Right. A web site. O-kaaaay.
It seems it’s one of those things you do, right? Like in the ‘60s you got a pixie
cut and a miniskirt, then graduated to bellbottoms and platform shoes, litres of
mascara and the Mary Quant/Vidal Sassoon geometric look. In the ‘70s you
wore trailing embroidered muslin gowns that reeked of patchouli, tried smoking
dope (but didn’t inhale) and moved in with your boyfriend. Forget the ‘80s --
dull, dull, dull, working was serious shit and no-one actually listened to disco
music, did they, hey? Answer me that. The ‘90s were all about PCs and mobile
phones, cruising the Information Superhighway (remember when they actually
called it that?) and discovering that banal is banal in any medium.
So here I am. I KNOW every semi-literate 12 year old already has their own
web page, and no-one else bothers unless they’ve got something to sell or,
occasionally, something rilly rilly interesting, useful, funny or grotesque to share
with the world. (Oh, not forgetting pornographers, sad men with little weenies
and government departments, of course). I never claimed to be on the cutting
edge of social revolution.
JUST THE FACTS, MA’AM
My name’s Vicki and I live in Ipswich, Queensland (yes,
Australia, that’s right).
I’m 49, and married to Tony, 60, a former Englishman (about
whom I intend to say little, silly old sod). We have two daughters now aged 26 and 24 (or at least I
do, but Tony has been their dad for 20-something years and I intend to say even
less about their biological father), one delightful grandson
(have I mentioned my grandson?), two dogs who are neither use nor ornament,
a cockatiel called Cartman, a growing number of assorted fish and, grudgingly, a cat.
Tony drives a cab. I work on a casual/consulting basis for the goverment
disability service, after giving up fulltime work with them several years ago
(more on that later). Apart from occasional paid work, I share the care of my
grandson (have I mentioned him?) with his dad -- they both with live with Tony
and me: read a lot: muck about with the computer (nothing clever, sorry, just a
terminal user or whatever you call them): sew a bit: do stuff with my family: doodle around with this and
that...cripes, what DO I do all day? Dunno really. At 48, I’ve earned the right
to indulge in a little pointless time-wasting whimsy. So there.
DESCRIPTIVE BLURB
And so here. What IS in here?
[Pause to rummage in pile of old envelopes and
scraps torn from notebooks]...Well, there’s a bit about me, of course: you can
skip that bit, I won’t mind a jot, truly. It’s okay, I’m a mother, I’m used to
being ignored, discarded and taken for granted. You go on ahead without me,
I’ll be fine...
Oh, you want to see some pictures of my kids?? Sure, great, I just happen to
have a couple of dozen here...I’m sure I saw them just the other day...in that
box the toaster came in, maybe -- the one over there next to the laser printer
that’s too expensive to fix but too good to throw away. ‘Sokay, I know I can lay
my hands on them, just give me a sec.
(Hey, while you’re waiting, take a look at my gorgeous grandson, only the
smartest and best-looking kid in the known universe. Ah bless! Isn't he just
precious? (Oh alright, stop gagging)...What, you want to see a picture of my husband? You jest. Hmmph,
all right, if you must, I believe there’s a reasonably well-preserved
daguerreotype of him somewhere in that shoebox with the ones of the rest of the
family. Prepare to be overcome with disappointment, and don’t say I didn’t warn
you).
PERIMENOPAUSAL THEMES AND FUNCTIONALITY/DYSFUNCTIONALITY MOTIFS
IN THE MIDDLE PERIOD WORKS OF THE AUTHOR: Tired Clichés as Tired Clichés
for Life, the Universe and Monumental Tedium
They say every web site should have a theme...
...(and they, as you well know, will
say damned near anything). So I have a theme. Work it out for yourself. As to
how I got this way, I have cunningly provided a Great Big Clue -- several, in
fact.
There’s a bunch of other stuff tucked away in here as well. What I did on my
summer holidays. Gratuitous advice (take it or leave it, I won’t care -- much.
No, really). Secret Big Sisters'’ Business. Hints on Skills Every Girl is Sure to
Need, and a few others besides. Mumblings, rants, dreadful verse, you know, like that.
A WOMAN OF MANY AND MANIFEST TALENTS
If you want to give me job (minimal hours, work from home, embarrassingly
munificent salary only, please) -- you can trust me. Really.
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