Last week I went to yoga.  On entering the studio, I held the door open for a woman of circa 80 years old.  On finishing the session, she told me how much she was impressed by my Tree Pose.  I was about to say how I was impressed with her Downward Dog but to avoid further flirtation I said I had to dash back for dinner with my wife.  Anyway, I had not brought any intimate gel.

Saturday was a big day.  Over in Sydney to see the British and Irish Lions play the Waratahs.  First off, I was taken by my younger daughter to Baker Bleu, the local bakery frequented by the Double Bay fashionistas.  All activewear and handbag dogs with bulbous eyes and neurotic demeanours.  Botox galore, there were a few women wandering around with green juice in transparent beakers just so you did not miss the vegan virtue-signalling.  How Beverly Hills.  I am sure it was no coincidence.

It is that time in the cycle again.  Every two years the government sends me a bowel cancer testing kit with which I am meant to return a faecal sample.  The problem is I have lost the test kit and the return envelope.  Undeterred I have laid a deposit in a normal envelope and I have sellotaped it as best as I can.  There is a little seepage from the sides, but I am sure Australia Post can handle that.  Not knowing where to send it, I have sent it to the Prime Minister’s office as our newly re-elected Prime Minister seems to have a solution to all of Australia’s problems.  I am sure he must know the relevant department.  I’m hoping for confirmation of receipt.

Last weekend was long and very social.  Firstly, Friday lunch at the Corner Bistro for snails, duck, good company and a bit too much wine. 

On Saturday we attended a small 60th birthday lunch for c.150.  I knew how this lunch would go when a certain Mr. M on my table was offered some Pol Roger by the waitress.  He declined a champagne flute, instead grabbed a large wine glass and asked the waitress to fill it but not before putting in a fistful of ice.  Others promptly followed his lead and off we went on a merry roller coaster.  I eschewed the Pol and focused on the red wine: an excellent Rioja, a spectacular Barolo and a Moss Wood Cab Sav.  It does not get much better than that.

So mad March in Adelaide is over and we can all get on with our lives.  However, it has been good to get out and see so many people given the potential source material.

First off the rank in Mad March was Writers’ Week. I attended one talk on how the petro-chemical industry has been lobbying hard with the government and what naughty boys they are.  It was a full house and there was fulsome applause by the bien pensant for all the green motherhood statements by the speakers.  At the next talk on the USA, the audience was even bigger at perhaps 2,000 sprawling up the grass banks while several hundred were just standing.  As many people are still palpitating at the re-election of Trump, perhaps they were attracted by the blurb on the official website, which pronounced that ‘Americans are neither willing nor able to save themselves from themselves’ and that ‘friends, like Australia…can offer practical assistance in designing and implementing political and social reforms that are necessary if America is to become truly great.’  Clearly Tall Poppy Syndrome has disappeared from Australia.

So the big move has occurred and we have left our house of twenty-four years.  Luckily, we have only had to move across the back lane to rent a friend’s house until the new-build is ready.  The only issue is that the friend is still in the house and she is female, which means that I am now living with two women. 

We have finally sold our house, but it has seemed like a long journey.  I would give you a detailed account but you would probably end up with anxiety, depression, ADHD and Histrionic Personality Disorder.  I think you get the picture.  To take our minds off this and vent our mutual frustrations, Her Indoors and I decided to indulge in some role-playing.  With the help of a very helpful website, ‘Fantasies n’ Fetishes’ (www.fantasiesnfetishes.com), we discovered some interesting costumes.  We settled on a nun’s outfit and a Noddy outfit.  Her Indoors became Sister Mary of the Hidden Grotto while I was, well, just Noddy.  I thought I should clarify this as if it was the other way round then it would just be perverse.  You will be pleased to know that I received a participation medal and a few welts.

Goodness how time flies.  I have been off-line for over two months but for good reason.  We are moving house and having not done it for 24 years I had forgotten the chaos that it creates.  Of course, this was not helped by the moving of the goalposts by her indoors.  Originally, we would be selling this time next year, then it moved to January next year and then suddenly this month.  No pressure then.

Comrades!  I am your Greens candidate for Medindie!

The election is nigh, and we are close to power!  If you have money we want it!

Party discipline is essential and subversives will not be allowed!

Our SEVEN COMMANDMENTS are as follows:

Recently I went with some friends to the Pink Pig for dinner.  The oldest wine bar in Adelaide, it is somewhat sneered at by the Adelaide bourgeoisie, but it serves the best steaks in Adelaide and therefore Australia.  I have said this to several people and upon eating there these people have yet to be contradict me.  It also serves spectacular pork.  One of our number had a thick port chop and another, the porchetta.  Both raved about them.

A recent article in The Australian covered the trigger warnings given to the audience in a recent production of Macbeth.  Long warnings were given about ‘coarse language, explicit depiction of violence and blood, sexual references, discussion of warfare, discussion of infanticide, misogyny, occasional drinking and smoking, references to death or dying.’  Sounds like an average day in the Davies household.

In Woodstock I recently caught up with two brothers of my age, who are family friends as our fathers were best buddies.  In our twenties we would endlessly make fun of our fathers after their reunions as they grumbled and griped about the modern world.  We now agreed that our fathers did not go far enough.

While on in the UK, I frequently came across the British Transport Police catchphrase ‘See it, Say it, Sorted.’  Individuals are meant to contact the Police if they see something that does not look right.  OMG, as a sexagenarian looking at the present world, where would I start and would I ever finish?

I have been staying in Tenby in Pembrokeshire where I rented a top-floor apartment overlooking the harbour.  It had a large roof terrace, which was big enough to hold a party for twenty, and it was enclosed by a brick wall of midriff height.  This had the advantage that I could walk naked onto it, without my lower half being seen, to have an early morning stretch as I watched the sun rise over the harbour.  One day I even managed to do Downward-Dog.

I was just hours away from catching a flight to Sydney en route to London, when Her Indoors rang in a blind panic from France asking me to bring a blouse and skirt to France.  Hers not mine.  While she was on the phone I vainly searched through her cupboard.  After many minutes on Facetime we tracked down the miscreant items.  Unfortunately it made me 1kg over my baggage allowance and the only way round this was to wear them on the plane.  The skirt is stretched and the blouse is split but at least I made quick friends with the Qantas flight stewards.

Been travelling a bit recently. First off was Sydney where it seemed to be common practice for men to wear dangly crucifix earrings. As I don’t get out much this was a first for me so I had to google it. Apparently, it is either a sign of being a Christian or showing support for the LGBT movement. I could not possibly comment as to why these men wore the earrings, but I know that Charles 1 and Sir Walter Raleigh both wore dangly earrings, and it did not end well for either of them.

As Saturday nights are normally social affairs you do not expect a call from a nursing service.  A call came in from a Sydney number and not recognising it I blocked the number.  Not to be deterred I received a call three minutes again from another Sydney number, so I decided to answer it.  The conversation went like this.

The oldest book I own is Mrs. Beeton’s Household Management, originally published in 1861, but published in many editions even up to 2010.  I know not which edition I own as the flyleaf is missing.  I have not dipped into it for many years but recently my younger daughter’s boyfriend decided he would read it to give her some tips on household management, being a good wife, etc.  I am sure he meant it as a joke but it probably went down as well as me introducing the darling wife when we were newly married as ‘my first wife’.  Ah, the stupidity of young men.  You just can’t beat it.

Not unlike Jeremy Clarkson I seem to have been caught out on my blog ‘My wife the nudist.’ First in the queue is my wife who has reminded me in no uncertain terms that the past is another country and please refrain from sharing the details of our private life with all and sundry. Noted. Second in the queue are readers who think I did not go far enough as they wanted some titillating stories and felt misled by the title of the blog in that they did not get such stories. Some are even threatening to report me to the Australian Competition and Consumer Commission for misleading conduct under Section 18 of the Competition and Consumer Act 2010.

I therefore wish to make an apology. Now that’s over we can move on.

Christmas is a time when family, friends and several generations somehow come together to enjoy themselves.  So one night over the Christmas break we decided to watch a film appealing to all generations namely ‘Elf’ released in 2003.  A children’s comedy, which could not possibly cause offence, or so we thought.  You could not be more wrong.

The Mrs has recently had her 60th birthday with a big bash a week or two ago. It is amazing how many old people can behave badly and the usual suspect flashed her tits again (yes you know who you are and so does everyone else there). It was a bit OTT just to get the barman’s attention though it was a bit of a scrum at times. All I can say is the Festival of Kirsty is now over. At least for another year.

There is an update from the Fetish BDSM network in Queensland.  My Queensland informant, channelling his nephew, tells me that a new fad is the Furries.  People now dress as cats and if they get past the Door Bitch they can enter the fetish club fully clothed so to speak. 

It is amazing what you find in other people’s showers.  Not that I go round poking around in them mind you.  It’s just that occasionally one needs to avail oneself of running water while staying at other people’s places.  So recently I was standing under the hot water, bollock naked so to speak, as I have found it pays to undress before showering.  Although as an aside I recently had a particularly heavy Sunday away with friends and had not realised I was not quite with the world on Monday.  Having abluted in the bathroom I immediately got dressed.  It was only when fully dressed did I realise I had not shaved and showered.

Prosopagnosia.  Let me repeat that.  Prosopagnosia.  Rolls off the tongue doesn’t it?  Rhymes with ambrosia, the food of the gods though without the divine effects.  It is in fact face blindness or the inability to recognise people’s faces and is suffered among others by Joanna Lumley, Stephen Fry and Brad Pitt.

The Mrs is back from France and the French were so upset they rioted for five days.  Luckily no such eruptions have occurred here since her return though I of course have had to adjust my lifestyle.  Whilst she was away I was able to return to my own ways – leaving cupboard doors deliberately open, having only four chairs round the table at KI rather than the usual twelve.   I have never worked out why we need to have twelve chairs round the table.  They seem to breed.  They are a considerable impediment for diners to actually sit at the table as they fight for a place with the chairs.  Twelve of them and only six of us.

Somehow shopping, and the delights thereof, seem to have crept up on me recently.  My wife dragged me to Aldi, which is the new love of her life. 

Having bought 10 bottles of washing liquid, 5 trays of baked beans and three jumbo-sized jars of vegemite, all of which are surplus to our immediate needs (but could be useful if we were stocking a nuclear bunker), we then stumbled on the non-food section.  Aldi seems to be covering all the bases.

Recently I had a friend to stay. In the 1980s I had stayed with him in Kitzbuhel where I learned to ski.  The last time I was there was in the mid-1990s when I took a fund manager to visit Austrian companies.  Sounds a bit obscure but they do have companies in Austria and a stock exchange.  Said fund manager of Low Countries extraction managed money for a British insurance company and I once visited him in his offices.  He was wearing something closely akin to a waiter’s uniform and he was getting some very peculiar looks from his ever-so conservative colleagues.  Luckily he left his waiter’s uniform at home on the Austrian trip.

This week I went to the dentist and the usual mask sign had changed: ‘Masks not required but encouraged.’  Frankly I have had enough of all this mask nonsense especially as it has been proven to be ineffective.  If I was the dentist the sign would have read: ‘Masks permitted but actively discouraged.’

Last night struggling to find anything to watch on TV, my wife and I plumped for ‘Cunk on Earth,’ a mockumentary or spook documentary series on the history of earth.  Think of a history series like Simon Schama’s ‘A History of Britain’ with facts a minor consideration as in ‘1066 and all that.’  Now think of its presentation as in Borat where he interviews serious people, politicians in particular, and asks them stupid questions.

A few days ago someone said ‘as smooth as a bag full of wet mice.’  A choice epithet and one so appropriate to the recent Harry & Meghan series: ultra-smooth and most probably one-sided.  The never-ending royal saga, which is hyper-ventilating the world’s media, needs to be ended asap for my sanity and that of humankind. 

We are at that time of year again, the festive season of goodwill, cheer, more parties and frothing mouths. 

The first cab off the rank for this merry season was lunch with my mother-in-law, her nearly nonagenarian friends and my wife.  Just seven women and me.  There seemed to be a slight frisson of excitement at having a ‘young’ man in the room and I seemed to pass muster in handing round wine and pork scratchings.  Meanwhile the conversation, suitably for Adelaide, focused on the property market and other people.

Day 1

Day 1 of the six-day lockdown.  Met Kirsty in the kitchen at 7am and she was already bored.  She has a long list of things she wants to do.  By the end of the day the house is cleaned and all the linen has had two washes.  Even the cat has been in the wash.  Not a good experience.  Have you ever seen a cat when let out of a washing machine?  Not happy Jan.

Some of you may know that I recently went into hospital to get my other knee replaced after having got the first one replaced in February. Clearly a man on a mission I got my name down on waiting list for the second knee and my name was called early and I grabbed the window of opportunity.

Self-Isolation Day 45

This might be my last post as Self-Isolation is thawing and we are allegedly on the path to normality. The SA government has announced what we can do from this week so I took a straw poll from the Ladies Who Lunch about their thoughts on what they can now do.

Self-Isolation Day 38

Early on Wednesday I went to let in my father-in-law’s gardener Vlady.  This was meant to be a quick trip but Vlady had other ideas.  He wanted me to make a decision on cutting out a large branch from a bush.  Vlady insisted on explaining every possible consequence of cutting it or not cutting it.  Just when I thought we had agreed to cut it Vlady would repeat his explanations.  The conversation went round and round ad nauseum.

Self-Isolation Day 35

Hawkers Road has had a slow start to Bin Isolation Outing but the tempo is picking up.  Last night at the pre-arranged time some of my neighbours came out together so to speak.   I was invited but turned up without costume.  I have always hated fancy dress and frankly I do not need to make even more of an arse of myself according to my wife.

Self Isolation – Day 28

Bit seedy today. Was meant to be on KI for the weekend and it is traditional on KI to have a First Night Frenzy with Sir Ronald Whiting and Mr. Muttley. Only this time we did it in Adelaide. Me, Kirsty, the cat and the dog. We had a wail of a time with the emphasis on wailing.

Self-Isolation Day 25

One person I always wish I had met was Les Dawson. You have to be of a certain age to remember Les but he was probably the best stand-up comedian Britain has ever had. He was from Up North where the training in Northern nightclubs was the toughest imaginable. His comedy was a stream of one-liners of the ridiculous a good example of which is his show with Shirley Bassey. I always enjoyed his mother-in-law jokes. Can’t think why. You can see both YouTube.

Self-Isolation Day 14

It’s really kicking off. Kirsty has nobody to play with as everyone has gone into self-isolation. In the last two weeks we have made a serious dent in the 135 episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. Once finished it is my turn and I will make Kirsty watch all 195 episodes of Top Gear followed by all 12 documentaries on the Falklands War and all 15 documentaries on the Spitfire. This will make for interesting times. God bless cable.