Last night I dreamed that the Curmudgeon and I were escaping from the Nazis in Austria by hiding under moving trains, clinging to the undercarriage. He looked like Roberto Benigni and I looked like Penelope Cruz. We were both wearing lavish shiny tin hats.

For the record, we don't look like that. Or own metallic hats. We're remarkably good at action-adventure, though.

...is what I was thinking as I mopped out my armpits (in the bathroom, with paper towels and dispenser soap) this morning. I walked into work and discovered, upon my arrival, that I reeked in a particularly socially offensive way. I'm a classy bird. Much like my dog, who was treated to a trip to the beach on the weekend, and thanked us by throwing up rotten fish. Lovely.

The Curmudgeon starts his Noo Gig today. First weeks are dazzling and fun. Trying to work out where things are, remembering names, pleasant surprises (ooh, good window view!) and disappointments (Home Brand tea bags? What?!). Wishing him as much of the good stuff as possible.

"Of everyone who works here, mine's probably the youngest bike, and it's thirteen years old," announced my bearded, sixty-something bike mechanic with pride. The shop is a tiny cavern, the interior of which resembles a backyard shed more than it does a slick commercial operation. The workshop is central and the bike bits and pieces for sale are peripheral. The blokes who work there are the types that you see cycling in all weather, without a single lycra garment, on ancient steel treadlies from back in the day when the frames weren't aluminium and as thick as a log, and the paintwork is muted by design or fading. I like this place. I hereby proclaim it the Perfect Bike Shop and anyone who wants to know which it is, drop me a line. I was so sick of bike shops staffed by young mountain biking blokes who are surly and rude to anyone who doesn't know (and drop) brand names, and spend weekends conquering mountains. I'm very pleased to have found an alternative.

I've got absolutely nothing today. Not a crumb. So I'll post the lyrics to a song by The Eels called "My Beloved Monster" because just recently I realised that it is almost custom-written to be Squid's theme song. Especially the bit about disrobing me, given her appetite for destruction of my clothing.

My beloved monster and me
We go everywhere together
Wearing a raincoat that has four sleeves
Gets us through all kinds of weather

She will always be the only thing
That comes between me and the awful sting
That comes from living in a world that's so damn mean

My beloved monster is tough
If she wants she will disrobe you
But if you lay her down for a kiss
Her little heart it could explode

She will always be the only thing
That comes between me and the awful sting
That comes from living in a world that's so damn mean

Actually, I do have a crumb. A delightful and lovely friend of mine has deigned me NOT unliveable-with, and she will be moving in with Squid and I in a few weeks. I know she reads this so I will consult before designating her an Official Pseudonym. And theme song.

One of many: a quick look on eBay for napkin rings showed a disproportionate number of them shaped like scotty dogs.

WHY? (I mean about the dogs, not why I was looking for napkin rings. That is an entirely different mystery.)

I read something recently about Pekingese dogs having been the hippest pup to have among the in crowd of the first decades of the 1900s. This was for a couple of reasons - China was quite difficult to get to, and the dogs were kept in the Imperial Palace only. They could only be obtained by pillaging-and-smuggling means, showing that your dog was more bad-ass than anyone else's. Fair enough. But scotty dogs? These napkin rings were all bakelite, meaning they were of a 1930s/40s era. Why did people go nuts for Scottish Terriers back then?

...if it ain't got that swing. Thusly we learneth to swing dance. My poor motor cortex absolutely siezes up whenever it is required to do much more than move legs in perambulatory fashion and not walk into things, so this will be a long and slow process, people. Perhaps the Curmudgeon should invest in steel-capped boots.

But eventually, with liberal addition of pep, pinstripes and beret, we'll be just like this:

A few years back, I went to some salsa dancing lessons with a friend of mine. It didn't last long, mostly because all the blokes there were short which has two serious dancing repurcussions:

   1. they can't spin me because they can't bloody reach my arm when I lift it (kinda like when you torture small children by holding a lollypop just out of their reach. Not that I do that. Much.)

   2. their eyes are at... ermm...  chest height. Awkward.

But my Curmudgeon is nice and tall. Hurrah.

I got a phone call from Ma this morning saying it was snowing at her house. Further evidence for Global Weirdening. Little Johnny take note.

It's not often that I burst into tears while walking the dog in the morning. I cry easily when emotional - not something I'm delighted about, but there you have it - and seeing my Curmudgeon standing at my front gate at 7.30am, all dapper in his coat and holding a big bunch of red lilies, started up the waterworks. He also brought me a beautiful and thoughful shiny thing that I adore, and took me out for breakfast at Babka. 

I met him a year ago today. And remarkably, he's still here! He puts a little dance in my step and a big stupid grin on my mug, and I'm so glad to have him around.

Happy anniversary, Grumpy One.

A dose of Taipan antivenom costs $2395.49. Actually, that's according to a 2004 MIMS, so it's probably more expensive now.

I was walking Squid recently, and she was bumbling along in her typical chunky, slightly uncoordinated way. A man on a bike passed us, spotted Squid, smiled, circled us, and stretched his arms out so that he rode on doing an excellent aeroplane impersonation. Then a woman on a bike passed him and grinned. It was splendid to watch.

A similar thing happened this morning as I emerged from the underground train station and headed up the stairs. A Big Issue vendor suddenly bellowed "GOOD MORNING! Smile on this incredible Monday morning, everyone!!" His cheer was virulent and contageous, and us working plebs, trudging towards a day in the office, were lifted out of the everyday.

The Gods smileth upon me again. Poor Curmudgeon, though; he always seems to be with me when I find treasure upon the curbside, and his gallantry means that he feels obliged to carry it for me. In this case, it was a fabulous and ancient office hat-rack that was in a skip outside a building being gutted. The base of it was cast iron so that puppy weighs a lot, especially when you're carrying it hope at midnight after a night out. But how splendid it looks in my hallway. And how happy are my hangables, like rain jacket and dog lead.

The were nice to me at Camberwell Market this morning too, although I nearly incited a family riot when Daughter told me the thread spools were 5 for a dollar, and Mother expanded at length, passionately, colourfully, and in rapid Greek, that they were 50c EACH. Fortunately Daughter appeared to have final say and Mother stormed off, probably to write Daughter out of the will or somesuch.