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Your worst nightmare

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My Form 3 science teacher in country Victoria used to constantly regale us with his favourite life observation;
"There are two stinking cities in the world, and Melbourne is BOTH  of them."

I vividly remember this little piece of trivia, whereas the finer details he taught of Archimedes experiments in bathtubs has suffered, well…….. displacement.

We were never provided with empirical evidence or statistical data in support of the "Melbourne Hypothesis". 
Perhaps he was simply, during childhood, belted around the ears a lot in that city, or maybe, in love, he lost a Melbourne girl who went on to become Miss Australia 1958.

Over the years I have become a subscriber to his religion, whilst broadening the parameters somewhat to include every settlement in the world with a population over……oh, let's say 50.  
They are not places I would ever by choice want to live. 

The time has come however for me to adopt a more realistic view, for one day I may need the convenience of city services to comfortably live the final chapter of my life.

The reality is that living at GOF's Paradise requires a minimum level of physical fitness.   Being responsible for your own housing, transport, water, and energy supplies brings with it a certain workload of continual maintenance. 
There is no-one to call to "fix it".  You have to do it yourself.

Refrigeration, for example, only happens after driving 100 km to buy some 60 kg gas cylinders, then manhandling and connecting them to the plumbing.

Our isolated location also means that there will be no volunteer organisations offering to help us out with life in our senior years.

Globet (our daughter…aka Inga…..for newcomers) has been charged with the responsibility of ensuring that GOF makes a timely and dignified transition into civilisation.
She will argue till the cows come home that "dignity" and "GOF" are two incompatible items, but nevertheless, if, one day she moves me in next door to you, wherever you are in the world, I plan to be a thoughtful and considerate neighbour.

Please let us be kind to each other, otherwise the old reprobate inside me might just decide to start learning to play the bagpipes.

At 4 am.

With my windows wide open.

Starting with this version of AC/DC's Thunderstruck;

(Vox is having a hissy fit and refuses to load Youtube link normally)


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Damn!, I can smell Soylent Green biscuits

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Monumental achievements in life deserve appropriate recognition.

For Olympic athletes, it is standing on top of the podium, a gold medal weighing heavily against the chest, receiving adulation from the world, and a sloppy kiss on the cheek or a limp sweaty handshake from some prehistoric foreign sporting dignitary.

Last year, as a reward for clocking up the prescribed number of years tolerating my fellow humans without killing even a single one of them, I was rewarded by my Government with a beautifully crafted gold and white chunk of plastic called a "Seniors Card".

Somehow I think I deserved more.

Perhaps a gold watch, an audience with Elle, a portfolio of natural gas shares, (an industry to which I could give back as well as receive), or a personalised tour of Rio's Carnivale with Megan McCormick.

My "Old Farts Card" is however rapidly proving to be a passport to early death.

When I buy a cup of coffee from a certain franchise shop, my OFC automatically entitles me to 3 free donuts.

Over the years I have selflessly compiled with all my usual research diligence, for the benefit of all humanity, a sliding-scale list of substances which, when ingested into the human body, are guaranteed to cause death.  Donuts rate as Number 5.

1. Nuclear waste
2. Agent Orange herbicide
3. Nicotine
4. Salami
5. Donuts
6. Lead fishing sinkers

 Incontrovertible fact.   
(Kids, please feel free to use this information in school projects. Your teacher may or may not reward you with an A+ for discovering the motherlode of truth.)

My newly acquired classification of ancienthood also entitles me to discounted admission to my multiplex cinemas, but I refuse to accept the invitation because I just happen to know what the devious grand plan is.

They deliberately schedule screenings of historic romantic flicks like "Gone with the Wind", "Breakfast at Tiffanys" or "Debbie does Dallas" to lure all us spent old souls into one cinema, then fill it up via the airconditioning system with every single swine flu organism they can suck out of the younger patrons at the other 4 cinemas.

It might just be my imagination, but sometimes when I am walking downwind of the theatres I swear I can detect the sweet aroma of freshly baked Soylent Green biscuits wafting on the breeze.

("Soylent Green" is an old movie starring Charlton Heston, with storyline set in New York in the year 2022 when the city has a population of 40 million.
Older citizens are euthanased and their corpses used as ingredients in Soylent Green biscuits, the only affordable food left in an overpopulated world, where only the rich can afford proper food.)

This is just a message of courtesy for my supportive little community of vox friends who regularly choose to punish their intelligence by reading all my rubbish.
I am going to have a break away from blogging for a little while, starting in around two minutes from now.
There is a half acre of weeds growing in my plant nursery that apparently no-one else is going to remove.
I am also feeling the need to spend more time meditatively walking around the places I love in my National Park.

If this Scrap Bucket nonsense has not resumed by the end of September, you may safely conclude that GOF has been turned into a biscuit.


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