If I feel the need to flee, I’ll start acting appallingly. Maybe I should make myself a menu of atrocities to commit, in case I go blank at a critical moment.

Thursday, 4 May, 1995


We just had to key in Nancy Wake’s entry for  “Who the Fuck Cares”.  Wow, bit of an awesome resume.  I saw a TV program on her once, she was pretty wild in the French Resistance.  You know she executed a female Nazi prisoner.  I wonder if she got the taste for blood, she seemed pretty enthusiastic about the execution on TV.  I wonder if she still hankers to bump off a German or two.  I wonder if she has kids.  Imagine knowing your Mum has taken human life with such zeal.  It would certainly put a different skew on disciplinary matters.  I just checked her entry – no kids.  There’s a particular abhorrence that society holds for female murderers isn’t there?  I mean, that doesn’t encompass Nancy, that was war-time.  But look at Myra Hindley (The Yorkshire Moors Murders).  She didn’t even do the killing, and everyone hates her.  Justifiably so, I guess, but no-one remembers the name of the bloke who actually killed the kids, do they?  It’s all to do with women supposedly being the givers of life and men the takes.  I think that women murderers probably scare the crap out of men.

I made a date to see Christopher Watts, Harriet and Tim (from school days) for tomorrow night at the “Builder’s Arms” in Collingwood.  I asked someone what it was like as a pub yesterday.  They said it is a bit groovy.  That makes me kinda nervous, I prefer the company of dags.  Well, not the company of dags, but I prefer to be surrounded by them.  I don’t get much out of talking to dags, but I’m less self-conscious around them, probably because I don’t respect them.  That probably betrays a major fault in my character, but I’m too shallow to bother working out exactly what it is.  I spoke to Christopher on the phone yesterday for a bout 40 minutes while the computers were sleeping.  I’ve put my finger on what it is that makes me reticent to see him.  Every time we speak, all he does is bring up embarrassing things I did in the past.  I spend the whole conversation feeling embarrassed.  And now, I’ve agreed to spend an evening with him and two other people who can serve as witnesses to my humiliation. Great going J.  Well, I’ll see how it goes.  If he just reminds me of my daggy past all night and the laughs are all at my expense, I’ll pretend to feel sick and go home.  Then I’ll have to change my phone number so he can’t ring me. He asked for my phone number, and I had to give it to him. Harriet has it anyway.  I don’t like more than five people knowing my home phone number.  I guess that’s because I like to be prepared when I answer the phone.  I always run through a mental checklist of who it could be when the phone rings, and make sure that there’s no-one I really want to avoid at that moment.  If there is, I usually let it ring out.  Unwelcome phone calls are a real intrusion, I feel entrapped when I have to speak to someone on the phone, especially when I’m in my own house. In my house, I don’t do nuthin‘ I don’t want to.  That’s why I live on my own.  Yeah! 

Tell me Sis, how do you burn people off without making them hate you?  I mean it is feasible that I could say “Look, I don’t really like you”, but then they’d hate me, and everyone in the whole world has to love love LOVE me.  I guess I can’t have it both ways, yeah? (Contrary to What Supernaut say, now they are real dags.)  Instead of acting ill tomorrow night, if I feel the need to flee, I’ll start acting appallingly so they all can’t wait to get away from me.  Maybe I should make myself a menu of atrocities to commit, in case I go blank at a critical moment.  Let’s see, there’s belching and farting (the two most obvious), there’s insensitivity.  There’s a lot to be said for insensitivity. There’s unemployment jokes, virgin jokes, fat jokes etc, yes I must draw up a mental list.

I’ve been pulling out the weeds in my back yard.  It’s so tedious pulling weeds, these are tiny little weeds, in fact I’d call them weedlings.  And they keep coming up again and again, this must be, like, the fourth or fifth generation.  There can’t be any seeds left in the ground.  Oh yeah while I was out there, the new neighbors whinged about the trellis support being on their side of the fence.  It’s a 30-something woman and her Italian father.  She seems OK, be he’s a typical wog dad in his late fifties.  Mum called them and now we have to redo that side. Whingers!  You’d think they’d be glad of the extra privacy, and it’s not like they had to pay for it either.

Anyway, on that sour note, I’ll be off.





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