Wednesday, December 29, 2010


If we were one of those families who had stickers on the back of their cars, displaying what our family consisted of, you would see this:

A black Honda Jazz, more than likely filthy, displaying the following drawn to life characters:

An adult male holding a surfboard, cricket bat, fishing rod, sleeping inside the love of his life, Bunnings.  Or his new trailer which comes a close second.

A lightly freckled adult female holding a laptop in one hand, a champagne flute in the other and a mildly perplexed look on her face.

A female tween reading vampire books and losing her shit at nothing in particular.

A young boy, hanging onto a blimp larger than himself, singing John Farnham and freaking out at a shirt that has buttons on it.

A slightly smaller young boy whose head would be spinning in a 360 degree circular motion, whilst attempting to jump a BMX off a 5 story building naked

1 Dog.  With a cross through it.

4 Cats, all with crosses through them

OK, so let’s talk about the animal equation of this family scenario.

I’ve talked about our animal ownership HERE.  Our track record truly is shithouse.  No really, we really have no right to have animals.  We have the best of intentions and it’s not like we harm them, we just kind of lose them or they lose us. 

As a child growing up we only had one cat. Timmy.  He was cool.  Sure he used to rip the shit out of my arms and ambush me when I ran gaily through the backyard, but he was mine.  Well technically that’s not true, the family owned him, but I was the one who forced him to sleep in bed with me at night by holding him down.  He loved it.  Just like he loved this:

So the fact that we have now lost two cats since moving into this house both horrifies and astounds me.

There was Whiskers mark one, and Whiskers mark two who shat, Mr Whippy Style on my mum’s bed when she was cat sitting him but he was an evil cat.  Always eyeing us off from the corner of the room, giving us minimal love and trying to suck the life out of overnight visitors. 

But Puss and Abbey the wonder cat, well they were excellent.

As is the Morley family tradition, on our birthdays, there are two things we are allowed to choose, no restrictions, no holes barred: Choice of Daytime Activity and Choice of Dinner.  The kids bog standard is a Theme park and Maccas.

Phil of course, pretends to hate cats.  This is why I find him on the lounge with a cat on his lap giving it a chin tickle.    So when I chose to visit the Animal Welfare League on my 34th    birthday and pick out 8 year old Puss to come live with us as *my* activity, the divorce threats were only a smokescreen.   He was her biggest fan within a week.

It wasn’t long before we all loved Puss.  She was old, kinda smelt of death, but was such a cruisy cat, that it baffled us when one day, she went missing.    We put out flyers, scoured the streets, nothing.  My only thought was that perhaps she wasn’t well and had taken herself off to die somewhere, alone, like cats sometimes do. 

We swore that was the end of attempted animal ownership.  We all missed her immensely and Phil was no longer only half joking when he said he’d walk out the door if another cat came through it.

Then my neighbour texted me a photo one day of a kitten, with a message attached simply saying “Want one?”   She was out visiting her in-laws in Charleville and the town tabby tart had just had a litter of kittens.  And they were awfully cute.  In her words,  the kittens would be “knocked on the head” if she didn’t take them, so she would be bringing 6 of them back with her to the Gold Coast in 4-6 weeks.   I immediately said no, I knew it was a no go.   So it completely surprised me when Phil, after seeing the photo, said, “geez cute, why don’t we take one”.  Where was my husband?  Had aliens abducted him?  That would explain the anal probe in the backyard.

So from the 6 kitties to choose from, we chose the runt of the litter.  The one they didn’t even know about, because its mother had left it to fend for itself for an entire day before they found her.  We called her Abbey.  And she looked like this:

She was beautiful.  She would sleep at the foot of our bed on a blanket all through the night and then when Phil left early in the morning to go to work, she would jump up and sleep with her paws around my neck.  After she was lost her lady bits, she would spend her days outside and her nights in, hanging out on our laps, using the leather couch as a scratching post and opening the kitty litter bags to make her own public toilet.

Then her sister, who lived across the road, had an unfortunate accident.  Her tail was literally stripped upwards.  Her tail was also broken.  Our neighbours honestly wondered if they should keep her alive, such was the terrible state she was in.  They had no clue how she had gotten that way.  Had she been run over by a car?  Caught in a fence?

Not one week later, Abbey didn’t show up when we returned home from a party.  She has never come home since.  She’s not at the pound. She’s not been advertised as found in the local paper. She's gone.

That’s when something the  pound attendant had said earlier hit me.  She suggested perhaps there was someone catching and killing cats in our area.  Two cats missing, one other in the street nearly dead: Cat trapped.  

What kind of sick fuck does this?

We wracked our brains, eliminating and including neighbouring people.  Was it the lady next door who makes us feel like we’ve all dropped acid after talking to her?  She’s not right in the head, but doubtful she has the capacity to trap and kill a cat. The young couple out the back with chickens, dogs and goats?  Animal lovers and seem nice people.  Nope.  The hoarder down the road who has had 500 L rain water tank out the front of his house for over 3 years?  Nah, he likes stuff too much to get rid of it.  

That’s the thing, just like serial killers, it’s not completely obvious from the outside how evil some people can be.

So I like to believe Puss and Abbey have just found a better home, with better owners who shower them in catnip and chin rubs.  It beats thinking about the alternative. 

Executive decision has now been made though: No more animals for us. Not in this house anyway.

Sunday, December 19, 2010



As part of a competition, I have been asked to write about something I wish I could pass onto my children that is infinite. 

As I usually swear at least once when I blog, and I guess it’s almost expected of me, I best get this out of the way straight up.  Infinite – I could look up the meaning in the dictionary or I could just give it my own definition – Forfuckingever.  Endless, never ending.  Infinite.

The obvious answer here is money right?  I mean, once you’ve got infinite money, you can pretty much buy infinite anything.  Infinite houses.  Infinite cars.  Infinite bottles of Champagne. 

The problem with money though, is that you can’t buy true friends.   You can’t online shop for a genuine hug from a partner who loves you and you certainly cannot buy the all elusive HAPPINESS.

So, kids, if I could wish you one thing that would never run out, it is Happiness.  Because without it, life can kinda suck. 

Take for instance the founder of Facebook.  Mark Zuckerberg.  Now this guy is worth billions of dollars.  He can have anything he wants.  But the one thing he lost when chasing his business so passioniately, was his best friend.  That is irreparable.  With all of his money, he still cannot buy the happiness that having a best friend can bring.


So, Tip number one of Infinite Happiness kids:  find a friend who is your best.  Who loves you for what and who you are.  If you are extremely lucky, you will find this person early.  If not, you will know them when you meet them.  It will be feel like you are in love, but without the awkward pash.

Tip Two.  Find a partner.  One who adores you for just being you and that you adore, equally.  This will happen when it will happen.  Don’t rush it, don’t push it and please don’t expect it.   An open heart will allow the right person in when the time is right.

Tip Three. Work at what your love.  Find out what interests you.  Is it animals? Writing? Building Stuff?  Knocking down stuff?  Cooking? Cleaning, Drawing?  Whatever it is, work towards getting yourself into that area as your job.  I know it’s clich├ęd, but if you are doing what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.

Tip Four. Be Kind.  Be Patient.  Be Compassionate.  Treat others as you would like to be treated and if people are arseholes, remember it’s on them, not you.  You can only do what you can do.  Some people will be jealous, horrible, egotistical, vain, or just plain mean, but this does not give you licence to return this behaviour in kind. 


Tip Five.  Give in.  Surrender.  There is no answer.  Happiness is what makes you happy, not Mr Jones down the street.  Clipping his grass beyond an inch of its life may very well be what floats his boat, and good for him, he’s found his happiness.  You find yours, and as long as it’s not illegal, do all you can to cradle and it and keep it safe.

That's all I've got.  Infinite happiness 101.

Good luck little ones, life is just beginning.

Thursday, December 16, 2010


I think I have worked out why some female spiders eat their lovers directly after having sex with them.

It's to save themselves the technical based rage that goes hand in hand with the installation of a new electrical item together.  

If spiders, you know, have access to that kind of gear in their lairs. 

Wait, don’t go anywhere, I do have a point.  And a story.

I believe, in reality, it would be much smarter to replace Pre-marital counselling with the following scenario:
  • The Couple
  • A barren room
  • A flat pack coffee table 
  • A Leather lounge that doesn’t quite fit through the door
  • A Plasma TV 
  • A Wii Console
  • An Allen key 
  • And ten different, yet oddly similar cords.

Then, survivor style, they would have 1 hour in which to set up the room with fully assembled coffee table, couch in mutually agreed spot, fully functioning Wii Console and Plasma with all the channels tuned in.

If they complete this challenge without stabbing each other in the eye with the Allen key, they are free to marry. 

Last night, we received our new router in the mail.  As I stood in line at the Post Office waiting to see if I was about to pick up a speeding fine or a Christmas Parcel, it didn’t even occur to me that the Telco would be this quick sending out the promised equipment.  But they did, and shortly after that, our night went to shit.


We opened up the box with Sam literally jumping off the couch, repetitively singing “It’s Foxmas Time, Foxmas time, Foxmas will save you” with a lot of enthusiasm.  Sorry kid, this isn't Pay TV, but carry on.

Phil dug out the cords, the modem/router/gateway/whateverthefuckitscalled and the ONE piece of paper that accompanied it.  We rooted around in the box for more instructions – Nada.  Well then, this can’t be too hard, surely.  Clearly we had forgotten the great Christmas Wii Setup of 2009. 

The instructions were like a picture book.  Hardly any words, just a flow chart of mindfuckery.  We put the "installation" CD into my computer, but nothing happened, it refused to recognise it.  OH, I thought, perhaps it’s a CD, like a music CD that needs to be played in a CD player with step by step voice instructions.  Shit.  No CD player in the house anymore, only in my car.  So I went outside, in the torrential rain in darkness and inserted the CD into my car stereo.  Nothing.  Silence.


By this stage, Phil had set up the modem next to the home phone.  He then started to tell me, according the flow chart,  I would  need to move my computer, my printer and the T-Box onto the kitchen table, near the telephone line, FOREVER.  No, no the whole idea of getting this was so that we connect from anywhere in the house. 

You see, the installation of all new electrical goods such as TV’s or DVD players, has always fallen to Phil.  So too, the assembly of flat pack items.  Because he’s a man see.  Sure, I wouldn't send a Nun into the room when he's doing this, lest she has a stroke from hearing his foul language, but it's the way it gets done.

But computer stuff is my domain.  The furtherest he has ever gotten to being on the internet is to Google tits.  And this is why our worlds collided last night.  He needed me and I needed him, we were like Sao’s and Vegemite – nothing without each other.

This is also why it unravelled so quickly.  I am quite the easy going, it will happen when it happens kind of gal.  He, on the other hand is the, If this doesn’t fucking work right now, I will smash something kind of guy.   

I rang the Telco and spoke to no less than 6 different people, three of which spoke English. Phil turned equipment on and off, finally started reading the instruction booklet he found, and I very nearly lost my shit at the kids when they kept talking loudly when I had to direct my query via voice activation. “I’m sorry, did you just say Activate my Account or Shut the Fuck up?”

In between all of this, Jack was running in and out with Ben Ten Stickers covering me in them, obviously sensing the tension and trying to break it.   Not helping Jack.

Eventually, we got it sorted.  Not before a few choice words were exchanged and the pure, ugly, unadulterated side of ourselves, was presented.

As I was hopping into bed, too shagged to even brush my teeth, Phil was smirking at me which of course did nothing to alleviate my shittiness.  “What?” 

Him: “You’ve got something on your forehead”

Me: “So do you, but yours needs to be surgically removed”

Him: (still smirking) “Go have a look in the mirror”

I got up, went to the mirror and there, on my forehead, were 3 Ben 10 stickers.  Bloody Jack.

I brushed my teeth, took my sweet time and eventually got back into bed.

Me: “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Him: “Because every time I looked at you, it made me calm down, you looked so ridiculous.  I needed to calm down”

There will be no more appliances purchased this Christmas.  No.   I will simply purchase, from Santa of course, a few bastard items that require assembly Christmas Eve.  Oh yeah, who’s wearing the stickers on their forehead now?

Do you suffer technology rage?  Flat pack rage?


This was emailed to me today and it made me giggle.  I especially like the dressing small children bit.  Enjoy....


Test 1 - Preparation

Women: To prepare for pregnancy:-

1. Put on a dressing gown and stick a beanbag down the front.
2. Leave it there.
3. After 9 months remove 5% of the beans.

Men: To prepare for children:-

1. Go to a local chemist, tip the contents of your wallet onto the Counter and tell the pharmacist to help himself
2. Go to the supermarket. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office.
3. Go home. Pick up the newspaper and read it uninterrupted for the last time.

Test 2 - Knowledge

Find a couple who are already parents and berate them about their methods of discipline, lack of patience, appallingly low tolerance levels and how they have allowed their children to run wild. 

Suggest ways in which they might improve their child's sleeping habits, toilet training, table manners and overall behaviour.

Enjoy it. It will be the last time in your life that you will have all
The answers.

Test 3 - Nights

To discover how the nights will feel:

1. Walk around the living room from 5pm to 10pm carrying a wet bag weighing approximately 4 - 6kg, with a radio turned to static (or some other obnoxious sound) playing loudly.
2. At 10pm, put the bag down, set the alarm for midnight and go to
3. Get up at 11pm and walk the bag around the living room until 1am.
4. Set the alarm for 3am.
5. As you can't get back to sleep, get up at 2am and make a cup of tea.
6. Go to bed at 2.45am.
7. Get up again at 3am when the alarm goes off.
8. Sing songs in the dark until 4am.
9. Put the alarm on for 5am. Get up when it goes off.
10. Make breakfast.

Keep this up for 5 years. LOOK CHEERFUL.

Test 4 - Dressing Small Children

1. Buy a live octopus and a string bag.
2. Attempt to put the octopus into the string bag so that no arms hang out.

Time Allowed: 5 minutes.

Test 5 - Cars

1. Forget the BMW. Buy a practical 5-door wagon.
2. Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment.  Leave it there.
3. Get a coin. Insert it into the CD player.
4. Take a box of chocolate biscuits; mash them into the back seat.
5. Run a garden rake along both sides of the car.

Test 6 - Going For a Walk

Go out the front door
Come back in again
Go out
Come back in again
Go out again
Walk down the front path
Walk back up it
Walk down it again
Walk very slowly down the road for five minutes.
Stop, inspect minutely and ask at least 6 questions about every piece of
used chewing gum, dirty tissue and dead insect along the way.
Retrace your steps
Scream that you have had as much as you can stand until the neighbours
Come out and stare at you.
Give up and go back into the house.
You are now just about ready to try taking a small child for a walk.

Test 7

Repeat everything you say at least 5 times.

Test 8 - Grocery Shopping

1. Go to the local supermarket. Take with you the nearest thing you can find to a pre-school child - a fully grown goat is excellent. If you intend to have more than one child, take more than one goat.
2. Buy your weekly groceries without letting the goat(s) out of your sight.
3. Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys.

Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having

Test 9 - Feeding a 1 year-old

1. Hollow out a melon
2. Make a small hole in the side
3. Suspend the melon from the ceiling and swing it side to side
4. Now get a bowl of soggy cornflakes and attempt to spoon them into the swaying melon while pretending to be an aeroplane.
5. Continue until half the cornflakes are gone.
6. Tip the rest into your lap, making sure that a lot of it falls on the

Test 10 - TV

1. Learn the names of every character from the Wiggles, Barney,
Teletubbies and Disney.
2. Watch nothing else on television for at least 5 years.

Test 11 - Mess

1. Smear peanut butter onto the sofa and jam onto the curtains
2. Hide a fish behind the stereo and leave it there all summer.
3. Stick your fingers in the flowerbeds and then rub them on clean walls. Cover the stains with crayon. How does that look?
4. Empty every drawer/cupboard/storage box in your house onto the floor
& leave it there.

Test 12 - Long Trips with Toddlers

1.      Make a recording of someone shouting 'Mummy' repeatedly.

Important Notes:

No more than a 4 second delay between each Mummy. Include occasional crescendo to the level of a supersonic jet.
2. Play this tape in your car, everywhere you go for the next 4 years.  You are now ready to take a long trip with a toddler.

Test 13 - Conversations

1. Start talking to an adult of your choice.
2. Have someone else continually tug on your shirt hem or shirt sleeve while playing the Mummy tape listed above.

You are now ready to have a conversation with an adult while there is a
child in the room.

Test 14 - Getting ready for work

1. Pick a day on which you have an important meeting.
2. Put on your finest work attire.
3. Take a cup of cream and put 1 cup of lemon juice in it
4. Stir
5. Dump half of it on your nice silk shirt
6. Saturate a towel with the other half of the mixture
7. Attempt to clean your shirt with the same saturated towel
8. Do not change (you have no time).
9. Go directly to work

Congratulations, you are now ready to have children.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010


Carly of Tune Into Radio Carly is a very special lady.  She is smart, sassy, dresses better than most anyone I know and is not defined by her disability.  In fact, her media career is moving along faster than a Japanese Bullet Train and her enthusiasm for life, love, music and good friends makes me just want to squeeze her.

She has asked a bunch of her favourite Bloggers to write for her in a series of Guest Posts and I feel incredibly special that I was one those people.

Now time for that gunfight at the O.K. Corral Hmmm Carly??

I'd love you to come read and more importantly follow Carly, she is tops.  GO HERE
to check her out.

Thursday, December 9, 2010


It’s the end of a very big year for teachers.  They’ve no doubt been ripped a new one by either Principal or parent at some point during the year for some ridiculous reason. Without doubt they are over algebra, spelling tests and Frosty the fucking snow man and just want to go the hell home.

And we, as parents need to recognise, the fact that they have had our children for 6 hours a day, 5 days a week for roughly 44 weeks of a year.  Probably more waking hours than you and I when you think about it.    Of course, it is our God given right as parents to whinge profusely about the amount of holidays our kids and their teachers receive but let’s be honest, we’re all just pissed we weren’t more onto it when carving out our own career paths.

But seriously, I prepare enough teachers Tax returns to see that they, like so, so many of our undervalued public servants, need to be paid more.  I mean, they hold the most important job in their hands.  Whether you have children or not, surely it is obvious that these guys have one of the most significant jobs in the land?  A good teacher is worth more than any FIFA world cup bid or footbridge, yet the government still seem oblivious to this.  To keep good people, you must reward.    Anyhoo, I will just stand down from my red soapbox now because this is not what this post is supposed about.

It’s about alcohol.  And the gifting of said alcohol.  Well teacher gifts anyway.

Sam has 4 teachers.  Unusual yes, but he has 3 teachers who jobshare his class and one main SEU (Special Education Unit) Teacher.  Hence, they received two massive boxes of Cadbury Favourites between them.  Maddison had a top teacher this year who also was a chocolate fiend.  Jacks, well I know what Jack is like.  I knew she’d need medicating.  So I asked around and apparently her drink of choice is Vodka. 

We've rolled up to the drive-thru BWS with the kids fully freaking out.  “Why are we here?”  “You said we were getting Miss Jo a present!”  “All they sell in this place is ALCOHOL!!”  Yes kids, natures remedy for a god awful day.  Something with which I think Miss Jo is all too familiar with.

This morning, Jack ran in, all fresh faced, happy as Larry, excited to find his teacher in the playground and present her with a bottle of very nice “Bodka”  He practically screamed across to her “Miss Jo!!!, we have some alkyhole for you!!!!  But I don’t want you to have a hangover!"  Cue wailing.   Oh. Dear.  Note well, there is no way he learned about hangovers from his mother.  None at all.

What do you do for the teachers?

Monday, December 6, 2010


If you had peeked into my window on Saturday morning, you would have seen me on my hands and knees.   Getting down and dirty.


Mind. Out. Of. Gutter.  Sorry, nothing saucy.  Oh unless the unidentified treacle-like substance I was trying to scrub off the window sill was actually tomato sauce, then yes, it was saucy.  And revolting.  I place the age of the brown sticky substance somewhere between Easter 2009 and Fathers Day 2010.   Oh yes, if nothing else I am ever vigilant about keeping my house.

The reason for my sudden burst of housekeeping? We were expecting a babysitter at precisely 5:30pm.   And not just any babysitter, this was Jacks teacher at Day Care.  

The house was in its usual bombsite fallback position.  Crumbs on the floor, urine puddles on and around the toilet,  a mountain of washing harbouring wet towels thoughtfully dumped between the dry clothes and of course, bowls with petrified apple cores languishing in the sink.  This is nothing unusual on a Saturday morning.  We’ve both worked all week, we’ve let things slide and to be honest, it just gets dirty again the minute we clean it.

But this Saturday was different.  Phil wasn’t about, he was working.  Jack was being insanely difficult. 
Breaking things, dropping bags of oats on my mopped floor even though I had explicitly requested he stay out of the kitchen, those kind of shenanigans.    Not much was getting finished and to be honest I was getting sidetracked.  Instead of just focusing on one room I would flit and get distracted and half of most everything got done.  

It kind of helps though when you have someone coming over.  Puts it all in a different perspective. You start to see your house through someone else’s eyes.  And you shit your pants a little.  Suddenly you notice the DVD’s scattered willy nilly through the bedroom and the inch thick dust covering the plasma.  And then you notice the mould that has started to overtake the bathroom ceiling.  Shizenhausen. 

So after a hearty day of jiffing the shit out of the bath, sugar soaping the walls and cleaning the underside of the highchair (just in case the caked on gravy is discovered), I got myself ready and prepared for the lovely Cheryl. 

We went out and had a lovely night.  Oh except for a stupid sniper who decided to start shooting random people from a high-rise RIGHT where we were about to tag along to a party and meet Julian McMahon. The whole of Surfers Paradise was put into lock down and we couldn’t get in.  Way to ruin a chance meeting with a big shot celebrity stupid sniper guy.  Sorry, I've regressed, back to the riveting story about my lack of housekeeping skills....

So, we came home and not only were our children all sleeping and safe, Cheryl had pulled my clothes from the dryer, folded them and washed the kids dinner dishes.  I wanted to bottle her.  Or at least hold her captive for a few days.

Alas, as neither were options, we bid her farewell and I made my last and pleasantly pissy, stopoff to the toilet. That’s when I saw it.  Caked on poo.  It seems at some stage, after I had cleaned the toilet that afternoon, one of my children (presumably the 4 year old)  had gone to the toilet and performed what appeared to be some kind of crazy dance move and rubbed his ass all over the back of the toilet seat.

Oh God, why did I even bother trying. 

Do you clean for the cleaner?  The babysitter?  The Mother-In-Law? Or just for yourself?

Wednesday, December 1, 2010


Generally people measure their year with a Calendar.  That’s why, by and large, we make New Years Resolutions and/or we predict that the coming year will be different.  That it will be better.

Unless of course you are me.  You see, as we spent a large chunk of New Years day in at the local Emergency Department getting the 3 years olds wrists put in plaster, I couldn’t subscribe to that theory for 2010.

Perhaps it’s better to look at the year in retrospect.  Perhaps it’s far too much pressure to believe that a turn of a page on a Calendar will make it all good.  Because nothing is always all good.  Nothing is ever wonderful 365 days of a year.  The best we can hope for is that things aren’t all shit all of the time.

Take this time last year.  I was saying goodbye to my mother.  I was awaiting results from a dodgy lump in my breast and my son fell off his fathers’ shoulders and ended up looking like this:

Not long after, Sam fell off the monkey bars at school and basically broke his arm so badly, the Doctors were unsure if he would ever use his arm again.  He proceeded to get a bad staph infection under the plaster and spent a week on intravenous antibiotics in the hospital.  At this stage, Phil and I were pretty sure we hadn’t just run over one Chinaman, we’d taken out the whole of Shanghai.

Fast forward 12 months. 

I am fine; the lump was just one of those things I have to watch.  I am receiving more and more opportunities with my writing and I hope to get better at it.

Phil, through necessity, has started to work for himself and is steadily getting busier each week.   His lazy bastard  winter cricket team won their grand final. 

Maddison has made her first best friend. The kind that she talks to on the phone each night for hours on end.  We’ve also been invited to attend the School Captains assembly this Friday.  The message on my phone went like this “Mr and Mrs Morley, we’d like to formally invite you to attend the final assembly this Friday.  Oh and please don’t tell Maddison about this phone call”.    School Captain, House Captain or otherwise, my level of excitement, on her behalf, if off the charts.

Sam’s arm recovered and he can now bend it like Beckham.  Ironically, he can also write better with his right hand than ever before.  Not only that, today I witnessed him interacting with loads of friends when I went to pick him up early.   And that display made my heart sing.  He has friends.  He is coping.

Jack is Jack.  He is street smart, unstoppable and quite the challenge.   Luckily his wrists and face are fine now after his fall.  Here he is tempting fate one more time:

I am happy to report, no further broken bones have been acquired in 2010 thus far.    Apart from Phil trying to accidently blowtorch his leg into oblivion and Jack having a ride in an ambulance due to a dose of croup, our life has been blissfully drama free (touch wood).

Further to this, some exciting and wonderful things have happened to my friends and extended family in the last twelve months as well.

My brother has made Police Sergeant.

My two best friends had baby girls. 

My brothers’ girlfriends’ dog training business is going great.

My brother in law threw away his fears and went for a swim in the surf for the first time in 5 or 6 years.  Believe me, this is massive.

My other brother and sister in law have decided to move house.  This is very exciting for them.

Miss C at work has finally found a great guy.

My other friend at work bought a house.
Another good friend got the all clear from his cancer after having lymphoma some years ago.

I’m sure loads more positive things have happened to most people I know, they just escape me right now.

As for me, do I have a New Years Resolution?  Nah, I reckon I just hold on and hope I see the swings and roundabouts before they appear.

Has it been a year of improvement for you?  Has it been good, great or complete rubbish?