Let's Get Physical.

It occured to me I may have dropped the ball a bit on this blogging business and I think I know the reason why. My recent 'fash ho' post -  a sepia-toned ode to girlhood and cold weather undergarments -  inspired some uptight man to heap 140 characters or less worth of abuse on me over on the Twitter. Obviously this is the high point of my life thus far. I'm pretty much Hillary on Everest's summit right now, and my natural response to such an acheivement is to kick back with a jumbo bag of party mix lollies and the collected works of John Safran. To recede happily into voluntary redundancy and obscurity, in other words. Also, watching John Safran (see also: Louis Threoux) stirs up unwelcome emotions (mine) relating to failed plans, wasted potential and lack of ambition (also mine). AND I have a substantial crush on the guy too. Whiny bitches are where it's at. Neuroses-ridden Woody Allen/Larry David types? Hot. 

Anyway, speaking of jobs and loose hotpants and the like, I start working again on Monday. I found out this morning by way of a phonecall and a voice roaring down the line asking me, without so much as a hello,

-"YOU READY TO GET PHYSICAL?"
-"Mal! Totally!"
-"ROIGHT! MONDAY! BRING YOUR GLOVES, IT'LL BE BLOODY COLD!" *hangs up*. 

This is how Mal really speaks - explosively, economically, and ALWAYS! IN! CAPS! A few years ago he made a comment about the arctic wind chill on a particularly cold day and I told him that he just needed to get off his tractor and get physical and it tickled him so much that it became our shorthand for any type of work or activity ever since. He is idiomatically and awesomely Australian and as such warrants heritage protection at a grassroots level, basically.

So. Only one more weekend of wallowing in the rancid bain-marie of idle unemployment for me.
Two days. Is that enough time for my shingles to heal? My bed sores will defnitely be in need of an airing by then, anyhow.

There's nothing like getting on the righteous path of good hard physical work to make that sinking feeling that's always chasing me down back the fuck off a few paces and stop breathing its hot, dog-like breath down the back of my neck. Also, I get to wear Blundstones and work socks legitimately.This pleases me immeasurably, as does the prospect of being occupied by a job that will fill up my day but not my heart, and that will give me calloused palms and weary limbs without undue anxiety or unnecessary angst. What can I say? I like it in neurotic men; myself, not so much.

Now, one last thing.
And by one last thing I mean let's all revel for a moment in a photo of Mick Ennis pulling down both Todd Carney AND Todd Carney's shorts. And they say men can't multi-task.

Anyway, I feel like I haven't mentioned my muse Toddy in at least a week, maybe two, and it's important to remember where we come from. Remember your roots, you know? This goes for you too, Toddy. You're probably strolling down Campbell Parade like Bondi's number one Baller right now, all tatts, mouth and swagger, bless, but remember, one can't always be on fire. Straight on, baby.

Oh yeah. I still want to wear your skin as a dress, by the way..*strolls off whistling happily*..