The Leenane Trilogy

Geoff and I spent an amazing afternoon at fortyfive downstairs yesterday. I have posted about this hot house of live theatre before but just when I think it couldn't get any better, it does!

Yesterday we saw The Leeane Trilogy, three seemingly separate plays over an entire afternoon and evening - seven hours in fact, but it was so engaging and enthralling it barely felt like two.

We arrived about 12.45pm, mingling with a glass of red until we were ushered into the theatre for the first play - The Beauty Queen of Leeane - with breathtaking performances by all four actors including Noni Hazlehurst and Michaela Banas. Like all my favourite kind of plays it had moments of humour through its emotionally harrowing roller-coaster ride. It was so good I wondered how the others could possibly measure up.

After this we were directed upstairs for lunch (included in the $85 ticket price and provided by the Spud Bar - hot, filling and tasty if somewhat pedestrian) which was served by Ally Fowler of Sons and Daughters/Chantoozies fame - what a bonus! We shared a table with a lovely, lively couple of elderly ladies and had another glass of shiraz.

Back downstairs for A Skull in Connemara, starring an almost unrecognisable Marg Downey and Christopher Bunworth and another probe into the human state, with plenty of laughs and few unresolved mysteries thrown in. Clever too, were the references to some of the characters from the first play.

Afternoon tea was served upstairs before the final play, The Lonesome West which equalled the first two. I couldn't possibly have a favourite - they were all so good.

Leaving the venue at 8pm, I was reminded how spoilt we are here in Melbourne to have such a high calibre of accessible theatre. 

It's playing until June 15th so I've deliberately not revealed any of the stories because if you get a chance, I couldn't recommend it more highly. Get along.

A World of Pain

Elle fell in a hole last week. She was warming up for cross country when it happened. Her ankle is very swollen and black with bruising. It required two trips to the doctor, an MRI, an x-ray and a physio appointment to determine that she has two torn ligaments. Surprising really, as I was quite sure she's been fortunate to inherit my 'sturdy ankles'.

I'm sure it hurts. It looks sore.

But it's been just as painful for me based on the following:

• Moans, groans and even whimpers every time I'm within hearing distance
• She can't take her own plates to the dishwasher
• I have to pack her lunch and her school bag
• I have to put up with demands like 'Can you make my lunch?' (Yes, of course she got a lecture about saying please - that was axiomatic)
• She divides her clothes on the bathroom floor between clean and dirty - for me to deal with
• I have to put her doona on her once she's in bed
• I fill her water bottle, open the car door, carry her bag into school.....

Getting a picture? And to top it off, it means she can't do an introductory shift for the interview she's meant to be having at McDonald's in some vague attempt of generating some of her own money instead of bleeding me.

It's painful alright.

The Wolf

His suit is a blue as deep as depression, the sharp cut is equally unforgiving.  The shine of his black shoes and hair is only surpassed by the diamond-hard glint in his eye. If it weren't for his private-school breeding, he'd physically be salivating like a wolf on the verge of the kill. But I guess that's exactly what it is.

His bitch, there to bear witness that protocol is adhered to, to ensure there'll be no come back, sits away from the table, shoulders slumped, arms and legs crossed as if by curling into herself and taking up minimal physical space, she is somehow emotionally removing herself from the inevitable blood letting.

'Please,' he says, indicating one of the sixteen plush leather boardroom chairs, all befitting the arses of the power brokers of this cut-throat, ASX top-100 corporation, 'have a seat.' I don't bother to verbally acknowledge him, fuck that, but I do sit and meet his cool blue gaze with one I hope is accurately conveying my nonchalant disinterest.

Naturally, I have rehearsed this meeting a hundred times in my head. In one version, I actually refuse to take a seat and just stand there which is incredibly awkward for him and amusing for me. But on reflection I realise this stance will give him an advantage - the school teacher to student. So I had already predetermined that I would sit. Might as well be comfortable - this could drag on. Or not.

'As you're no doubt aware,' he launches into his legal-department-approved speech, 'due to unexpected market conditions, the company is not fairing as well as we'd hoped and therefore not meeting budget.' I'm tempted to ask how that's got anything to do with m
e. No one asked me what I thought the market might do, no one asked me to have a crack at the budget and yet, here I am, being casually informed of the mistakes of the securely employed. 'That being the case, we are now in the unfortunate position of having to make some..... adjustments.' I almost laugh out loud. But then I remember I am one of those adjustments.

Again, in my usual smart-arse manner, the one that probably led to me being in this seat and in this meeting, I set my mouth in a firm straight line and nod sagely, as if he's just explained something to me that makes complete sense. It's only because he knows me that he gets a whiff of piss taking. One to me.

I could cut this short. I could just ask how much my severance is, what the exclusion and confidentiality clauses are and be done with it. But where's the sport in that?

He rambles on with his speech, clearly deriving a perverse satisfaction from his performance as the consummate professional, imagining himself secretly being filmed for the documentary version of Wall Street. Sadly, his audience, me and the cowering HR woman in the background, aren't the least bit dazzled. I glance at the clock on the wall and sit up a little straighter as I realise with pride that we're 15 minutes in and I'm yet to utter a word. Two to me.

He reaches the business end of his speech,'... so I'm afraid we have to let you go.' I nod and deign to speak for the first time. 'Okay.' Not 'okay' as in affirming or agreeing, that's a trap for young players who don't know me better. This 'okay' is merely an acknowledgment that I have heard what you said. A subtle but essential difference. I doubt he noticed, but I did and that's what matters.

'So,' he continues on, 'how would you like to play this? In terms of letting your team and the staff know? Moving on to pursue other interests?' He punctuates this last sentence with quotation marks etched in the air with his fingers. The wolf is starting to look a lot like a pussy.

I arrange my face to a look of boredom. 'Why don't you just tell them the truth? Unexpected market conditions, blah blah blah - you flung me.' He looks affronted. Not because I'm being blunt about my position but that I'm not being respectful enough of his brilliant performance. He looks just a little bit defeatist. Three to me. Time to sign and get out.



PS This isn't true. I just made it up. I have been retrenched in my career, just the once which is surprising in advertising. It was early in my career, the managing director who delivered the news was kind, even ringing his mate at another agency to get me an interview there. I got that gig and actually liked it more than my previous job. As is so often the case.

The Trap

Do you have a garage? A shed? An attic? A spare room perhaps? Somewhere you can store stuff that you don't require on a day to day basis or stuff that you're hanging onto because you might need it one day or you have some emotional attachment and can't let go?

We have an attic. They type that has the pull down ladder in the ceiling and Geoff has put some flooring up there and that's pretty much it. It's a trap. Why? Because it's far too easy to fling stuff up there rather than make an actual decision about it.

The door to The Trap! What lurks behind....

There is so much crap up there it's a fire hazard. So at Easter I decided the big project would be to check though what the heck was there and get rid of some stuff.

Here's a summary:

• Rationalising the enormous collection of soft toys down to just two huge stripy bags full. We should have gone harder I know but there's a lot of emotion in those stuffed bits of bathmat
• At least half a dozen good quality woollen blankets that Mum had given me when she and Dad moved house god knows how many years ago. We've never used them and as the weather grows increasingly chilly, I figure anyone sleeping rough would probably like one. Straight to St Vinnies.
• Three sleeping mats (we have bunk beds for the tent now) and about as many sleeping bags that have since been upgraded or that we no longer use. See above.
• A couple of Lladro figurines (not rare) that were Mum's - although she says she has no recollection of them. My cousin Amy likes that style of decoration so why on earth are they sitting gathering dust in my attic when she could be enjoying them?
• Just a few clothes that were Jazzy's and Elle's that I thought Sass might wear one day. Ha! Apart from a couple of pairs of wacky sneakers, the rest went straight to St Vinnie's.
• God knows how many crates of the kids' 'special art' and school journals - but could I get Elle and Sass to part with more than a small fraction of it? No. I'm thinking a sneaky clean out without them might be in order!

Here's a stroll through history:

• A huge crate of rolls for the pianola. We did have a pianola - it was my grandmother's - but do we really need so many old rolls of songs and music from the 1920s?? Probably not. But they're still there.
• A crate of memorabilia from my youth (yes, yes - all those years ago....)
• A box of family heirlooms from my parent's place (now minus a couple of Lladro figurines)
• A small crate of adorable baby things that I hope one day the girls might want for their babies
• Crates of photo albums - even though Geoff has pretty much scanned every photo we own
• The doll's house that was Jaz's, then Elle's, then Sass's
• The rocking horse that was Jaz's, then Elle's, then Sass's
• A crate of George's special things
• Some dioramas the kids did at school
• A crate of favourite kid's books (see baby things)
• Old trophies and awards

What's also staying that is useful:

• A couple of crates of ski gear - although we did manage to weed out the bits that don't fit anyone anymore
• Doona, pillows, mattresses and sleeping bags for sleep overs
• Some miscellaneous furniture we have pledged to rid ourselves of should any of it not find a home when we finally renovate
• Christmas decorations

I'm such a hoarder! I'm sure if George and Jaz were still with us, I feel sure I wouldn't need to hang on to so many tangible memories - but also suspect that space would just be taken up by other crap of theirs! I also suspect if one day it all just disappeared, apart from the useful stuff, we'd manage perfectly well without the rest.

So do you have storage trap? What do you keep and how do you let go of 'stuff'?? All tips gratefully received!

Time Share - oh yeah!

Still on the subject of hard sell, years ago I was suckered into a attending a time share 'presentation'. I got a random phone call to say a friend had entered me into a draw to win a new car and all I needed to do was come along - with my partner - to the presentation.

The sellers should have cottoned-on quicker. Here's a snippet of the call:

'Who entered me?'
'We don't know. A form was filled in at the airport and deposited into the box.'
'Okay... but I want to see it when I get there so I can see who's handwriting it might be.'
'Sure. Now when can we book you in?'

Trust me. There never was a form.

We arrived at the location - a large office space housing an example of the style of apartments in Yarrawonga that you'd be buying into, an audio visual of how amazing the destination was (it wasn't - ithe area is actually prone to flooding and extreme storms) and an area of desks for one-on-one consultations. There was a big display board covered with photos of happy, smiling buyers and I kid you not, they all looked to have some kind of intellectual, social or economic disability. It made me angry just looking at it. I cannot stand predatory selling.

We were assigned a 'seller' and off we went, starting with a quick survey on how much we spent on accommodation on our last holiday. It was trekking in Nepal and about $7 a night each - not the answer they were hoping for - still, she soldiered on.

Her, armed with a chart to illustrate: 'Did you know that in winter, Yarrawonga gets more hours of sunshine than the Gold Coast?'
Me: 'Yes, but what's the average temperature? I can't imagine it's warm.'
See chart below - the maximum is less that 15C - hardly ideal for all the water sports they promised!

And...
Her: 'If the dates of your 2 week allocation don't suit, you can swap or rent it out, assuming someone wants those 2 weeks.'
Me: 'Yes, good point! That reminds me, what is your occupancy rate in July?'
Her: 'I think I need to get my supervisor...'
Me: 'Good idea!'

It wasn't her fault she'd been drinking from the Kool-Aid.

As Geoff and I were biding our time, watching the animated discussion going on in the glassed-in office between our sales person and her supervisor, I glanced around the other other desks - and spied the number $45,000 written on a note pad between the salesperson and the hapless couple opposite. Perfect! Now I had all the info I needed. And here comes the supervisor for a second crack....

After him having a pathetic attempt to win me over and me having none of it - just complaining bitterly about their selling tactics and getting us here to waste time, it did become a little heated.
Me: 'Seriously, if I stuck $45,000 in the bank at 5%, that's well over $2,000 a year towards two-weeks accommodation somewhere a lot fancier than Yarrawonga! It's ridiculous. We could go to Hawaii for that.'
(Just a reminder this was a long time ago when prices were low and interest was high.)
Him, going very red in the face and increasing to a yell: 'Where did you get that number? Did she tell you that number? Where did you get it?'
Me: 'I just made it up. It's just a guess.'
Him: 'I want to know where you got that number.'
Me (equally forcefully): 'I told you, I made it up.'
I got a whiff of victory as he pushed back his chair.

Him: 'Alright, you're obviously not interested. '
Me: 'What about my chance to win the car?'
This was killing him.

We were taken back to reception and asked to select a key from a small box of about 10.
Me: 'So is the winning key actually in here? Do I have the same chance as everyone else to win? According to the Bingo and Lotteries Permit Board.... blah blah blah'
Him: 'Just take a key...'
We were ushered down to the basement car park where he managed not to murder me - probably because Geoff was there! - where a sad little white car covered in flashing Christmas lights sat, bound in plastic-tubed chains held together by a padlock that my key didn't fit. Who'd have thought?

On reflection, I'm quite sure I did have the same chance as everyone else to win - none!

Thermomix

Hands up if you have one?

I don't.

I have been to two parties (thanks ladies!) and each time the hostess and I have been completely frank with each other - them about not expecting me to buy one and me confirming that I won't. But I do genuinely love a get together of women over a couple of glasses of bubbles, a bit of tasty food and to see what it's all about.

I was so dazzled by the recipes at the first party that I did go out and buy a new Magimix food processor to replace my ancient, cracked but still working one (do those things ever stop??) and managed to replicate the beetroot salad among other gems.

Converts swear by them. And people who have them say they use them regularly, so that's a good indication that they are practical. But the 'sell' is a killer.

I know I work in advertising - selling is my game - but these presenters have stepped it up to evangelism. All hail the Thermomix!!

Both presenters made a point of telling us its key components are all made from Surgical Grade Stainless Steel.

Do you know what 'Surgical Grade' means? That's right - not much. There is no specification for 'surgical grade stainless steel', (note use of lower case letters now), nor 'marine grade' as it so happens - they were probably made up by advertisers. There are various grades of stainless steel - that's true - but they're not specifically allocated to uses. Even more interesting is the Thermomix website refers only to 'stainless steel'. They keep the fluffy stuff for the presenters - they don't commit to it in writing - that would be silly.

I was also amazed that from the first to the second party the price went up from $1,784 (yes, I got much mileage from the 1, 784 reasons I wouldn't be buying one) to over $2k at the next party. Especially as the presenter had espoused that it was all made in Germany - and yet, over that same period, the Australian dollar had strengthen dramatically against all major currencies, including the Euro.

Being the smart-arse that I am, I had to enquire how that could be. Of course I already knew the answer - opportunism - but I was curious to see how the high-priestess of Thermomix would justify the hike. Somewhat predictably, she fell into her indoctrinated answer - to a different question. She was answering 'Why are Thermomixes so expensive?' because she had no answer to 'Why have they gone up so much when the dollar has also gone up and it's fully imported?' Naturally she started banging on about the excellent but expensive quality components of the machine, including surgical grade stainless steel - and I lost interest.

So, there you have it. I don't have a Thermomix but all power to those of you who do.

The hard sell is lost on me... which reminds me of the time I got suckered into going to a time share presentation. A topic for another post but let's just say that once my smart arse questioning got going, they couldn't get me out of there fast enough!!!

Addictive Personalities

In a very short amount of time, we'll all be able to have our genomes run through a quick test and be told what things we should best avoid due to our makeup. Some people will be able to smoke and drink, other will have to avoid saturated fats.

There also needs to be a personality test as friends and I have also talked about certain types that should avoid drugs at all costs. And people like me, who should avoid cake shops.

But I'm putting it out there - there are people who should not be allowed to watch the TV Shopping Network (or TVSN as it's known).

Look what's on my kitchen bench. Recognise it? Yes - lose weight, be healthy, consume more vegetables and clutter up your kitchen with the SoupMate...... Pro!!

And it wasn't me who bought that great chunk of landfill. I'm not allowed to blog about that person, so let's just say it's someone in our household who's an adult with a credit card. And don't mention it to them or I'll be in trouble - again!

Weren't the useless vacuums (yes, plural because it was buy one get one free) lesson enough? Or the time I was force to slap the pencil and paper from his hands as he was about to take down the number for the sanding set?? (He's a professional builder for goodness sake, even I could see it was a piece of crap!) Never mind the child-filter on the laptop, we need a channel-block on the selling channel.

Even worse, can you see that after a mere four uses the bottom is burnt?! The soup is undercooked and frankly, just not that nice. What's wrong with a pot and the stick blender? We already had both of those.

And I'll save Thermo-mixes for a separate post.....they deserve one.

I give it another 3 weeks and that thing will be gathering dust in the laundry.

Do you have an addictive personality? Have you ever fallen victim to TVSN?