a blog on the age re cloverfield??
Saw it with Steve yesterday and can't get it out of my head... (although I did manage to hide from the spidery things to reduce nightmare potential)
hope you are all well
Soph
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