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A La Solo - February 2007

Crying Over Misspelt Milk

The only thing worse than spelling mistakes is deliberate misspellings. I hate it. How can you expect kids to learn correct spelling when a "Drive Through" is always a "Drive Thru?" Oh dear, I just revealed I’m a spelling-Nazi. It gets worse all the time. I was walking past a blackboard menu outside a cafe and I almost stopped to rub out an unnecessary letter. If I were a super-hero I would stalk the streets in a stiff cardigan and a pair of sensible shoes, wielding a giant liquid paper pen.

Sometimes, I think the drugs were still wearing off at the time of signing the birth certificate. One child I know has been named, "Blade". With a name like that he has little choice but to become a superhero. Another day a young American came handed me a form with only one letter for his first name. I handed it back and said, "We need your full name there." He smiled and replied, "That is my full name." There could never be an adequate explanation for this. The only thing I could imagine was that his parents fantasized about their boy growing up to be a James Bond movie character.


Princess Mary is really missing out at the moment - the royal baby name book is pretty slim. From what I hear you basically take any name that's been used before, pick your favourite, then put the others after it in descending order of preference. It must be a weight off her mind. Other mums agonise over whether to name their child after fruit, exotic flowers or baking ingredients. I know has named their child Anacki and I like it. If you are going to identify your child's most distinguishable trait then the highest state of social chaos is highly appropriate. I hope she names her next child "Kaos" and he or she gets a doctorate someday. Til’ then, I’ll keep correcting my spellchecker.
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Come Over To My Place

There is one book in my entire childhood that captured my imagination more than any other. I was reminded of it recently while housesitting for a friend. It was called, "Come Over To My Place" and it detailed how a young boy is invited to other children's homes all over the world. The illustrations of lying in a South Pacific hammock or on a Japanese mat or squeezing into an igloo stirred a desperate desire in me to experience how other people live. While I have been blessed with a few trips overseas and had the opportunity to live as others do I still have to deal with the humdrum time that begins when I sorrowfully step out of Brisbane airport and into a waiting car headed for home.


Fortunately I've stumbled on the traveller's equivalent of the nicotine patch - housesitting. It's a magical key into people's haven where you can experience their perspective on domestic comfort. Of course it has its hazards, at the moment I'm caring for two dogs whose special skill is to spring over the fence and run away when I least expect it. To make things worse, one dog is on heat and makes sounds that would make an exorcist jumpy. This morning I was crouched in the cold rain begging her to come out from her hiding place to allow me to tether her so I could go to work. She curled up and looked at me with hurt in her eyes as if she knew that I was trying to pull the plug on her party.

I have sworn that if the little bitch has puppies I won't be held responsible...
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