Cracking the Mousey Browns

So we're just sitting here watching the box the other night and out of the corner of my eye, I see a farking mouse!  Well, I'm hoping it's a mouse and not a rat ... but Fark!  A Farking mouse!

Now I don't wanna say I was born with a silver spoon up my arse, but I have managed to get through the first 36 years of my life without having had to deal with mice!  Sure, I've had possums, snakes, massive cockroaches and ridiculous, steal-your-baby-sized tropical spiders ... but never mice!

Makes me feel like I've failed 'cause my place is now so dirty that vermin wanna live here.  Gross man.  It's always the way; you finally give-in and get a cleaner every 2 weeks 'cause you don't have tome to live and clean, so instead of actually cleaning  a bit here and there every few days, you do absolutely nothing and let the place turn into a cesspit for 2 weeks until the cleaner comes, just so that you get your money's worth ... well, that's what we do, anyway.

So my first step in 'Operation Eliminate Jerry' was to ignore it all and hope it went away.  The next day, I find the end of an open banana gone.  Mr Belfast tells me that traps work, and that yes, they really do go for cheese, so against all my innate, animal rights sensibilities, I went and bought some traps and set 'em up with cheese.

The next day, the bastards had eaten through a plum, another banana-end and a tomato (which they carried half-way across the room in a parody of one of those old-school Disney, ants-at-the-picnic cartoons.  The cheese was untouched.

So I bite the bullet and decide that if they don't like cheese, but they eat bananas and tomatoes, I'll set the traps with that.  I also vacuumed the Begeezus out of the space behind the oven.  Since then, nothing on the traps has been touched, so I'm tipping they're either US Military-prototype Cyborg Mice with enhanced intelligence, or they've farked-off somewhere else.

Not sure which I'd prefer.  But I still feel dirty.

Cute, my arse!  This little, smug bastard was the nastiest piece of work going.  That big, fat, black lady in the stripey socks just couldn't ever see it.  Pic: http://4photos.net

Sold Out

The worm has turned for Donkey … I have completely sold out and am now ‘one of them’.

Back in the day … back when I was a REAL development worker, I wouldn’t have been seen dead in Honiara’s Lime Lounge.  Every location in the developing world where you’ll find a collection of two or more expatriates will have one of these joints.  The coffee is bad, the food is bad, the staff are hopelessly slow and the clientele suck, but it’s the only coffee in town, the only place you can get a BLT and, if you’re that way inclined, the only place you can scoff down a [relatively] fresh piece of chocolate cake.

Sounds alright, doesn’t it?  The only thing that I’ve failed to mention is that the only dark faces in the room are behind the counter, and the cost of a cup of the afore-mentioned muddy water is about three times their hourly wage.

But times’s changed, and I’m moving up the slippery ladder of self-importance, so I’ve been in here everyday, scoffing disgusting, greasy food and closing my eyes as I French-kiss my coffee cup in an attempt to remember the special relationship I enjoy with my espresso machine at home.  Actually, I’d rather not be here, but it’s the only way I can access email while I’m here in the Sols, so they’ve got me.

Is it so bad after all?  Well, let’s see.  Opposite me on this Wednesday morning at 11.30 are three young, bored looking Australian women, by the appearance of them, partners of blokes who are working here.  Each of them are completely done-up to the nines; short, black cocktail dresses, 4 inch heels, immaculate hair and painted nails.  Screaming with laughter as they ostentatiously blow their cigarette smoke around the sealed room.  And I should mention, they were here yesterday … and the day before … and the day before.

Over the other side are three very fat, wispy-white-haired, ruddy-faced consultants (I know this cause they are wearing fawn-coloured pants and a shombre shirts).  They are making lude remarks to the waitress who is smiling apprehensively at their errant hands.

At the counter is standing an angry, grey-haired, middle-aged woman – a kiwi – abusing the staff as she demands her coffee which she claims she’s been waiting ages for.

And it goes on … Looks like I’ve finally made it to the big time; I’ve found my people … and my place.

The Stairway to [Development] Heaven.  Pic: http://www.geckogo.com/Guide/Solomon-Islands/Honiara/

League of Unimpressive Gentlemen

I'm sitting here watching this Q&A special on Australia's relationship with the Monarchy.  Right now, I've heard just about enough from Amanda Vanstone who has to be one of the least impressive individuals of all time.

Apart from her horrid, priggish performance as the Howard Government's Minister for Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs, I am reliably informed by my good friend Judi (not her real name), that Ms Vanstone spent every day of her post-Parliamentary 'fall-job' as Australia's Ambassador to Italy, scoffing spag bog in a backstreet Roman trattoria.  Judi, who stumbled across the classy, but admittedly unassuming diner was alerted to Ms Vanstone's culinary habits by the over-sized Australian flag and signed coat of arms hanging on the wall (not, she informs me, by the broken chairs), and was informed by the waiting staff that Her Excellency did not once miss lunch while in-country during her tenure.

By the looks of Ms Vanstone this evening, I would offer that she might not have missed breakfast, morning tea, dinner nor supper, either.

Oh, but Vanstone's not nearly as unimpressive as Angela Bishop – Kar-aest Almighty, won't she just have oh-so-much to recommend her contribution to humanity when she reaches those Pearly Gates!

Australia's international ambassador for the promotion of spag bog.  Pic: http://nicholsoncartoons.com.au

Guilty pleasures

Mrs Donkey's on some kind of health kick, so while I count myself a very lucky Donkey indeed to have my darling wife prepare an evening meal for me, tonight all we got was an entre ... soup!  So while most blokes disappear out to their shed of an evening to play video games, drink beer and watch porn, my lonesome, guilty pleasure these days consists of nothing more than to sneak away for an egg and bacon roll. 

C'mon Mrs D, all I ask is for a potato or two!

Mmmm ... better than sex.  Pic: http://www.smh.com.au

A gutful has been had

As if sitting in a dark room in front of a computer all day wasn’t cause enough for my sallow, jaundiced complexion, I now have even fewer motivations to step out into the light.

Some years ago I came to develop skills enough to produce a damn fine espresso beyond the capabilities of most of the grease-monkeys serving up their very special brand of rank, brown dish water in the local cafes, so there’s four or five fewer trips out of the house each day.  Fortunately for me, I’ve still got a massive, blubbery belly to fill, so the lure of tasty morsels still has me hooked…

Or at least it had, until today.  Today, while out grabbing some lunch, the penny dropped on something I’ve had an inkling of for some time, but was never able to completely put my finger on.  I am sorry, Food-Preparing People of the World, but a thin smear of mashed avocado does not constitute a legitimate ingredient, deserving of the privilege of ‘dish naming rights’ (a-la the ‘A’ in BLAT).  Where do you get off suggesting that greeny-brown skid-mark is adding anything to my sandwich experience?  At home, I’ll go to the trouble myself of cutting out big, creamy chunks of avocado flesh for my filling, and enjoy the wonderful flavour and texture that its addition brings to my life.  When I’m out, and I’m paying big moolar for my food, I expect fantastic, luscious, even cocaine-laced chunks of avocado to ooze out of my sandwich, dribble down my chin and form rotting brown stains on my lap – I don’t just want a serviceable meal, I want a dining experience.  I mean, it’s not as though you’d get away with ketchup being the constitution of your tomato sandwich, now is it?

So, I’ve had a gutful of the short cuts and cost savings; I’m staying home where I can get a decent feed, from now on, and I’m gonna eat as many avocado chunks as I dare.  When they happen upon my bloated, pale, lifeless corpse hunched over my laptop in the dark in a few years time, no doubt they’ll have to bash a whole in the roof and crane me out – but better fat and dead than … y’know.

Pic: http://typeaparent.com/