Laugh. Just Laugh. If You Don't Laugh, You Won't Laugh

I don't know another industry that is so open to criticism by absolutely any knucklehead as the hospitality industry is. (Aside from Hollywood). Who writes detailed reviews for social media of librarians or cab drivers or security guards? Why does the hospitality industry have to cop it?

And there are sites everywhere that give voice to illiterate, moronic, anonymous criticism from bitter trolls, and small businesses have to just sit back and take it with no right of reply. It's so wrong. Constructive criticism is a great thing. Just being negative while you hide your identity is not.

We're struggling a little at the moment, but we have to deal with this anonymous twat. This is his diatribe and my response to it. My response isn't posted in full on the website in question, which is frustrating because I thought the way to the thing of whatever was humour... I'm getting increasingly tired of this world.

All I ask is that if you are publicly slamming me, use your own photo and your real name. Otherwise, shut the fuck up. Your opinion is nothing unless you are prepared to stand behind it.

Have some integrity.

Here's this, for what it's worth:

Little cafe of terribleness

Doesn't like it

Diner from Melbourne • paul-fergs • 2 reviews

The food is quite uninspiring and the coffee is very bitter to the point of tasting burnt. The guy making the coffee certainly lives up to his nickname "grumpy" and never cracks a smile, but i kind of feel he needs to break away from that tradition if he's working in a customer service industry as he just comes across as rude. As for his co-owner, she seemed friendly, but when asking for water on the table, this never arrived even though the cafe was quiet, which reduces the chances of her being caught up in the hectic nature that cafes can sometimes become. As well as this, they are a bit too quick to clear your plates and cups which is a pet hate of mine as it feels as though you're being rushed out the door.So in summary: The coffee tastes cheap and there's better food quality and customer service in the surrounding cafes. This place would probably fit nicely in a rural area where there's less choice and people are not as aware of how fantastic coffee can taste when done well.

My reply to this idiot, who doesn't have the initiative to stand up and get the water for himself when the getting the water thing has gone awry for him...

You're kind of right when you say Grumpy never cracks a smile, but only kind of. Technically speaking, he rarely cracks a smile. He is someone for whom smiling and indeed laughing is a genuine response to the external stimulus of happiness, and like many people his mood-integrity is set to quite a high level, thus making the facial contortion that indicates genuine happiness to be a rare thing. This does not mean he is actually unhappy or as you suggested rude, he is just in a constantly ponderous, thoughtful mood. He is mostly quite happy, it just takes a lot for him to burst out in smile.

Unfortunately, he was born with an ugly head (we can't help but wonder how you neglected to mention this in your wide-ranging “review”). The ugliness of his features, the natural severity of his countenance even when his mood is so frequently mild and placid, has plagued him since childhood. He has spent his life explaining to friends and family and strangers that nothing is wrong, that he is not upset or angry, that no his best friend or pet budgie hasn't just died. He just has naturally severe features. It's quite the curse.

The thing is, when Grumpy does smile... on those rare and worthy occasions when he does crack a grin, it is a thing to behold. The heavens open and the angels sing and all the unicorns and fairies and dragons (the happy kind) throughout the magical kingdoms frolic together in unbridled joy.

And when he laughs – a far rarer thing than a simple crack of a grin – the sweetest cello sounds like crushed gravel by comparison. The angels and the unicorns and the fairies and the happy dragons are silenced in awe. So many musical notes of mirth spilling from such a butt-ugly head is like a... a rainbow emerging from a cat's arse. It is purely and utterly astonishing.

But criticism has been taken on board and Grumpy will attempt to crack a grin more often; the singing of angels is not heard nearly enough these days.

Reasons To Be Pretty, Review

Reasons To Be Pretty

By Neil Labute

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



Local on-again-off-again theatre company Mellow Yellow are on again, with their Fringe offering Reasons To Be Pretty by American scribe Neil Labute. But don't dally about – it's a short season with only a few days still to run.

Mr Labute is responsible for some pretty powerful scripts for screen and stage, usually pulling apart relationships and poking at the soft, sensitive innards of gender politics. Black comedy is his thing, and he's a writer with such an unflinching eye and ear for what makes us tick that he can make you squirm as easily as he can make you laugh.

Reasons To Be Pretty looks at our obsession with our appearance. It might not be yours or mine, but it is society's obsession. (Equally, it might well be yours and mine, or someone you know).

The play follows the relationships of four friends/workmates/partners - Steph (Steph Lee), her boyfriend Greg (Jason Schwab), Greg's workmate Kent (Sam Burns-Warr) and his girlfriend and co-worker Carly (Dayna Boase). As well as obsession with appearance, the play also examines loyalty, integrity and what binds us in relationships and friendships, and what can cause divisions.

The play starts with a pretty comical fight after Steph confronts Greg over a perceived insult. She heard that he said something less than flattering about her physical appearance, and she is livid. It's kind of comically over-the-top, yet I'm sure we can all relate; we've all be involved in arguments that mean everything at the time but seem ridiculous after the event.

That Steph takes what Greg said so much to heart seems a little unrealistic... yet this is exactly how arguments and disagreements can unfold in what can quickly become the domestic battlefield. The staging of this scene is inventive, utilising the quirkiness of the space in The Wilde to create a voyeuristic feel, as though we are overhearing a neighbour's domestic screaming match.

Greg and Kent seem thrown together rather than being real friends. Again, this often the case in the workplace. You don't have any choice in who you work with so you make the most of it. They are very different people, Greg quiet with hints of intelligence in his reading material (this could be read as affectation) and Kent being a very similar character to the one he played in this very space last year in David Mamet's Sexual Perversity in Chicago. That is, a pretty callous, superficial Typical Macho Guy. I really want to see Burns-Warr play a different role because he does this one so well you could almost believe that he's like this in real life. He does bastard really, really well. Chappeau.

Dayna Boase as Kent's girlfriend does a good job of playing a complex character – physically beautiful (just check that sexy smirk on the poster for the show), you expect confidence, but vulnerability is just under the surface, with manipulation also not out of range.

This is not feel good theatre. It is engaging and sometimes funny, generally a little sad in the way that we and our weird little ways of dealing with each other can be sad. It is also highly recommended.

Reasons To Be Pretty is on at The Wilde, 153 Gertrude Street, Fitzroy until October 4.

A String Of Memories. (Luckiest Fucker There Ever Was)

Big night. It was a big night. Daylight now and a headful of crashing thoughts that are either dreams or memories. What actually happened? That girl with the eyebrows, that conversation, that thing that was so fascinating, that bit when you found your stride and your talk caused hilarity... was it real or creations of the dream engine?


Luxurious stretch. A groan of pleasure and relief. Dodged a bullet. There will be no hangover today, just more of the same. It's almost lunchtime, almost booze time, almost time to start the ride all over again. More talk and more laughter because it's all so short and carp diem, motherfuckers.

You're in the second bedroom again. Starfishing it in your own bed, this pillow the best fucking pillow in forever.

Your eyes hummingbird open and you see a string of memories droop-hanging on the wall. There is Santorini and Andalucia and Ann and Annye. There is Gaudi and The Acropolis, Vesuvius and Via del Amore with its locks of love and promises so pure. There's a golden tunnel in an almost forgotten Italian coastal town (was this where Gore Vidal lived?) where you once saw an A-list Hollywood actor. There is a dance festival called Boom where you've danced and swum naked and laughed with friends. Twice. And you could make it three times, maybe more before you die.

And back to those blues and whites of Santorini and that sunset that seems impossible. Your lover next door. She who made this string of memories, and hung them drooping on the wall.

The barbarians are bearing down, but right now in these slow trickling moments, you know you have seen amazing things and have a string of memories that no one can take away.

And you know you are the luckiest fucker there ever was.

The Game Of Human

I think the beings playing the game Human Fuckwittery have recently taken the game to a new level. It's like... create an intelligent species... separate them by land and sea... give some poor lands and others rich lands... introduce religion... introduce another religion... make these religions conflict... bring in racism and sexism and then oh how great is this we fuck them up with politics... invent media... give the media power... destroy traditional media and replace it with social media because we have the technology... make envy a major thing... give technology and social media to the backwaters of civilisation who prey on the hopeless and the bitter and the confused who in reality simply want to feel a part of something... give these humans idiot rulers making idiot decisions that condemn the rest of them to a bleak future... let loose the maniacs and the conspiracy theorists who believe in nothing and everything and who will continue to do nothing but question and question whilst wrapped in their smug stupidity that does nothing enlighten or protect.

These beings playing the game of Human Fuckwittery, they must be having a great laugh right now.

LAX by Alyx

One of our workers sings and makes music. This is one of her songs. I think it is gorgeous. She is lovely and very funny, and today we had a lengthy discussion about the individuality of sneezing, and it was very funny.

Greatest thing ever is to have a good laugh while you are work. It brings everything back into perspective. I feel very lucky to have bumped into this particular human.

Grand Budapest Hotel

Finally saw this last night. What a wonderful movie. Am looking forward to watching it again. Such good storytelling, so many talented actors having fun with their roles, such overall excellent film making.

Happy Father's Day

Apparently it was Father's Day today.  Meh.

A Tip: Treat Good People Well

One of the reasons The Dreaded One and I started our own cafe was because we both had terrible experiences at roughly the same time of working for awful employers. We're hard workers, it's just how we roll. And we were treated like shit and taken for granted. At roughly the same time, we both said enough, and quit.

We both decided that if we were working this hard, we should be doing it for ourselves. That way, we can choose the people we work with, choose the music we want to listen to while we work, and we can do nice things for the people who choose to work for us, like having the decency to give them the tips they have earned.

We are now still working hard. We're very much hands-on. It's a bit of a struggle. Who knows what's going to happen.

But you get these little, lovely moments, these small gestures that mean a lot to you. You get good customer feedback. You get the random positive online review. You enjoy a lengthy conversation with someone who has chosen to work for you, and they're talking and you find yourself thinking I'm really glad I met you. You're pretty fucking cool. Whatever happens in the future, right now I like you a lot.

And if you're really lucky, these employees you quite like will describe you as pals, and will want to hang out and have drinks with you after work hours.

And they will bring this up with you prior to you giving them the previous couple of months' tips.

I think we're getting some of this thing right.

Stephen House Interview, Almost Face To Face

Stephen House, Almost Face To Face.

 
Written by Lee Bemrose

Almost Face To Face is the latest dramatic monologue from peripatetic award-winning writer/performer Stephen House. It's been a couple of years since the South Australian drifter performed his quite powerful Appalling Behaviour here, so I caught up with him to find out what he's been up to in that time, what drives him, and what to expect from his latest work.

So, what have you been up to since your last visit to Melbourne?
 My last show, Appalling Behaviour, kept touring. I did an Adelaide return (local council shows), a Tasmania Theatre Company season and a season at The Street Theatre in Canberra. I then spent some time in Sydney. I did an incredible writing development project with some blind artists at Tutti Ensemble SA, and had an extended stint in Whyalla SA doing a community youth theatre project for D-faces Youth Arts. Then as I often do… I disappeared from Australia and spent many months in Bali, Thailand and India – travelling, writing and existing.  

How was Appalling Behaviour received in those other cities?

The Hobart and Canberra seasons were both very successful and had incredible responses and reviews. It was wonderful to see it sit in a bigger company program at The Street Theatre (where it saw its 100^th show). It always astounds me how that show pulls people in and sees them discuss what it means to them and what it says about our current world. It still feels like it’s an important theatre piece for the here and now. And that’s rewarding. Also, it was selected for publication by The Australian Script Centre. 

Have you ever taken Appalling Behaviour overseas? Or is it something you would contemplate? 
Well no, I haven’t, but just recently I’ve been in a conversation with a company in New York who are keen – which would be awesome. Also, for the last year or so I have been chatting to a company in India who are also keen. And if I do take it overseas next year I’m pretty sure I’d head to Edinburgh Fringe. I’ve never done an Edinburgh Fringe. So yes, it is kind of looking like maybe travelling overseas in 2015.  

How long has travel been important to you?

I’ve been pretty much on the road since living in the back of my station wagon for a few years when I was an 18 year old hippie surfer. And I still am on the road (not in the back of the car... well, not too often these days). That’s about 35 years travelling. Fuck… where has my life gone! I’m always travelling. Though I do have occasional bouts where I settle in somewhere for a few months a time.  

Why is travel so important to you?

I feel alive, challenged, inspired, amazed, free, on the very edge (sometimes), and excited. I’m addicted to being on the road, often alone, but not always. I love new people that come into my world for an hour, a day or night, or a month… or forever – crazy, beautiful encounters that come along, like unexpected gifts. But also sometimes I feel isolated, lonely, frightened, confused, excluded, and wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life. But all the feelings that go with just disappearing into the world and sometimes not knowing where I’m going are real, and make me feel so very much like I am living life.  

In what circumstances do you feel excluded?Just now and then in another place in the world, watching locals go about their familiar lives, it hits me that I am often an outsider, a wanderer, a nomad… this isn’t my place, or my home or my way. I have flown in like a migrating bird stopping off on a long flight to somewhere else. Excluded kind of; but that doesn’t always mean feeling bad though, sometimes it means just being on the outside of, looking in. It can also be empowering, to not be a part of something.  

Do you feel you are more creatively stimulated when in a foreign country?

I’m quite creative wherever I am. Even in my new Melbourne life (a room I just scored in Brunswick Street), I will feel inspired, I’m sure. I often have a current project I’m working on when I travel. I’ve just come back from several months Indonesia and Thailand. I was learning lines for Almost Face To Face while I travelled. I was also thinking about my novel (still in thinking and writing stage). Often when I’m in another place I do have a new idea, so take a few notes. In fact the first draft of Almost Face To Face, was written years ago on an Australia Council Irish literature residency, then put it away and forgotten about. Sometimes it takes me years to get back to something that sprung into my mind while travelling around somewhere. 

You don't exactly do the tourist thing when overseas, do you. Typically, what do you do when in a new city? What kind of experiences do seek out?

I’m generally looking for somewhere new that I want to live for a while, or returning to a place from before. I have a few regular stops. One is Rishikesh in India. In Rishikesh, I do Yoga classes with amazing masters, I wander alone along the banks on Ganges and bathe in her clean icy holy waters – direct from the Himalayas. I wander through dense city throngs and lose myself, completely. I catch up with old local mates, meet travellers from all over the world, and I write, think, and wonder. In big cities, I usually have different routines than in quieter places (more art, music, theatre, partying etc.) After Melbourne I’m heading back to Bali, where I’m making a life. My days there are often writing, swimming and surfing, and wonderful mates from all over Indonesia… and the world, other nomads. I also try to work out how the hell I’m going to survive! But don’t get me on to that! How the hell am I going to continue to survive, like this? 

Your new play... tell us a little about it.

A fragile travelling writer arrives in Dublin after a devastating stint in Paris. His trip to Dublin is not without a few dangerous elements. He quickly falls into a chaotic underworld, inhabited by off-beat characters, and finds himself living in a small upstairs room with a woman trapped there by the way her life has gone. But he ventures out on to the street and falls further into the hidden underbelly of Dublin. His creative muddled and indulgent life sees him fall into this new world and write it all down (again). But nothing comes without repercussions and consequences, and he is finally forced to face up to what he has become in life. It’s a play about having the courage to move on from what is no longer needed or valid, and having the empathy and understanding to realise that not everyone else can do that. Some of us are trapped by who and what we are, and always will be. And that’s ok. The play hits that home, I think. 

So how autobiographical is it?
There is a part of me and my story in every work I create. Even Appalling Behaviour had more elements of me in it than people could ever know. There are parts of me and my life in all of my plays, and there are parts that grew from those parts and took their own life. My characters are not me, but they are a big part of me and my life, and I’m a big part of them and their life. But I never reveal too much about what (exact) part is me and real. I fall into worlds and write about them. I utterly live the worlds I write about.

What kind of play is Almost Face To Face? Drama? Comedy? Other?
It’s a drama with elements of stream of consciousness story-telling and streaks of dark comedy. But others are better judges of that than me.

Given that Almost Face To Face is set in Ireland, a country famed for its story tellers, do you thing you will take it to Ireland?I would love to take it to Ireland, and have thought about it. If fact regarding your question, the story telling tradition of Ireland had an effect on the style of this play and my inspiration for writing it. I performed a story telling type piece in Dublin many years ago. That experience has always stayed with me and had an effect on me as a writer performer, as did my time living in Ireland.

The dramatic monologue (it is what you do, isn't it?) would appear to be the most difficult form of story telling. Why do you do it when you could simply write a story to be read or a play for actors to perform?

Each time I embark on this journey with this form, I think why, why, why? It is so hard to crack. You can’t tell, not completely. It needs to be crafted in a way that some things are told, some are discovered and that the story filters out through a range of forms working together. Maybe the reason I do it is that it is such a challenge to get right. I love literary challenges. I never know if it is working until I get it in front of an audience. Its okay if they don’t like it (not everyone falls into the unusual worlds that do), but if they are with my story and engaged, then it has worked. That’s what I aim for. That they follow my story and want to know what happens. Dramatic Monologue for an hour alone on stage is a real challenge. Ah, scary! Why am I doing this, again?

What kinds of people will Almost Face To Face appeal to most?

I like to think that it’s a moving, human, sad and sometimes funny and beautiful story bubbling out of the underworld of Dublin. I think (and hope) that most people who see it will be taken on a real ride, somewhere special. My work is written for everyone; not only those who like to take risks. People that are interested in the human experience and condition should go with this work.

Do you have a line or passage from the play that encapsulates its spirit?

I don’t know if it encapsulates the spirit of the play but it encapsulates that moment of the play, and it’s a piece that often brings tears to my eyes, performing it…

Don’t’ go, he says. His call is like a knife in my heart. I so want take him away from this and them – from all that I am and have been too… find some of what is dragging me to escape and try for change and offer it up to him. But I can’t… I just don’t know how to give him anything at all, except money… I’m incapable… because I am struggling so hard to somehow help myself… to try to not be what I‘ve been for so, so long… that I have nothing left to help him along. And I’m nearly an old man. Fuck, what happened? Where do the years go?

Almost Face To Face is part of the Melbourne Fringe Festival. Season is at La Mama theatre from September 17 - September 28, 2014.

Master Class, 45 Downstairs, Review

Master Class

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose.



Initially, I confused Maria Callas with Diamanda Galas. The latter, I thought, would be a great subject for a play. When I realised my mistake I was a little disappointed because although Maria Callas did indeed lead an eventful life and was obviously worthy of celebrating in the form of a play, I don't really like opera. And after reading the press release properly, Master Class was going to contain some singing. Oh Dear. I wasn't sure about this. I mean, opera, really?

Right from the start, however, this play cast a spell. It's a loving tribute to La Divina, very funny, warm, and gives great insight into what it takes to be a great performer, to really excel at any creative vocation. I loved the writing, the acting, the structure of the story and – get this – the singing. Not ever having been to a live opera performance I have no idea why I thought I didn't like opera. The power of this kind of singing is extraordinary, and I do believe I'll be following up on this epiphany.

In 1971, after her career had peaked, Maria Callas conducted a series of master classes at the Julliard School in New York. Maria Mercedes takes to the stage as Maria Callas, an imposing, demanding figure oozing confidence, an acute sense of self and an enviable reserve of quips, one liners and comebacks. The character comes across as hard, driven and passionate. At times she seems more passionate about the artistic process than the feelings of her students (we, the audience, are addressed as her students), but there are moments where a couple of the students stand up against her and prove their talent when their tutor softens. You can't be this passionate about creativity and be a complete ice queen.

As the students finally get to sing, memories are triggered, actual recordings of Maria Callas are cued in their aural sepia tones, and Maria Mercedes does a wonderful job of revealing what it was like to be Maria Callas: to grow up poor through the Second World War; of what it was like to struggle with her weight, her craft and the importance of her perfectionism. We hear of her relationship with Aristotle Onassis and of what it was like to triumph against the odds to become La Divina. It's all quite nostalgic whilst remaining current and relevant to anyone unfortunate enough to want to succeed in the arts. These more personal, nostalgic sections are perfectly counter-balanced by the frequent laugh-out-loud ones.

And so we come to that singing. Other cast members were Cameron Thomas, kind of a piano-playing sidekick, and Georgia Wilkinson, Robert Barbaro and Anna-Louise Cole as the students in the spotlight. It was a revelation to me to be so close to fellow human beings with access to such rich, stirring vocals. Clearly there is a magical recipe of natural talent and rigorous training at play here, and these voices, mere human voices, have the power to stir emotions. It seems I don't dislike opera as much as I thought I did.

45 Downstairs was the perfect venue for this story to be told. It's a very open space, much like a small lecture auditorium, making the whole experience quite evocative of being back there, back then in the presence of La Divina.

Bravo.

At 45 Downstairs, Flinders Lane, Melbourne until August 28.

Conversations With Our Customers: Oh Lord

A guy places his coffee order. I ask him if he wants a copy of the receipt. He says, "Yes, I should take it or my boss might get angry.

I go full Hoges Ozzie wink 'n nod as I look at his preist collar and say, "You don't want to make your boss angry."

I really don't know if this was funny or lame Dad joke.

Silver Screen Daydream

(c) Lee Bemrose, obv.

And just as suddenly as she had come into his life, she was gone. For a while Ewan was in a mild state of shock. He felt the way you do when you walk out of a movie into the real world but your mind is reluctant to leave the movie behind. He was stunned that the whole thing had happened at all. Things like that simply didn’t happen to him. He was Ewan. Loner. Loser. He was not without some off-kilter charm, and he was not entirely unattractive, and at least he had a job, but he was still just Ewan.

They met in a bar. Only unlike in the movies, Ewan was drunk and alone, his mind some place he would never go to, playing out some scene that would never happen. Reality had dissolved. Ben had left but Ewan had decided to stay for one more drink. There were loud people all around, normal people with lots of friends and good jobs and interesting things to say. A B-grade comedy was playing silently on the wall-mounted television, and Ewan could pretend he was watching it, if he needed to. But he was thinking about this place, Paris, thinking about being an artist in Paris. He wondered what the air smelled like in Paris, wondered what the sky looked like, wondered what it felt like to stroll down the Champs Elysee at night, wondered how the sun felt on your skin sitting on the grass by the Eiffel Tower. He imagined a whole life where it was okay to be alone, where he didn’t have to speak, where his art justified his existence. He spent a little time wondering what kind of artist he might be. He thought about Lucy Jordan. He liked that old song, “... at the age of thirty seven, she knew she’d never...”

That’s when she sat down at his table. She spoke to him like they were old and comfortable friends.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him.

It was only then that Ewan realised he had been smiling. How long had he been smiling like that? Jesus Christ, he must have looked mad. Alone and smiling at a sad song. And drunk. How did he get so drunk?

“Sorry?” he said over the noise, desperately stalling for time, wondering what was wrong with her. She looked normal enough, even a little on the attractive side. She was thin, serious looking, was wearing a scarf because scarves were fashionable this season, and a soft leather jacket that he would later learn she had bought in Portobello Road. She pushed her thick-rimmed glasses back up on her nose and sipped her red wine, then asked him again.

“What are you thinking?”

Ewan shrugged and sipped his beer and wished he had been drinking wine. What was going on here?

“Nothing.” Ewan replied. “Nothing really. Why do you ask?”

“You looked, I don’t know, far away, like you were dreaming of another life, in another place.”

Ewan looked at her properly then. He wondered how he looked as he smiled at her. He hoped he looked friendly and not just creepy. She was sitting at the table, her elbows resting on the table top, arms folded. She was looking right at him. They could be good friends, Ewan thought. Mates. Maybe more. To anyone who looked. Ewan wished that Ben would come back now. God that would be perfect. He wanted someone to see this. He looked around the pub as though there might be someone he knew.

“I was thinking about... I’ve been thinking about going to Paris,” Ewan said. “For a holiday.” And thought what? He’d been thinking no such thing. But he sounded so convincing he almost believed himself.

She folded her arms tighter, scrunched that cherry red leather. “Ah, Paris. I like Paris.”

It was then that Ewan noticed she had a slight accent. She sounded Australian, but British too. He liked that. It made her exotic. This was too good. Where the hell was Ben? Ewan thought about texting him and asking him to come back. But no, that would be stupid. She would end up leaving with Ben. Ben could fuck off and find his own exotic girl.

“You’ve been? To Paris?”

“I go all the time. I used to live there.”

Ewan swooned a little. He’d never had anyone this cool talk to him like this. She had lived in Paris and she was talking to Ewan. Ben’s not going to believe this...fuck Ben, stop thinking about Ben. Think about her. Don’t lose her. Don’t scare her off. Act cool. Play the role. Be cool. Can you be cool? Yeah, yeah, I just need to relax. Offer to buy her a drink... holy shit, why did you get so drunk? She finds out you’re pissed she’ll be out of here. Fucking hell, how do I keep this going? What do I say? She’s lived in Paris and I’ve been nowhere...say something and say it now or she’ll get up and go to another table...

“Wow. That must have been good. Living in Paris.” Ewan was a little impressed with how calm he sounded, and soon they were talking. Just talking. They told each other their names and she told him about Paris and he listened and nodded as though he were taking notes for his planned holiday. They had more drinks, and lost themselves in talk, and Ewan was funny and she laughed and she made him laugh, and somewhere in the back of Ewan’s mind was the realisation that this was possibly the happiest he had been in his entire, uneventful little life.

But it got better. In the following weeks there was more laughter and more drinking and more talking and more sex than Ewan had ever imagined. Well perhaps not more than he had imagined; he had a lot of imaginary sex. But it was more sex than he had ever really expected to have with the same person. They even fucked in the park a couple of times, in broad daylight. But mainly they did it at his place or hers, on the couch or in the shower, sometimes in the middle of cooking a meal when their mouths tasted of wine. It was delicious, raw, dirty sex and Ewan couldn’t shake that feeling that he was living in a movie. It was all just too good. It made Ewan feel like a different person. It made him feel like the person he always should have been. It made him feel like the lifetime of bumbling fuck-ups and mistakes had never happened.

And then she was gone. She went back to London, back to her life. And Ewan went back to his life, back to being Ewan. They both agreed that it had all been fun, but that was all. It was just one of those things. Ewan hoped that the manner he adopted indicated that this kind of thing happened to him all the time. Like, hey, I’m cool, whatever, it’s been a blast, have a happy life.

But that feeling lingered long after she had gone. Did that really happen? Had a woman really walked up to him in a bar? Had they really had what would have been referred to in a review, if it had been a movie, a torrid affair? How had it happened? Why Ewan? Was it ever going to happen again?

For a while Ewan tried to make it happen again, but it just didn’t work. He took to smiling at strangers in bars and pubs, but they didn’t see him. Or they ignored him. Just as they always had. In time he stopped trying to catch their attention and just accepted that it was never going to happen again. The world was simply too preoccupied with itself to bother with Ewan, just as it had always been. And in any case, the truth of it was, when he dug down deep enough and forced himself to look, the truth was that he didn’t want it to happen again. Not with someone new. Cora, it seemed, had taken something of Ewan away with her.

Ewan went back to his mundane job and his small group of misfit friends and getting quietly drunk with Ben, and dreaming of another life, in another place.

Ewan laughed when the first postcard arrived. It was so kitsch. A red double decker bus, a London Bobby, Big Ben and London Bridge, some stupid line about London. He flipped it over and read and smiled to himself. It was just a short note saying that she had been thinking of him and hoped he was well. He smiled until there were tears in his eyes. He had not really expected to hear from her, but he was glad he had. He went to the newsagent and bought the worst postcard he could find. It was so tacky it was brilliant.

Over the months he built up quite a collection of awful postcards from London and Paris (she had to catch the train to Paris from time to time for her job. Imagine!) and he visited all the tawdry souvenir shops in town to hunt down the ugliest of them from Sydney. It made more sense, of course, to email or instant message, but somehow they knew that this was better, that they both enjoyed this little game, the suspense of checking the letterbox each day and the small thrill of receiving the postcard. Ewan even enjoyed, in a strange way, the disappointment of the empty letterbox. It meant there would probably be something there the following day. Or the day after that. They had such a similar sense of humour that he knew she would be doing the same. That was the thing; they had clicked. And it got Ewan thinking.

Ewan looked at the ticket. He couldn’t believe it. Who would have thought? And his passport. His own passport. He shook his head in wonder. He looked at the photo again. He should have held his chin up a little more. Slight double chin. Never mind. He smelled the passport. He looked down at the blank pages. He smiled. “Thank you Lucy Jordan,” he said quietly.

Ewan had everything planned. Mrs Thompson, his neighbour, would call in and water the plants and feed the cat. He had considered asking Ben or his mother but they would snoop; Mrs T, he felt sure, would not. But he hid his stash of porn in a locked suitcase just to be sure. He said goodbye to Owen, trying, he knew, to load the moment with more drama than was reasonable. He just about conjured tears, but it was no good; the cat quite clearly did not give a shit. One last look around his neat unit, and it was time to go.

Ewan knew he shouldn’t feel as excited as he did as he swung his suitcase into the boot of the cab. But he couldn’t help it. He closed the boot and walked to the side and hesitated before taking the back seat.

“Domestic or international, the driver asked in a thick Mediterranean accent and with little interest.

Ewan paused a beat before intimating “International,” as though it was the kind of thing he said all the time. The taxi driver grunted as he pulled out into the traffic. Ewan looked at the security camera mounted above the rearview mirror. He did something subtle with his mouth before turning to gaze out the window. Three quarter profile. Perfect.

This is no good at all, Ewan thought as he took his new woolen coat off and wiped the sweat from his brow; he was trying to get into the spirit of things, but the London weather was not co-operating. 26 degrees and sunny? He wanted fog and frost and bitter cold, not summer heat. Didn’t fly half way around the world for something I could have at home. He considered saying this out loud so that a passerby might realise that we was an international traveler, but he realised he was being foolish; he was not here for the weather. He would save this line for another, more appropriate time. An uttered complaint about the food perhaps. Or the wine. Yes, he would peruse a wine list and mutter “Koonunga Hill?” And deliver his line and the waiter would be suitably impressed.

Ewan walked and walked that first day, eventually taking in too many tourist attractions. He had not intended to walk so far, nor see so many tourist attractions. He had actually intended to go for a bit of a stroll, wait for the tiredness to set in and go back to his hotel room for a sleep. But he got lost. Each time he thought he knew where he was it proved to be a trick, and there was another tourist attraction which he decided to see in case he never found it again. Eventually, hot and tired and unable to take in another single piece of historical information, he placed his fate in the hands of a London cabbie, a nice enough bloke who didn’t have the decency to ask where Ewan was from. Back in his hotel room Ewan lay down on his bed, his body aching, and closed his eyes on the blur of centuries of history.

And woke confused. Such dreams. But what is this? This place? These dreams. This room. What time? But day or night? And why don’t I know? Oh god, they were beheaded on this very spot? What? What? Beheaded? Who beheads? Who got beheaded?

When his world came back into focus, Ewan giggled a little; he was already looking forward to being home and telling anyone who cared to listen about all the things he had seen.

On the second day Ewan decided to deliver the postcard. He hadn’t wanted to visit on the first day; that would have seemed odd, he knew that. He had hoped he might bump into her in the streets of London. But no such luck. So it was back to the original plan. And here he was, standing on her doorstep thinking yellow, her door is yellow. As yellows went it was not bad, but yellow was not his favourite colour. In fact it was probably his least favourite colour. Sometimes purple really bugged him, but purple was usually in some sort of context, like hippies or something, and it could well have been the context and not the actual colour that bugged him; what use had hippies ever been? But yellow... yellow needed no context, and in fact it was doubtful yellow even had a context. Certainly there was no connotation or implication that sprung to mind... canaries perhaps, although it’s not like you always look at yellow and immediately think ah, canaries... why do you do this? Just knock on the yellow door and get this started. She will laugh so hard when she sees you... but what if she doesn’t laugh? Or worse, what if she laughs too hard? It should be okay. Waited two days. Wait on – flew half way around the planet and waited two days and that makes it all right? My God - is this not a case of stalking? Am I a stalker? She will let you know soon enough if she thinks you are stalking her, now will you just knock on the yellow door please?

Ewan raised his hand to the yellow door and paused. He thought about the thing, the part of him that Cora had taken. It was a small thing. He imagined it sitting in the palm of a hand, so bright you couldn’t see it properly. But it was the most important thing. The single most important thing. Whether she laughed too hard or didn’t laugh at all, he was going to tell her. He was going to say the words just like they do in the movies. And if it was wrong it would hurt, but he would turn and walk nobly away –

The door swung open.

“Jesus!”

An expletive apology tumbled from Ewan’s mouth.

“What are you doing? Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m... er, I’m Looking for Cora,” Ewan said. He realised he was speaking in a slight British accent, similar to this woman’s accent. And he realised that he was blinking rather a lot. He resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair; a little bit of Hugh Grant went an awfully long way.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was, erm, I... I was in the area and thought I’d pop in and... is... is she in?” Ewan asked as he squinted a little. He wasn’t sure where this Hugh Grant business had come from, but he was committed now. The accent stays, he told himself, so does the stammering and the blinking, but do not touch your fucking hair.

“No. No I’m afraid she’s not. She’s staying with her boyfriend for a while. Can I giver her a message?”

Ewan felt everything stop. He wanted someone to say cut! He wanted someone to say no no no that’s not the line! First positions everyone, get ready for another take and let’s get it right this time people. Aaaand...action.

“Boyfriend,” Ewan said flatly as he felt the postcard being screwed into the palm of his hand. “Ah.”

The woman stepped fully outside and locked the door.

“Yes, bless her. Think she’s in love with this one. Who shall I say called?”

He almost said Owen, but it was too close to his own name. Under no circumstances must she ever know that he had been here. Cora had not known the clumsy part of him, the stupid version the rest of the world knew. So instead he said that his name was Grant, told her twice so there could be no mistake, and said they had gone to university together and that he had been in the area, and that it had been several years since they had seen each other, and that he would call again soon.

Ewan had never been so embarrassed and depressed as he was for the rest of his stay in London. He stayed in his hotel room. He ate little. He drank a lot. He sent postcards back home. He berated himself and fabricated fictitious versions so that no one would ever know what a fool he was. For Ben and his friends, he had spent a wonderful month with her but it had not worked out. They would expect photos - he had lost his camera, and in any case did not want reminders of this beautiful thing gone wrong. His mother would be saddened to hear that the position he had applied for at the BBC had given to someone else - never mind, the company had paid for the flight and it had been an invaluable experience. Mrs Thompson... oh God, why had he told her he was going to Paris to get married to a woman named Lucy? Why had he done that? He would tell her that poor sad Lucy never made it, fell ill and didn’t make it. He had attended her funeral, not her wedding. Yes, that’s what happened.

As Ewan stood in the line amid the chaos of Heathrow Airport, shuffling closer to the check-in, he knew he had everything covered. He knew that no one would ever know the details of this mistake. He knew they would never guess the stratospheric level of his stupidity. His shame would be forever his own. And he knew their correspondence would cease.

What Ewan might never know was the turn his life might take. He might never know that if the story had been in the hands of another director, Ewan would have been told look up, look up now. Look at the passengers streaming through the arrivals gates. See the tired ones and the happy ones, all these lives streaming through and branching off into their own worlds. Look up now Ewan, look at the faces, find that one face in the crowd, that one in a million. There. Yes. That’s her. She’s the one. Read her face. She looks tired, yes, it has been a long flight, but there is more, so much more. Your reaction? You piece it together, you realise the misunderstanding. You are relieved and amazed, and somehow frightened by how infinitesimally close you came to missing each other. Go to her now, this director would have said, that’s what you must do, Ewan, before it’s too late, before you lose each other forever. As she turns and heads to the baggage collection area, that is your cue to go to her. You will not have to say anything. You will simply know, both of you will know and you will move into each others arms hold each other like you never want to let go, and it will be exactly like it is in the movies, the happiest of endings. But you must look up now, Ewan. Stop looking at the blank pages of your passport and look up...

Coca-Cola Amatil... The Day Of The Muppets.

Coca Cola, you Goddamned muppets.

So looking forward to ending the friendship. So looking forward to not seeing this fridge taking up valuable floor space.

Did I mention the word muppet? They have proved themselves to be muppets at every level.

Muppets.

Hamas and Israel

Israel... Hamas... war-mongering fuckheads who hate peace. Who never want peace. Who want to bomb the shit out of each other. Who want to bomb the shit out of peace.

Hateful fuckers, one and all. I don't doubt they are enjoying their bomb/killings festivities/suicide bombings... justify as much as you want, you murderous shitbags.

Of course, at some point, someone could say enough is enough... but nah. Lets keep hating and blaming and bombing and killing.

Good work, humans.

Conversations With Our Customers - Awesomness!

I know what Lou is really singing about, but it's a song that can also apply to less troublesome things, to nice things.

Gorgeous day today. On our way to The Commoner Restaurant, one of our favourite Sunday lunch destinations, a person started waving frantically at us from across the road. I didn't know who the fuck it was. The Dreaded One waved back as we started to cross the road.
"Who the fuck is that?"I asked.
"I don't know."

"Then why are you waving back at them?"
"Because when people wave at me, I wave back at them. It's just what you do."
Then the stranger started calling out, "Awesomness! Awesomness!"
Turns out she is a new cafe customer who came in when our EFTPOS terminal folded its arms and said fuck you on Friday. She seemed nice, had no cash so I said she could leave an IOU. She gave me the money right there in the middle of Smith Street. Fortunately, the little man in my head with the names file found her name quite quickly.
Also turns out that her partner builds recycled wooden things. We are thinking about a communal table for the cafe. It was all quite funny.
Then we had a lovely lunch at The Commoner. Upstairs this time, treated well by the amazingly lovely Jo. Really do love that place. The flavours of the food, the care and attention to detail...
Such a perfect day.

Purgatorio by 5pound Theatre, Review

Purgatorio

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose for Australian Stage

I admit to not knowing very much about this play prior to seeing it. I remember seeing Death And The Maiden, the movie version of the playwright's best known work – though perhaps not the most important by the prolific writer, thinker and teacher, Ariel Dorfman. And I remember always coming away from 5pound Theatre productions feeling satisfied.

Going in blind like this added to the sense of intrigue, of wondering just what was going on, which enhanced the whole experience, and I'd suggest that you do the same. Which means I'm suggesting you don't read the rest of this review. Just go along and see Purgatorio if you want a shortish play that deals with some big ideas about human nature, love, redemption, forgiveness and revenge. That's my short review.

Here's a longer version:

The play opens with a woman prowling what appears to be a cell. Could be prison. Could be in a mental institution. She seems tormented, would like to not be here. Oddly, there is a knife inside her cell.

A man appears outside her cell wall and proceeds to calmly interrogate the woman. He asks questions but his air is one of already knowing all the answers. His questions are leading. He wants a confession, knows there is one in there, is determined to get it. As it turns out though, he wants a lot more than just a confession.

Suddenly the situation switches. A man. A room that could be a prison cell. A female interrogator asking questions that she knows the answers to. Where are they? What have they done? Have they done it to each other? What do they want from each other. What is going on here?

The characters' back story is based on a classic, tragic myth (not telling you which one) and what might become of them as they wait in purgatory. Their stories do unfold and become clear through these interrogations and we see that at least in this case, love, hate, revenge, forgiveness and redemption are complicated beyond solution when taken to such extremes. And the crimes committed here are indeed quite extreme. Brutal revenge has been taken, forgiveness seems unfathomable, and yet these two characters seem caught up in a reluctant, twisted, volatile, eternal kind of love.

The audience is split into two because the stage is divided into two by a an opaque curtain representing the room's wall. I'm not sure why the play was staged like this. We could see the other character and the rest of the audience through the curtain, just not very clearly. Perhaps it was way of demonstrating division, of motivations being one sided. Perhaps the audience(s) came away with slightly different perspectives. Perhaps it was none of the above and I should stop speculating about the symbolism of the curtain and move on to the quality of the acting.

The acting was amply capable of dealing with this simple yet weirdly complex story. Freya Pragt as the woman and Jason Cavanagh as the man both had to switch between cold, calm accuser and complex, messed up human trapped by their actions and motivations in a place they don't (and perhaps do) want to be. Pragt was in good form as she finally revealed the treachery of her acts and still managing to elicit some unexpected sympathy from this audience member. Her story demonstrates that treachery doesn't always appear out of the blue, and that you can't seek revenge without having a reason for it. Perhaps if I was on the other side of the curtain (He's on about the curtain again!) I might have been more affected by Cavanagh's sense of yearning for something that could never be. Both played well off each other, especially given that they were mostly obscured from each others view for most of the play. And especially as the play is a bit of a head-bender; it's not set in our world or time, and time has simultaneously stopped and goes on forever, stuck as the characters are in an eternal loop.

Enjoyable on every level. I give if four curtains.

Long Spindly Arms

This is a very bizarre photo of me. I look like a humanoid alien with anorexia in the top half of my body.

Water-affected visuals aside, this is me enjoying the Peninsula Hot Springs. First full weekend The Dreaded One and I have had off in about seven months. We booked a day at the springs, two nights at a close by hotel thing (we booked a poolside room but got upgraded to a bungalow which is very cosy and cool), and oh man... we needed this. I feel so chilled.

Looking forward to our next visit.

Cafe at this stage seems to be chugging along nicely. Still no room for complacency or confidence, but chugging nicely is a good thing.

Oh - and once again I am reminded of people who should just stay at home rather than venture to another place. I wrote something about it back here. Although this weekend was not travelling and was not experiencing anything outside my comfort zone (quite the opposite) I was reminded by overhearing so many conversations that some people really should just stay inside their own home, because if they venture too far away, they become miserable and complain, often loudly. I've read lately of people becoming homesick after only a couple of weeks abroad... I just don't get the concept of feeling homesick. How in the hell can you feel homesick when you are in a foreign country with all it has to offer that you won't get at home? The longest I've been in foreign countries is about six months or more. I didn't feel homesick once. Not for a moment. I may have felt briefly frustrated at not getting how things worked or not being able to communicate efficiently, or not knowing exactly where I was, but this was all part of the wonderful adventure of travelling.

Even during this weekend away - which has reminded me that my actual natural habitat is luxury hotels (that's kind of a joke - I'm just as happy in a shitty hotel or a tent, if it's in a fun place) - I overheard people complaining. Okay, sure, the springs were more crowded than I was expecting and mostly overheard conversation is pretty dumb and group dynamics can be strange... but if you decide to do a thing, shouldn't you aim to have a good time and make the most of it rather than focus on the negatives?

Yes, is the answer to that rhetorical question. Fuck yes.

But if you can't help yourself, if you really must moan and complain rather than try to enjoy yourself, do it quietly. Keep it to yourself. Most likely it's your attitude that's bringing you down rather than actual stuff; no reason to broadcast and bring those around you down.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Soup, The Hug, The Scooter Dude

Strictly speaking, he wasn't a customer, but he promised that one day he would be.

New member of Team Awesome, Alyx, sits outside and has a bowl of The Dreaded One's minestrone, which many customers have declared the best they have ever had.

Grumpy watches from the inside as a guy on a little tiny scooter rolls to a stop and starts talking to Alyx. Grumpy assumes they must know each other, as there are smiles during the short conversation. Apparently the conversation went a little like this...

Little Tiny Scooter Dude, as he rolls to a stop: "Whoa. That soup looks awesome."

Alyx: "It's really good."

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "I'm not hungry right now, but if I was I'd have some of that soup."

Alyx, smiling: "Okay. Good."

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "I'll probably come back another time."

Alyx: "Okay. Cool."

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "Yeah... you know, Melbourne's all right, but sometimes I just want a hug."

Alyx: "Oh. Right."

Pause.

Little Tiny Scooter Dude: "But I won't hug you. Because you're eating soup."

Alyx smiles and nods and keeps eating soup. Little Tiny Scooter Dude climbs back on to his trusty steed and rides off into the sunset.

A Random Customer Says Nice Things

A new review of the cafe is up on Urbanspoon. We read this at the end of a hard day, and it made all the hard work worthwhile.

New members of Team Awesome are on board now.

A Fucking Post About A Stuck Fucking Key. Fucking Fuck Etc.

Under-staffed, blackout just as lunch service starts, and just to finish off the day, this. Fucking key gets stuck in the fucking fire escape door.  I have honestly never encountered a more stuck thing in my life than this fucking key. It's, like, fucking STUCK!

Still, first world problems. Everything's peachy. It's all fucking peachy.

Conversations With Our Customers: That Time Warren Ellis Came Into The Cafe

So there was this time I was having a chat with Warren Ellis in Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome and...well that's all, really.

Game Of Thrones With Fluffiness and Cameron Diaz.

"The pizza appears to be late."

Okay. So I really quite like Game Of Thrones. I like the adventure. I like the rousing stories and the larger than life characters. I reeeeally like the costumes. I like how they make you get attached to really good and noble characters who eventually get it in the neck because another less noble character wants to put sharp things in someone's neck because it advances their cause. This is, after all, the nature of life, no?

But really. Enough. Last night's episode was just too much. So much stabbing and throat slitting and being shot by arrows... I was quite traumatised by it all. I really liked those people, and seeing their hearts being broken and ripped out of their chests and the resulting mess of all of those sensational costumes... it was horrible.

So tomorrow night, no Game Of Thrones. It's gonna be romcom city, in the abode of Grumpy & The Dreaded One. Something with Cameron Diaz, perhaps. I still have fantasies about that dance Cameron Diaz did in those fluffy slippers in one of the Charlie's Angel's movies. Soooo yum.

There will definitely be tracky pants and snuggly blankets.

There will be a warm heater and snuggles on the couch.

And giggles.

Fluffiness and cuddles. I might even wear fluffy slippers and dance along to that scene in Charlie's Angels.

But if the pizza guy is late with his delivery and interrupts my Cameron Diaz movie, he will get it in the throat with an arrow fired from my crossbow with the cavalier precision you would expect from a battlefield warrior such as myself.

The insolent fucker.

Feeling The Love. Cafe, Work and Friends.

I bitched and moaned about having to do cafe stuff this weekend (our third weekend of not doing six day weeks for the past eight months), but bloody hell, what a lovely weekend it turned out to be.

The Dreaded One and I had to stay back on Friday after a busy day to move all the furniture and paint the floor with primer for our handyman guy to paint over the next day. Handyman didn't show on Saturday, so we painted the floor ourselves. We also bought this cool old chopping block to put the cash register on because the thing the cash registster had been on, courtesy of the previous cafe owners, was the most imbecilic piece of junk I have ever seen. Words fail me. I don't know what they were thinking. I'd post a photo of this hateful piece of shit except that I destroyed it Thor-like with a hammer after it fell over for the thousandth time on Saturday. The only thing fucktardier than making this shitful, poorly designed piece of demon poo was the fact that we put up with it for so long. What were we thinking?

Anyway. Now we have a neat, retro looking chopping block/cabinet thing THAT DOESN'T KEEP FALLING THE FUCK OVER, some very cool new art on the walls courtesy of photographer friend Steve Willis, some wonderfully whimsical little terrariums on the tables courtesy of writer friend Laura Brinson, and some nice looking outdoor furniture. I think we've gotten through the settling in period and can now start putting a bit more love into the cafe.

After painting the floor on Saturday we also managed to have friends over for dinner on Saturday night for the first time in ages. Cheese fondue and lamb shank tagine, LOTS of wine and fun conversation and laughs.

When I have such quality people over in my home - a place I usually need to spend time in in solitude - I'm content to sit back and soak in these people enjoying each other's company. They were noisy in the most wonderful way, and I loved it.

Today, Sunday, we installed the retro chopping block thing and got the cafe ready for tomorrow, then had lunch at The Fox.

Grumpy is happy.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Soup, It's Good.

Sweeping through the cafe, I saw a table that needed to be cleared. The couple had finished eating and were talking, I told them I'd clear the plate and soup bowl away. I picked up the lady's plate and started to slide the guy's soup bowl on its wooden board to the edge of the table so that I could pick it up. But it seemed to be stuck to the table. It wasn't budging.

Grumpy [internal monologue]: What the hell is going on here? It's like this board is stuck to the table or something. It's almost like the guy is holding onto it from the other end or something. It's really confusing and the longer it goes on the more embarrassing it's getting. It feels like I've been trying to pick the thing up for ages. I must look like such a useless twat.

Customer: It's very good lamb, vegetable and lentil soup. Do you mind if I finish it?

I then see that the customer has indeed been holding on to the other end of the board. There are still a couple of spoonfuls of soup left.

Grumpy: Oh my God I'm so sorry. How embarrassing. Of course. Take your time. No rush. What a twat. Not you - me. Me twat.

Customer, smirking: It's okay. Tell the chef it really is very good soup.

Your Dream Menage A Trois

Dead chicks I'd have a threesome with: Dora Maar, Gertrude Bell, and Amelia Earhart. (I booked in an extra in case one of the others couldn't make it).

These people are amazing women.

If two of them got jealous, I'd probably stay faithful to Dora Maar. Picasso wasn't worthy.

But then,she was soooo blindly in love with him that she probably wouldn't see that he was unworthy because he was so great and so famous with his paint and art and yadyada, and I'm just me with my nothing and more nothing and my Australian accent which totally sucks compared to even the worst European accent, let alone the Spanish and Italian ones which are just crazy hot. So Dora probably wouldn't even glance at me. Probably wouldn't know I existed, if we existed at the same time.

Good thing I made arrangements with Gertrude and Amelia.

Have you ever thought about your dream menage a trois with dead people?

Why In The Hell Has There Never Been A Movie Made About Gertrude Bell?

Everyone knows about Lawrence Of Arabia, but who knows about Gertrude Bell? I didn't, until now. What an extraordinary woman. Why the hell has no one ever made a movie about her?

Although in just trying to answer this question, it seems Ridley Scott might be on the case. 'Bout bloody time.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Dropped Spoon

The customer was an imposing figure to say the least. One of those very large but shapely bodies, low cut top oozing the purest essence of buxom. Dark clothes. Bare skin a gallery of expensive tattoos. Her face? Strong and pretty at the same time. She ordered a large, strong latte, but with a spoonful of honey.

She sat outside. I made her coffee and took it out to her. Placing the cup on the table, I somehow managed to knock the spoon from the saucer onto the footpath. We both reached for it at the same time. She got to it first.

"Sorry. I'll get you another one.

"No it's okay. That's fine. This one is fine."

"That's silly. I'll get you a clean one."

"Really, don't bother - I like it like that."

"Like what? Like it's been on the footpath?"

"That's right... I like it dirty."

Grumpy's internal voice goes erm doo doo doo erm for about three hours.

"Seriously, I'll get you a clean one."

"Seriously, if you do that... I'll get angry."

"Angry? And what happens when you get angry. You gonna spank me or somethi..."

Her reply? A single, slowly arched eyebrow.

I got the hell out of Dodge before I got in over my head.

Conversations With Our Customers: The Mess, The Sequel

Conversations With Our Customers: The Mess, The Sequel.
Little Old Lady (as Grumpy clears her table): Sorry about the mess.
Grumpy: That's okay. Don't worry about it.
Little Old Lady: Yes, I've been here before and I made mess that time and you said don't worry about it, so I've come back again to make another mess.
Chapeau, Little Old Lady, you wrinkly cheeky you.

Not So Common

A few weeks ago at one of our favourite Sunday lunch destinations, The Dreaded One and I found ourselves talking to the owner, a lovely person by the name of Jo. We first encountered Jo a couple of years ago, soon after we moved into the area and wandered by the restaurant and peered through the window. The restaurant appeared to be closed, so we kept walking. Jo had seen us peering inside and came running out onto the street.

"Come back! We're open!"

We went back. Have been going back ever since. We love this place.

Since then, we've opened our cafe, Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome. Steep learning curve, lots of hard work. Just the way we like it.

On this day, we told Jo about our previous Saturday, when our Saturday helper phoned in unwell and it was just down to The Dreaded One and me to go it alone again. Naturally, we got slammed.

Jo listened to all of this. Bear in mind here that this is a good restaurant. It's whole other levels above our humble operation. But when we finished talking about what a hard day it had been, Jo said wait here, hang on a second. She disappeared and returned with her business card. She scribbled her name and personal phone number on it and said that on Saturday mornings, she's available to work and to just call her if we need help doing whatever.

I could tell, she meant it. What a gorgeous, wonderful offer. We would never take her up, of course, but that she made the offer and meant it... wow.

Then today, Jo pops into the cafe. As well as running her wonderful restaurant, she supplies other restaurants with wild mushrooms. She was delivering some to the nearby legendary Cutler & Co and dropped a few off to us as a gift.

And again said that the offer to help out still stood.

Some humans are just so amazing. They make you take a good look at yourself and make you want to be a better person.