Candidates

Vote for me in the 2008 Bloggies! I’m not actually nominated, but why should little things like popular choice or just deserts stand in the way of my victory?

[Insert witty segue here]

So, our man of steel’s loverboy Dubya is on his way out, then? In the tradition of election-time on-street vox pops of the most ignorant buffoons to be found, I must proclaim that “I barrack for Barack!” Never mind the accusation of an unwholesome association with a slum lord peddling shoddiness and trash.

[C’mon, gentle reader! Fill in the blanks, it’s fun! Try, “Speaking of…”]

Things must be pretty bad for her when even I’m feeling sorry for Britney. My insensitivity and bad taste have not descended to levels where I’ve actually entered a Dead Pool, but if I had…

Product Launch!

We here at Lonie™ Polony are pleased and proud to announce the release of a fine, new product! We trust our loyal customers will find it meets the same impeccable standards as the other lunchmeats in our exclusive range.

Yes, I now have my very own Neptune Athelstane Polony!

*

Consequently, I shall herewith prominently display this button created by the lovely Littlesnoring:



and pretend that irregular, infrequent posts are all part of my grand plan to become the next multi-millionaire lunchmeat mogul.

Wish me luck with my growing polony empire.

*Image may not be of actual Baby Polony

You Betcha Baby!

Just who do I have to sleep with to get my baby to come out, anyway? Any virile man with a plentiful supply of semen will do, apparently.

Not that I’m seriously considering a do-it-yourself labour induction – bubby will make its appearance without my resorting to Old Wives’ remedies – but during an idle search of various labour-inducing methods that you, too, gentle reader, can try at home!, I came across a rather unsavoury discussion of that oft-recommended contraction jump-starter, sex:

"Sex as means of getting labour started is thought to work in three ways: firstly the movement may help to stimulate the uterus into action; secondly, sex can trigger the release of oxytocin, the 'contraction' hormone; thirdly, semen contains a high concentration of prostaglandins which help to ripen, or soften, the neck of the womb (cervix) ready for it to dilate when labour starts.

At this stage in your pregnancy sex is easier said than done. Try spoons, with your partner entering from behind or use the bed as a prop: your bulge isn't an obstacle if you lie on your back at the side or foot of the bed with your knees bent, and your bottom and feet perched at the edge of the mattress. Your partner can either kneel or stand in front of you. Alternatively, giving your partner oral sex may work better. It is thought that prostaglandins are absorbed more efficiently through the gut than through the vagina. (Note: you may prefer to keep this piece of information to yourself.)"

(http://www.babycentre.co.uk/pregnancy/labourandbirth/planningyourbabysbirth/naturalbringonlabour/#6)

Hmm. Seems to me more likely to induce vomiting than labour (although Mr. Lonie was still keen to give it a try when I mentioned it. Funny, that.)

And just why should I be ever so slightly impatient for the baby to venture out of its current home in my seemingly stretched-to-the-limit belly, when another two weeks of relaxing in its cosy amniotic sac past the due date now upon us is considered normal? Certainly not because I’m one of those women whose suitability for motherhood I question when they petulantly complain they’re ‘bored’ with pregnancy (after all, raising a child takes significantly longer and is much more trying than gestating one).

One reason is my obstetrician’s threat to medically induce labour if I have the audacity to withhold my baby from the world until next Wednesday. Been there, done that, was so unimpressed I didn’t even bother to buy the lousy t-shirt.

Another reason is that fridge-cleaning and other nasty chores which have been put off in the hopes of baby’s imminent arrival letting me off the hook, cannot be forsaken when that pesky little internal voice I try to ignore as much as possible is barking at me to get your lazy arse into gear and at least pretend to exhibit some nesting instinct, woman!

And then there’s the fact I have only minutes left to win the birthdate sweepstakes, if the little one would just cooperate.

On the upside, a delayed arrival means I still have time to get a more elaborate baby-related betting scheme up and running, one that puts “Guess how long I’ll be screaming in pain!” and “I lack opinion and imagination! Please suggest God-awful names for my child - mine and my baby’s dignity to the winner!” games to shame.

Here’s the kind of thing I was thinking of:

Scenario One: While I’m still bloodied from giving birth, my mother-in-law strides in and immediately pronounces the baby is the spitting image of Mr. Lonie. In fact, am I sure it's biologically impossible for a child to receive all its genes from the father?
Odds: Even money.

Scenario Two: My freezer, full of delicious meals I’ve spent hours and hours preparing to make life easier when the baby arrives, breaks down the day we return from hospital, leaving everything spoiled. We grow fat on takeaways every night for two months.
Odds: 20 to 1.

Scenario Three: While Mr. Lonie is overseas, my dogs wake me from my fitful baby-related-insomnia-troubled sleep at 4 am, mere hours before I have to sit an allowance-dependant exam for work. The dog bed and laundry are covered with what I can only describe as explosive diarrhoea, which takes me an hour to clean and disinfect while I desperately try to restrain light-sleeping Master Lonie from creating a coprophiliac’s idea of an artistic masterpiece. Oh hang on, I forgot. This already happened.
Odds: all bets are off.

Further suggestions are welcome. So: Any takers?

Guilty Pleasures

I’m shocked, shocked! at the widely-held perception of me as a cantankerous biddy. I simply can’t imagine whence this dreadful calumny sprang, but I present for its refutation these examples of things which give me enjoyment, albeit the kind of enjoyment that comes with its own measure of guilt.

Who doesn’t like singing along to songs with rude lyrics? Probably quite a lot of people actually, but I’m not one of them. Don’t let my prim, purse-lipped mumsiness fool you – on the rare occasions I’m at home or in the car without the little pitchers, and the mood strikes, I take a certain gleeful delight in providing tonally-challenged but lusty accompaniment to Sir Psycho Sexy, sharing a good-natured mofo with Jack Black, or cataloguing a range of sexual behaviours with the original cast of Hair.

Join me in my sinful confession and admit it, most of us love a long soak in a full, hot bath. Now I know we’re in a drought, so before you form a lynch mob and come at me with pitchforks and blazing torches, allow me to hastily explain that a bath for me is generally a birthday/Christmas/imminent delivery of baby sort of indulgence, certainly not a daily, weekly or even fortnightly thing. Moreover, to prevent the guilt from completely overwhelming the pleasure of the experience, I take certain…measures…to offset what in these days is an extravagant use of water. Short showers, letting yellow mellow, plunking the children to bathe in my lees, even the occasional homebound day with no shower. Are those gasps of disgust I hear? Hey, I said it was a guilty pleasure, not a pretty one.

What would my life be like without far too much chocolate? A lot less sugar-crazed and liable to make the creators of the healthy food pyramid faint with horror, I suspect. As it’s the New Year, and as I don’t seem to have been not-pregnant long enough since 2003 to regain a reasonable weight and figure, I have resolved to eat more healthily when the super energy-burning powers of this round of pregnancy and breastfeeding begin to wear off. What a shame there’s still about a kilo of chocolate stashed in the house. I wonder who’ll selflessly rid the Polony pantry and fridge of that delicious brown scourge?

In these days when celebrity gossip is peddled as essential world news, we all seem to absorb at least a vague awareness of the latest proof that money and fame don’t buy class or happiness. And usually I’m content to glean these smug reminders from slow news days and months-old magazines in waiting rooms, but when it comes time to waddle off to the maternity ward to birth my latest babe, my overnight bag is simply not complete without a stash of trashy magazines. I know they’re a waste of money I could better spend on a nice book, I know they encourage my nasty streak of Schadenfreude, and I know they keep paparazzi vultures in their despicable line of work. But isn’t that the point?

Guilty pleasures – they’re wrong, but they feel so right.

Spewdrops on Roses and Biscuits with Grit In

Toxic heavy metals and hard seats to sit in,
Brown toilet ‘packages’ that leave stubborn rings,
These are a few of my least favourite things…

My, my, my, we are in a bad mood, aren’t we? And by ‘we’ I of course mean ‘me’. Lately it seems I’ve had more than enough cause for irritation and irascibility, but I find in my current condition I simply don’t have the patience for penning time-consuming discourses on subjects such as colleagues who see nothing inappropriate in their expectations of a heavily-pregnant woman in obvious physical discomfort (ie: me) acting as their personal dogsbody. Plus I currently have the attention span and verbal agility of the child I hope soon to meet ex utero. So, I’ve delved into the rantings that have been pent up in my resentful little mind for years in some cases, hoping to achieve some catharsis and translation to the state of Madonna-like* serenity that is other people’s tiresome expectation of mothers to newborns. I’ll see the hardier of you at the other end of the post…

Bad driving. Gasp! You say I’m not the first ever person in the world to complain about bad driving? Well tough mammaries, I’m gonna do it anyway. Have you ever noticed how different cities seem to specialise in particular strains of bad driving? Well down my way, the prevailing transgression is the use of indicators not like a polite cough to inform you of someone’s intention to move your way when they’re quite sure it would not be an imposition, but more like an unexpected rough shoulder-charge before you crash winded to the ground. Apparently in the years since I passed my driving test I missed the amendment of ‘give way’ to ‘barge as barge can!’ in the road rules.

Warm seats. Don’t tell me I’m crazy – my neurotic posterior and I already know it. There’s just something about sitting in a seat still warm from the buttocks of a stranger that makes me cringe. Call it an overly-sensitive delineation of personal space.

Poorly-constructed underpants. Without wishing to encourage any stray fetishist pervs that may have come across this post (and who are shortly to be bitterly disappointed), I must confess I tend to buy underpants of the inexpensive, plain cotton kind. It’s one of those purchases I can’t bring myself to spend more money on, even though in this extortionate, profit-driven world such a seemingly simple item is still subject to the maxim “Pay peanuts, get underpants sewn by monkeys.” I find the worst thing about cheap undies is gussets that don’t fit where they should, which is not life-alteringly terrible in itself, but what really annoys me is that several years ago that ghastly crone Jeanne Little opined on television that only fat cows with big bums experienced that problem.

Not being allowed to use the word ‘opined’ in Department of Meat Products reports. Apparently it’s considered by our customers to be too toffy. So to avoid rubbing our education (which was required for the job in the first place) in anyone’s easily baffled and offended face, we’re restricted to bland alternatives like ‘stated’ or ‘said’. This may explain my propensity to pomposity here in this blog…

Spurious and idiotic explanations of the origins of words like sh*t and f***. What kind of (unjustifiably) self-satisfied loser fabricates such tripe? The kind whose creativity is limited to obscene and repugnant fan-fiction, I suspect. Worse still those who believe and propagate ‘Store High In Transit’ or ‘Fornicating Under Consent of the King’ when a half-decent dictionary will set even the most brainless of knuckle-draggers straight on etymology.

Those stupid signs you see in workplace kitchenettes. You know, the printed ones blu-tacked above the sink or next to the microwave that exhort everyone to clean up after themselves because ‘Your mother doesn’t live here!’ or, ‘The housework fairy is on strike!’ I don’t know about you, but I go to the kitchen for a break, not for edicts from someone you just know is one of those bossy, annoyingly perky people who take such things upon themselves, and whom you fantasise about punching in their irritating toothy faces.

People who don’t change empty rolls of toilet and hand paper at work. Yes, we have regular cleaners through our office building, but it’s not their job to station themselves in the toilets constantly topping up supplies and drying everyone’s hands with fluffy white towels like some downtrodden American washroom boy. I frequently wonder what the culprits find so difficult about taking a new roll of t.p. from the neatly-stacked pile and replacing the one they’ve stripped bare save for a few fluttering scraps. And why can’t they take the ten necessary seconds to load the hand-towel dispenser instead of leaving the roll of paper to become sodden and useless by the sink? Don’t they realise their mothers don’t live there?

Infantile psychoanalysis. This is a long-nursed grievance which thankfully hasn’t troubled me afresh since school, when doing something as innocuous as wearing purple or idly peeling the label off a drink bottle set certain ninnies to air-headed giggling before informing one smugly that “You must be sexually frustrated!” At twelve years old? You braying buffoons! Freud, whom I’ve long suspected to have been little more than a dirty old man, has a lot to answer for.

When the work sucks,
When the fools goad,
When I’m feeling mad,
I simply blog about my least favourite things,
And then I don’t feel so ba-a-ad!

*Do I really need to state I don’t mean the singer?

A Valuable Lesson

What kind of intelligent, progressive human beings would we be if we failed to learn anything from Christmas? For example, I learned that I can only buy my husband so many watch fobs before he becomes exasperated at having to remind me for the tenth year in a row that he doesn’t actually own a pocket watch, and he learned that fancy hair-combs do nothing to improve the appearance of his wife’s newly-shorn locks.

I learned that, while my in-laws are unlikely ever to improve to a degree that I voluntarily seek out their society, with a lot of determination, effort and forbearance on my part, Christmas Day spent with them can actually be more bearable than I would have thought possible. Sure, they’re still going to swear like troopers, blaspheme like they haven’t just been to Christmas Mass, and scream like harpies in a most un-Christmassy manner. They’re still going to tell appalling so-called ‘jokes’ that aren’t funny in the least (one was about bringing my baby home from hospital and burying it in the back yard; another denigrated Jews and made light of the Holocaust). But, keeping in mind the promise I’d made to myself to try reeeeeeeally hard to get along with them on that of all days, I somehow managed to rise above the despair-inducing fug which emanates from them with each utterance.

I ignored the idiocy! With an iron will I kept my face a mask of impassivity! I initiated conversation! I chatted with the ill-mannered child, my niece! I managed a tolerable show of graciousness! I even smiled at the less offensive jests. And as if my unaccustomed efforts jolted the planets out of their normal courses into some rare alignment, my in-laws were seemingly less objectionable than usual.

Perhaps they responded subconsciously to my improved behaviour. Perhaps it was extraordinary luck the usual noxious stream of prattle remained largely dammed behind their teeth. Perhaps it was a Christmas miracle. All I can say is, I’m glad I’ve learned that maybe, just maybe, time spent with them doesn’t have to be such a trial after all, if I only try to be a (much) more tolerant person.

Just don’t ask me to try it too often – after all, Christmas comes but once a year.

A Return to Normal Programming

Christmas Day is over for another year; strife on earth and ill will to all men may now resume.

God Bless Us, Every One

I don’t usually write serious blog posts, mainly because I’m too ignorant to construct rational, reasoned and well-informed essays on important issues, or because I’m too selfish and self-centred and petty, or because earnestness and sincerity tend to seem trite and affected when my inadequate little brain tries to convert them into the written word. I’ll keep this short, then, and trust to your goodwill to regard this humble Christmas offering in a favourable light.

As hollow as it sounds to me, given that Christmas is a difficult time for more people than not, I wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a New Year filled with health and happiness.

Without wishing to pontificate on philanthropic gestures (Lord knows that would make me an insufferable hypocrite), this year I’m really going to try to be thankful for what I have, even down to spending the better part of Christmas Day with my (really) annoying (and not-usually-to-my-liking) in-laws. It’s a prospect which, though not exactly my preferred option, is a darn sight better than that facing many people at this time that all the corny movies and cynical ads rub in the faces of the lonely and bereaved as a time to spend with family. I will try and remember others who are less fortunate than I; in particular, L and T – God grant you comfort in your time of grief; my thoughts and prayers are with you.

Stay safe and happy, and God* bless us, every one.

P.S. Confused and disturbed by this uncharacteristic post? Normal posting (ie: meaningless, small-minded twaddle) will resume whenever I can stir my spreading derrière into action.

*Substitute with deity/life force/benevolent entity of your choice.

Christmas is a cruel time for the lonely

My poor, neglected blog. Who would you have to love you, if not me? If you're very lucky and very well-behaved, Father Christmas may bring you an early present of a new blog post, sometime during the 0.5 free days I have before Baby Polony makes an appearance.

In the meantime, rest well and dream of large statcounts.

An Explanation

I know I’ve been a bit quiet lately on the blogging front – I trust my hordes of devoted readers who check this site several times a day have managed to find a suitable substitute to console them in their empty hours, and stave off morbid contemplations of joining the Foreign Legion. You might be pleased to hear that I’ve been busy negotiating the unexpectedly generous publishing contract for my first novel which I’ve finally finished, and consulting with an architect to build a more spacious and better-constructed house for my growing family.

I’d be pleased to hear that too, if it were true. What’s really been commanding all my time and energy is my ongoing performance in a strange play called Lonie Polony and the Seven Dwarfs. It’s rather an avant-garde adaptation of the Disney movie, with a large chunk of Herman’s Head thrown in. There are no capering, patronising caricatures of short-statured men in my version; instead, the dwarfs are actually aspects of my own character which jostle and compete for dominance in a struggle destined to continue for several more weeks until the show’s run comes to its natural end and I reprise my role in Alien: It Burst From My Uterus.

There’s Happy, first to appear and ever-present, but frequently held down and red-bellied by his rowdier, more demanding brothers. There’s Sneezy, who exploits my lowered immunity and necessary abstinence from most medications to breathe in my face as often as possible, bringing with him the varied delights of hay fever and general unwellness. Bashful insisted that for the sake of accuracy, his name should be changed to Taciturn. He often appears in the company of Sleepy, Dopey and Grumpy, that unconquerable triad who, months ago, warned my husband to “stay off our turf, mofo!” before laughing at the vulgar literalness of their joke, and remaining in the ascendancy ever since.

And don’t forget Doc! He is the only dwarf incarnate in this production, and appears right at the end, in the labour ward scene. Played by a different actor every night (the script is very strict on this point), he nevertheless unfailingly strolls into the room just in time to deliver the placenta before pocketing his $3,000 fee.

What I’m trying to say, in my rather long-winded way, is this: expect fewer posts than ever – I’m trying to sleep. Expect dopier writing. Expect more sickness-induced self-pity. Expect more whining and complaining in general. You have been warned, so please, no chiding me for my bad attitude, or Grumpy and his boys will be around to red-belly YOU.

In Lazy News...IN YOUR FACE!

Sorry about that. What I meant to say was, "Thanks awfully chaps for your votes. I'm honoured and humbled to win one of Diesel's caption contests."

Now back to sleep...

Help Me, Doctor Freud!

It would appear, Doctor, I’m doomed to nine months of dreams which, while not nightmarish, are also not particularly pleasant. What perplexes me is, I can’t seem to discern any meaning in them, no relevance to my real life. In my latest dream, for example, which left me feeling decidedly angry and frustrated, I happened to be doing things that would never happen in real life, and I was hoping you could help me discover what it all means.

For one thing, I was holidaying at a fancy tropical resort, when in reality I’m working full time while gestating my third child under four. Secondly, I looked fabulous in a bikini although I’ve never been able to do justice to one in real life. Lastly, I was repeatedly slapping my mother-in-law. What can it possibly signify?

Oh…I’m sorry Sigmund, my mistake. It seems your psychoanalytical services are not required after all.

Meanwhile, in the Real World…

Smugly thinking to myself that at least there are some benefits to contracting yet another debilitating virus, which for the past week has left me incapable of much more than sleeping or lying catatonic on the couch, I blithely changed my baby’s horribly messy nappy with the confidence of the nasally-obstructed. I scraped the contents into the toilet, preparing to crow to my husband how relatively un-unpleasant the experience was compared to his latest nappy-related fiasco. And then I realised my finger was smothered in pooh.

Illness-blunted senses: a double-edged sword.

[Please forgive any errors or incoherence; I’m still non compos mentis. One day I’ll tell you why I dislike that phrase so much.]

Excuse Me, I'm Pregnant

There are several things I like about being pregnant: I can wear all those tops that have languished in my drawer, forlornly awaiting the miraculous day I achieve infomercial-worthy weight loss, because suddenly my rotund belly is no longer unsightly, but ‘beautiful’; I can ignore the fact that ‘eating for two’ is a deceptive and outdated concept, to justify eating two jam doughnuts in a sitting; I’m permitted – no, encouraged – to put my feet up instead of slaving for hours over cleaning chemicals and heavy washing baskets; and of course, a sweet little baby will soon pop out of my nicely pre-expanded birth canal.

Pregnancy being what it is, however, I’d be lying if I said there weren’t things I didn’t like about it. Sure, the closest I’ve come to Hollywood-movie morning sickness was my pregnancy-sensitised stomach rebelling violently at the taste of an envelope I’d just licked, or the couple of times my mouth decided my tooth-brushing made it too clean, and therefore ordered my breakfast to make an encore appearance. I’ve never had high blood pressure, swelling, varicose veins or haemorrhoids, or (thank merciful God) a cyst growing on top of a haemorrhoid, a phenomenon I’d never imagined in my most tortured nightmares before some woman gleefully volunteered that particular personal experience in my unwilling hearing. And while I do suffer with daily heartburn, seemingly constant low-grade illnesses from lowered immunity and the normal discomforts associated with foetal cells multiplying rapidly inside one’s uterus, it’s the invisible symptoms that seem to wreak the most havoc.

I’m talking about hormones, those insidious chemicals that have surged through my body like a tsunami of craziness, leaving me awash in aggression, irrationality and paranoia. At least this time I’m prepared for the occasional-to-frequent appearances of Mrs. Hyde, unlike during my first pregnancy when I angrily snubbed my entire bewildered family for two weeks until unburdening myself of exaggerated slights and grievances during a tearful accusatory phone call to my mother from the sick bay at work. Now I’m experienced enough to know that what seem like deliberate attempts by my family and friends to offend and anger me, probably aren’t. However, this realisation does nothing to appease the beast inside, a beast which scoffs at attempted restraint and even the outpourings of a vitriolic blog, instead demanding BLOOD! (or at least lots of swearing and rude hand gestures.)

So it is that I find myself yelling and cursing at other drivers on the road like I haven’t since my callow child-free days (only when the children aren’t in the car with me, of course – what do you think I am, one of those chigger mums whose children’s first word is ‘f***’?). Or I wallow in maudlin contemplation of horrible news stories I normally try to forget for the sake of my own sanity, and weep indulgently at tragedies in movies and books. I harbour resentment against perfectly nice people for causing mild negative effects on my life through no real fault of their own. I find irritants and insults and disdain for my condition in the actions of acquaintances and strangers alike. In short, I’m grumpy, irritable, scowling, bellicose and prone to flash-floods of tears, with none of the self-control a normal functioning adult member of society usually employs.

Yeah, pregnancy hormones. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Farewell, My Friend

It was only today in the doctor’s waiting room that I realised how serious your condition is: the etched wrinkles, the peeling skin, your dull and worn-out appearance. I can’t pretend it didn’t shock and sadden me, even though I’ve known for some time that our days together are coming to an end. It doesn’t seem fair – we met short years ago, and I thought we’d be together forever, but now I don’t even know whether we’ll see in the New Year together.

When first we met I felt an instant attraction, and we’ve been close companions ever since. I remember many an occasion you kept chill winds from me with your close embrace, and often it seemed your mere presence was enough to comfort me on days of grey and gloom. Whenever we were out in public I always felt so proud of you – you drew so many admiring stares and compliments, and by association made me look and feel great. Now, because of your delicate condition, we don’t go out much anymore.

I fear it won’t be long until our memories of happy times will be the only things we have left to share. Each time I study you, trying not to let my concern show, you seem older, more fragile and too tired to carry on. Perhaps the worst aspect of your sad degeneration is my complete futility and utter inability to prevent or even slow the cruel process. The only thing I can offer you is this promise: even when your life is over, I will keep you with me always, and no one shall ever replace you.

How could they? You were the best fake leather coat a girl could have.

Spakfilla

Complain…whinge…moan…

…“Nobody cares!” I want to scream at my in-laws during their incessant chatter…mutter…backstab…

…Rant…self-pity…grumble…

…My boss exclaims over how sick I am but stops short of sending me home…

…Whine…pout…refuse to count my blessings…

There. Now no-one will notice the lack of a proper blog post.

Queen Victoria’s Joke Book

Q: How did Lonie Polony spend her hard-earned day off?
A: Sick and miserable at home, looking after her sick child.

Q: Why was the baby bathed clutching two large balloons on sticks?
A: Because the sick and miserable mother could better endure a couple of eye-pokes here and there, than the inevitable tantrum.

Q: What’s the difference between a pig and a polony?
A: A pig wallows in mud, a Polony wallows in self-pity.

We are not amused.

Lonie Polony and the Vomiting Toilet of Plot-spoilers

What kind of perverse people derive pleasure from spoiling the enjoyment of others? Who vaingloriously posts on the internet pre-release copies of long-awaited books they’ve acquired through underhand means, and then sits back, a complacent smile on their face, expecting – what, congratulations? The kudos such people seem to think is attached to knowing something before the vast majority of others do? The same kind of people as tag-happy graffitists and knuckle-dragging vandals, that’s who; people who know deep down under all their blubber-like layers of self-absorption and arrogant façades of disdainful superiority that they are such talentless and unpromising losers they are unlikely ever to achieve anything of worth. People who calculate with the meagre brainpower apportioned to them that their sole chance of making any sort of mark is to deface and despoil the work of others.

Thankfully, the day has finally arrived when I can cloister myself away from smug morons and mean-spirited ‘news’ stories from networks trying to trump their rivals. I’m safe from people who accidentally-on-purpose remark in public at three times their normal speaking volume they never saw it coming that

THE DUMBLEDORE WHO DIED IN HALF BLOOD PRINCE WAS ABERFORTH, NOT ALBUS! Or

PERCY IS DUMBLEDORE’S DEEP-COVER AGENT IN THE MINISTRY! Or

NEVILLE WAS ‘THE CHOSEN ONE’ ALL ALONG, BUT DIES FROM WOUNDS INFLICTED BY BELLATRIX AND VOLDEMORT JUST SECONDS BEFORE HIS PARENTS REGAIN THEIR WITS!

But there’s only so long I can impose a blanket media ban in our house and shun public society. Hmm…

Can’t post – reading.

A Growing Family Business

Lonie™ Polony is pleased to announce the imminent release of a new product currently in development.

As with all Lonie™ Polony lunchmeats, our customers can be assured of the highest standards of quality, taste and visual appeal – and of course, our famous ‘100% rectum free’ guarantee applies.

Look for the latest addition to our Lonie™ Polony range in early January 2008!

An Impostor In My Midst

I’ve been back at my job at the Department of Meat Products for just over three months now, and I think the nightly dreams about work are finally abating. The intrusion of tedious real life into the realm of fantasy was quite tiring for a while – it was difficult to feel refreshed after a night spent contemplating the ingredients of various lunchmeats, and composing media releases assuring the public that, contrary to recent scaremongering, polonium-210 is not an ingredient of polony.

It seems, however, that the mingling of the mundane and the fanciful is not a unidirectional flow, because lately I’ve noticed odd things happening in my office, as if the lovechild of Gumby and Thursday Next has been strolling around in the Harry Potter books displacing random characters and scenarios in a fit of plasticine pique.

Snape has been wandering our corridors for some time, although I’m pretty sure she’s not an embittered sadist of uncertain allegiance, with a penchant for black and an inadequate hair-care regimen. Then there’s L’Estrange, but I think he’s probably a lot more reasonable and easy to work with than a slightly unhinged, murderous fugitive. We even have a Justin Finch-Fletchley, or at least that’s how I’ve secretly thought of the poor boy ever since I discovered his name was Justin Fossington-Bligh or some such mouthful.

What’s really discombobulating is that someone seems to have cast a rather powerful Confundus Charm over my colleagues and supervisors, such that they seem to think I’m possessed of attributes that make me want to look over both shoulders before asking, “Who, me?”

“You’re a real people-person!” one supervisor enthused at a compulsory feedback session, while I tried to keep from scoffing audibly at his kind but obviously ill-informed praise. I always thought being a people-person meant you had to like people, and enjoy dealing with them on a regular basis, rather than being a solitude-loving homebody who writes vicious personal diatribes on an anonymous blog.

“You’re a very eloquent speaker,” a co-worker assured me after I confessed my nerves over upcoming talks my boss seemed (erroneously) to think I was qualified to give. This time I could not keep the scornful disbelief off my face. Had she not heard my last disastrous work address, during which the whole auditorium laughed at something I intended to be perfectly serious? Had she not witnessed me stuttering awkwardly to strangers at job-related functions, trying and failing to appear erudite by using words such as ‘panacea’, only to have them pause momentarily before gently correcting me to ‘placebo’? Of course not, or she’d never have uttered such an untruth.

Then there was this statement which issued, unfacetious and apropos of nothing, from the mouth of my befuddled boss: “You’re always so cheerful in the mornings!”

It was on hearing this that I knew with certainty something was awry in the Department of Meat Products. Seemingly the only one left clear-headed and rational, it is therefore left to me to ask:

Who am I, and what have I done with the real Lonie Polony?