Greetings to you all on this National Day of Not Working For Australia. The sun is shining, and like everyone else in Australia who is not out shooting wild pigs (4 different pig hunting magazines the last time I was at the newsagents) or at the beach (its still too cold, fools) I’m sitting around in my pyjamas. Four weeks annual paid holidays, four weeks annual paid sick leave, 37 1/2 hour working week, low inflation, low unemployment, 3 months long service leave after ten years, paid parental leave, thats the answer to give the next time anyone in Australia ever asks “what has the union ever done for me”. Next hobby horse.
I’m living in cuckoo land, and its not even an election year. I’ve just wasted an hour of my life looking for a picture I took years ago of two koels mating, to post here. (I will tag my photographs, I will tag my photographs, I will tag…)
But before I start, I did find a photograph of two galahs adapted to a very urban environment …
Last year a much more serious birdwatcher than me pointed out the trilling of a fan tailed cuckoo. There has been one nearby over the last month or so, as the various cuckoo migratory paths have opened up again with warmer weather. For me, spring has arrived when the koel starts calling at all hours of day and night, and the other evening, I smiled instantly despite the depredations of the working day, when I heard the lonesome lover calling for a friend (anyone? anyone?), and recognised the return of an old friend, who will now look for a nest of a wattlebird or something similar sized, to do her work for her.
Some raucous shrieking yesterday alerted me to a channel billed cuckoo, a huge big beaked dinosaur of a bird. I’ve heard quite a few, but seldom seen them. They are named after their bill for a good reason. Every time I’ve been aware of one, noisy miners have come and chased them away. Here is another bad picture of mine, of one I managed to get a bit close to.
Your mate has been getting all righteous and prophetic over at the 6th Proletarian Anarcho-Lottery Syndicate, just letting the rich know what is coming their way (please). At Poetry and Paranoia, he has a prayer (which may seem flippant or sarcastic, but it is not, it is sincere and deliberate and not mocking); a reflection on the death of Reverend Mr Moonie; and a poem about cancer and winning the lottery.
The Bulldogs lost the ARL grand final. Football does not bring out the best in me. I try to stay away from sports, but some things are ingrained from childhood. My greatest failing is my loyalty, it persists and endures beyond all reason, in all aspects of my life. I would like to apologise to my television. I said words that I normally shy from. My television deserves better than that, and it should not have to put up with it. I hope it can find it within its digital heart to forgive me. Until next time.