A New Adventure

So, exciting news in the world of Little Stalky.  Mystical Roo, Little Stalky and Monster Noggin are moving to Sydney!  Mystical Roo, Little Stalky and Monster Noggin are moving to Sydney...this weekend!  Holy pigeon!  Yes, we've been hunting for a while and have today been given the OK on an apartment.  This has been the cause for much celebration because for the past few weeks we've been anxiously biting our finger and toe nails as we desperately searched for a home.  I don't know if anyone has tackled the rental market in Sydney but it's a complete nightmare.  The people seem to outnumber the rental properties by about twenty to one, making it hugely competitive and highly stressful.  The last month or so has seen us driving all the way to Sydney to run from property to property as we tried to catch each fifteen minute viewing window, all the time watching over our shoulders for "the woman in the grey tights".  Mystical Roo could possibly qualify as a stunt driver for all the  impressive weaving and parking he's done in a city that doesn't appear to be designed for cars.  We've seen the good, the bad and the smelly and the relief we now feel at actually having somewhere to live is indescribable.  So, Stalky fans, it will soon be the beginning of a new chapter in Little Stalky world as Little Stalky and the gang tackle the big city.  Can you imagine the adventures?  Can you imagine the chaos?  Now, I need to start packing because I haven't done anything and we move on Friday.  No pressure!   

Laughing in Your Sleep

There are a number of things that might wake me up of a night: bad dream, noisy drunk, need to pee, too hot, too cold, phone going off.  Sometimes, it's Mystical Roo that wakes me up.  He snores on the odd occasion and has once or twice nearly pushed me out of bed.  He claims he was asleep the time his arm connected with my face but I still have my suspicions.  Any hoo, stuff wakes me up.  But the other night was a first when I woke up to the sound of laughter.  Blurry as ever when being woken up in the middle of the night it took me a while to work out what was going on.  Laughing drunks?  No, it was in the bedroom.  TV left on?  No, not that.  Mystical Roo?  Ah ha.  Yes, Mystical Roo was laying on his side and laughing his head off.  What I couldn't fathom was what Mystical Roo had found so funny.  And why was he laughing so loudly when I was trying to sleep!  I wondered if Mystical Roo had received a late night text message, a joke or a humorous video.  But in the grey I could just about make out his phone sat on the bedside table.  Had Mystical Roo had an insanely funny dream?  I was awake enough by this point to actually question him.  I gently asked him why he was laughing.  His response? "In the club."  This made no sense to me so I asked him again, only to get the same response.  Two things went through my mind at this point.  1)  Was he referring to the infamous 50 Cent tune "In Da Club" or 2) was he still tittering after watching an episode of "The Inbetweeners" that saw them in a club.  I was confused and it was only when I realised that both Mystical Roo's laughter and response made little sense that I deduced that he was indeed laughing in his sleep.  Not talking or screaming like a normal person but laughing. Oh well, at least he's happy when he's asleep.

Little Stalky's Number Seven

I've come to realise that grumpy old men - and I mean grumpy old men very specifically - have major issues with my handwriting.  I'd like to point out that I'm not being sexist, ageist or moodist and I'm not saying it's every grumpy old man out there, but there are certain grumpy old man who have been complaining, to me, about my handwriting.  So you're wondering what this is about?  How is my handwriting causing offence?  It's specifically when I write out access codes for these grumpy old men to use to open the gate.  I give them a six digit number, written in nice bold numbers in a big black marker.  Yes, my handwriting is not the best but these numbers are more than legible.  The main beef (this is a technical term) that they seem to have is with my use of the number seven.  It's because I write my sevens with a cross - you know, the European seven.  I've always done it this way and feels it helps to differentiate between a seven and a one.  The amount of grumpy old men who point this out is getting ridiculous.  They make such a fuss about it that anyone would have thought I'd written in a foreign language.  Just for fun.  The weird thing is that no one else has a problem with my sevens.  Every other person is fine.  It is only the grumpy old men.  They like to use the seven to try and put me down.  They point at it and sneer before questioning what it is.  They look at it, knowing full well it's a seven, before asking rudely why I write my sevens in such a silly manner.  They squint at the card and hold it in my face before demanding to know what number the seven is.  It's a seven!  You fool!  I can accept that perhaps there are people who've never seen a European seven but is there any need to be rude about it.  Do you have to bring attention to the girl standing behind reception just because you disagree with the way she writes her sevens.  Someone even pulled me up on my number two (stop giggling) the other day.  He literally scowled at me and demanded to know what "that" was.  I politely replied that it was a number two, to which he told me it looked nothing like it.  It bloody well did look like a two.  He needed to get his eyes checked.  So I get picked on a lot for my number sevens.  The number two was a one off.  But I refuse to submit to their tactics.  I will write the number seven how I want to write the number seven and I will not conform to their tyrannical, number inhibiting ways.

Little Stalky's Leg

Who knew that taking the rubbish out could be such a dangerous experience?  Not I!  But apparently it is, as I found out when I was attacked by something unidentified and pointy just the other day.  There I was, innocently taking out the rubbish on my way to work.  The rucksack was on, the headphones were in and the sun was shining.  All was fine in the land of Little Stalky until I swung the bag up to throw it in the bin and felt a painful scratch across my thigh.  I looked down and saw a long mark across my leg.  There was a pause - that moment when you hold your breath and wait to see how deep it is - and then blood started to flow.  I'm a little bit squeamish about seeing my own blood but oddly enough the only thought I had at that point was "oh dear, I'm going to be late for work."  Having dumped the offending bag I was torn between "walking it off" and dashing upstairs for a plaster.  As it turned out walking it off was not going to be an option as it was bleeding quite a lot.  I cursed the bin bag, ran upstairs and grabbed the medical supplies - a couple of plasters shoved in an empty ice cream tub.  I washed the wound, slapped on a mountain of Savlon and covered my leg in one, two, three, four plasters.  I figured that should do the trick until I got to work and could complain to the girls about my injury.  So I took off, walking faster than normal to make up for lost time and arrived at work without losing the leg.  Luckily for me there was not one but two first aiders on that morning and they both took a look at the leg.  Then everyone else in the office looked at the leg.  Then the postman arrived and looked at the leg.  My left leg got almost as much attention as Angelina Jolie's leg did at the Oscars.  The wound was rubbed with alcohol (that stings), rubbed with iodine and then covered in a much more substantial plaster.  I felt satisfied that the wound had been taken care of until both first aiders told me I would need a tetanus shot.  Really?  It was just a scratch.  It wasn't even that deep.  But the wound was inflicted by an unknown source - it could have been a bin bag dwelling shark - and it was best to be on the safe side.  So what do you do when you're unsure of whether to heed this advice?  You ring your mum, who is not only your mum but who also was once a nurse.    You will accept her answer as definitive.  So when your mum tells you to get the tetanus shot, you grudgingly accept that after the simple task of taking the rubbish out you now need to get a needle stuck in your arm.  I'm never putting the rubbish out again.  

Sea Scuzz

I went for a surf on Sunday with Mystical Roo and Monster Noggin and was quite frankly shocked at the state of the ocean.  It was filthy.  It was a beautiful sunny day and normally the water is crystal clear but on Sunday it was brown and muddy.  There was scuzz (an official term) floating on the surface and just foam everywhere.  Mystical Roo and Monster Noggin informed me that this was because of all the rain we'd had.  The rain water collects pollutants off the surface and then it all drains back into the ocean.  A week of heavy rain has therefore caused scuzz and foam.  Disgusting.  But that didn't stop us going in.  Because apparently we're disgusting.  There were so many people out there I figured it couldn't be that bad.  Actually, it was quite rank and after about half an hour I decided to go and sun myself instead.  Unable to get past the waves and out into the deep (because I am too small and weak) I was just getting smashed in the face with wave after wave of foam.  And as much as I tried to keep myself up and on the board the inevitable happened and I went under water.  I went under the foam and face first into the brown murky water.  Nasty.  But not as nasty as the kids who were playing in the foam.  They were rolling in it, picking it up and throwing it, bathing in it.  I took Watson and made a swift exit.  There's really only one place for foam and that's on top of a beer.

Little Stalky Likes the Leopard Print

It's stylish and practical 

Stalky fans may be aware that I am a lover of all things leopard print.  I know leopard print can be seen as tacky and I know that there are some less than appealing stereotypes of leopard print wearing folk out there but I like to think that my use of leopard print has it's own Stalky style.  And leopard print has been an integral part of many Stalky adventures.  Who can forget the leopard print umbrella (LPU) numbers 1 and 2, both of which perished in horrible storms.  Or what about my leopard print wellingtons that have proved essential in the declogging of drains and the unflooding of balconies.  In other non weather related leopard print adventures, I enthused over how Google Chrome let me customise my browser with it's own leopard print design. Hell, even the blog has leopard print.  I have leopard print swimwear, leopard print dresses, leopard print scarves and shawls.  I have leopard print shoes and I once even purchased some leopard print tissues, though these were sent to another leopard print lover, Bear Z, as a gift.  Yes, I send tissues in the post as gifts.  My latest addition to the leopard print family is a leopard print phone cover, which not only protects my cool new phone but makes it stylish too.  One day I think I'm going to put on my leopard print bikini, my leopard print wellingtons, my leopard print shoes and my leopard print scarf, whilst making a phone call on my leopard print phone, writing a leopard print inspired blog on my leopard print themed blog on my leopard print themed browser.  I know what you're thinking.  Is this what I'm doing right now?  Am I sat here typing in a bikini?  Well, no.  It's bloody freezing to be honest.  All I have to do now is invest in some leopard print bedsheets.  Mystical Roo is willing to cut a deal.  Leopard print bedsheets get the thumbs up if he can have some Norwich bedsheets.  What a stylish pair we shall be.

Little Stalky's Over Active Imagination

Do you ever have moments in the shower when you totally freak yourself out?  Like you're stood there, thinking about nothing more important than what to have for lunch when all of sudden, out of nowhere, your brain starts remembering scary details of horror films.  And you remember that people in horror films get attacked in showers.  And then you realise that you're home alone.  And the wind is whistling.  And the rain is raining.  And the door creaks.  All of this is happening and you've got shampoo in your eyes, so you can't open your eyes because it will sting but you really want to open your eyes because all you can imagine is someone stalking towards you with a knife, gun, axe, pitchfork.  So you rinse the shampoo in record time and open your eyes only to realise that you have a really, really over active imagination.  Or is that just me?  Because this has happened to me on more than one occasion and I really spook myself.  I don't even know where I get these ideas from and maybe I should start locking the bathroom door but then I think I'd be imagining someone shimmying in through the skylight.  The skylight that doesn't open.  But still.  I was thinking about this because the other day I had an extreme freak out.  I was showering, as you do, pondering not very much at all, when I heard the door creak.  Of course there was shampoo in my eyes at this point and of course I started wondering if there was a stalker at large.  Mystical Roo was at work, I was alone and the door was unlocked.  We all know that I get randomers opening my front door - who's to say that one of them didn't make it all the way up the stairs.  So I set about rinsing the shampoo but wouldn't you know it, something really did make a lunge for me.  I felt it - on the back of my leg (obviously some evil being had snuck into the shower without me hearing it)  a kind of wet, rough hand followed by a sharp grazing sensation.  Obviously, someone with manky hands was going for my ankles with a blade.  Obviously.  Or, when I finally opened my eyes, an exfoliating glove and my razor had toppled and hit me on their way to the floor.  Yes, that's right everyone, I was attacked by an exfoliating glove and a razor.  It was the exfoliating glove, in the shower, with the razor.  Will my adventures never end.