Weekend jollity

I've had one of those weekends where there's been no time to blog. This is a good thing, because it means I've been off the computer all weekend, and my neck will thank me for it. Yesterday I finished my poetic square spiral. I looked at it, proofed it, and with the classic decision-making skills of a female Libran, decided I didn't like it, so pulled it apart and make a different configuration. I didn't have my digicam with me, so the technical brilliance of that particular creative endeavour is now lost forever. Never mind, I fully enjoyed the moment and that is what counts.

After this intoxicating day of creation and destruction I chuffed off to the elegant surrounds of the Canberra Polish Club with Best Beloved (Bumblebee was visiting the Albatross for the weekend) to get wonderfully pished (decided to beat the non-baby blues by falling gracefully off the wagon for a couple of weeks) in the company of Martin Pearson. If you don't know this fellow, get acquainted, especially if you happen to like the Lord of the Rings trilogy (both book and film). Martin, a most irreverent folkie, does a wonderful and very loving parody called The Unfinnished Spelling Errors of Bolkien. Every year after each film came out he would perform the latest instalment of the parody at Woodford Folk Festival. He recorded a version of the three episodes after Easter at the Polish club which was made into a CD, and I am in the audience... I'm going to listen to the CD later in the week and see if my trademark laugh is audible or if it has been fuzzed out by the sound technician. I'm not terribly proud of this laugh, and can usually keep it controlled, but Martin tends to snap all the restaints.

Last night he launched into one of his favorite monologues, on the weirdness of the plane trip that he'd just taken to get to the gig. I don't think I can do justice to this one, but it involved him walking up to the check-in staff at Virgin, placing his bag on the conveyor belt and saying helpfully "There's nothing flammable, sharp or explosive in my bag." The woman said immediately "I'm sorry sir, you're not allowed to say the word 'explosive' to me."
Martin replied "Why aren't I allowed to say the word 'explosive' to you?" She pointed to the sign which says that jokes about security threats would not be tolerated. He told her that he didn't say the word 'explosive' as a joke, but to be helpful. She got quite flustered and just repeated that he wasn't allowed to say that word. He asked what would be the consequences of saying 'explosive', and she replied that he would have to be inspected for traces of explosives on his person and the manager would be called. Then she asked him if he would like an aisle seat or a window seat.
"Hang on, just go back a bit," said Martin. "I haven't quite finished with this topic... Why aren't I allowed to helpfully say the word 'explosive?" (He didn't mind being inspected, he was there an hour and a half early, nothing better to do, and this was just way too much fun.) ... and on it went, until finally the manager was called. Martin explained his helpfulness, and she explained her position. Martin estimates that by the end of the interlude, he had managed to say 'explosive' around 21 times, she had said it 11 times, and the manager had said it 3 times. Fun with airlines!

I had a few ciders through the night (I have to drink cider with folk stuff) and because I haven't been drinking much, well, at all, lately, they went straight to my head. And the more pished I got, the funnier Martin got, or seemed to get. Then I thanked him profusely, got on my bike and rode carefully down the dark bike tracks (with Best Beloved, who usually rides very fast, doing his best to ride as slowly as I) of the Inner North. At one point I pointed my wheels towards the (quite wide) pedestrian space in the middle of a traffic island and missed. I hit the slopey kerb of the island instead and got quite a rude shock which unleashed a torrent of giggles most of the rest of the way home. Not very dignified, but who wants to be on a Saturday night?

Today I had to entertain my soon-to-be Parents-in-Law. I wasn't worried, until Best Beloved woke at 6am and got up to clean instead of lolling around in bed as is his usual Sunday wont. They weren't arriving until 6.30pm, so I got the hint that he'd like the usual pigsty transformed. But you can't make a silk purse etc. etc., so I managed to disguise the really objectionable bits and place Mother with her back to the Wall of Crud (a mound of boxes and future-useful-things that doesn't look very suave) while she ate, and I think I got away with it. I cooked a pretty cool chicken lasagne to use the lasagne dish she gave me for my birthday (!) and also tried out a chocolate-beetroot cake that turned out very nicely, especially with a side-dish of honeyed farm cheese. Bumblebee came back from the Albatross still dressed in the clothes he was wearing yesterday and when asked if he'd changed them at all replied that his dad hadn't bothered to bring his bag of clothes in from the car! Unbelievable. I guess he's also giving him lessons on how to scratch his crotch in public and open his beer with one eyeball.

Best Beloved wants to sleep, so I'd better stop (if I don't go to bed early, I don't catch the worm, so to speak!).