We were sitting in Tilleys eating potato wedges and there happened to be Darryl Braithwaite doing a soundcheck. He's somewhat grey now but still of golden tonsils.

"Well there you go, Mumsy. You come here for coffee and you get a free concert."

"Yes! I've seen him before. In the Sherbert days. And so have you! In utereo. You were rockin' along in there with a rhythmic kick."

"Well, howzat."

Now that Rhi is teaching classes, she's bonding with the Mothership on a whole new level. She's tough but the students love her, they call her Miss even though she's their age or younger. Mum had proud tears in her eyes when Rhi told her that some of the kids have nicknamed her "No Mercy".

They talked about teaching styles and cirriculums and somethings and something elses. La la la. I sat quietly playing Snake on my phone, watching stray dogs out the window (why are there so many dogs in Lyneham?).

I eventually butted in to say, "I have a staple remover. It is yellow and shiny."

Then it was out to Gold Creek for The Chicken Shop. It has other crafty ye old homewares but for the Mothership it is primarily The Chicken Shop. We hid in the car while she picked up her layby. A patchwork Santa doll, a patchwork Snowman doll and a framed chicken painting. She unwrapped her purchases on the hood of the car, hopping from one foot to the other, shouting through the windscreen, "Look at his cute little carrot nose! Look at that stitching! Don't you wish it was Christmas now so we could hang these up?"

"No."

On the way back we were updated on The Continuing Saga Of The Lack Of Toilets At The School (official title) which she claimed, "would make a great story for your website" however I don't think kindergarten kids with crossed legs and pained expressions queuing up for Port-A-Loos is that interesting.

Finally we heard the sad tale of a friend who is taking care of an ailing mother. The old duck has had an operation for every bit of her body and the daughter has had to drive her to the hospital and nurse her back to health every time, while the other two sibilings haven't lifted a finger.

"Well that's bloody slack. Why aren't the others helping?"

"Oh I don't know. They're good for nothing. She's doing it all!"

"I hope she'll be rewarded for her good deeds!"

"In the next life, you mean?"

"Nooo, in her mother's will!"

"Shauna! She is doing it for the love of her mother!"

"Well, I'm not sure that would be enough incentive for me!"

Imagine my surprise when I discovered yesterday there was such a thing as a staple remover. For years I've painstakingly plucked with my fingernails. But there's this little contraption with fearsome teeth that yoinks the staple out for you. Amazing. I found myself stapling random pieces of paper together, just so I'd have some staples to remove.

I had nine paper jams yesterday afternoon. I know the photocopier sees me coming and cackles to itself, Ahh ha ha, look at this amateur. That bloody machine has far too many orifices for paper to hide in.

As I dismantled and declogged, I thought of paper jams and how there's so really many types of paper jam. Like the pulpy kind you spread on your toast. It keeps you regular. Or when there's a whole bunch of tired notebooks and Post-Its™ driving home from work and the roads get all congested. Or when the ream of A4 calls up his old highschool buddy the legal pad and they get together with drums and guitars in their garage. Paper jam.

Before every meal I look down at the food and say a small prayer. Please allow me to get through through this feast without half of it leaping onto my chest.

It never turns out like that. I try to eat carefully, only loading the fork with small amounts, raising it to my mouth at snail's pace. But I'll laugh at something or my mind will wander, and next thing I look down to see I am wearing broccoli or a hunk of icecream. Many meals end with me yelping fuck fuck fuck and pulling off my shirt as I run for the laundry and my trusty can of Preen Stain Remover.

One day we were eating Whizz Fizz and I blissfully shovelled sherbet with that stupid plastic spoon and noone pointed out until way later, Hey you've got it on your boob.

I once knew a guy who got so tired of me being a slob that he suggested I not bother getting dressed and stay wrapped in my towel to eat breakfast, so I could just jump right back into the shower to clean up. Patronising ass.

It's not just with the eating of food, the preparation is even worse. For the three and half years I slaved for Colonel Sanders in high school, I was continually smothered in eleven secret herbs and spices. When I later toiled in a fish and chippie, flour and oil and flour would mysteriously weld themselves to my face and shoes. At least when I worked in a coffee shop, the mess smelled so earthy and vaguely chocolatey.

Today it was laksa at Asian Noodle House and I showcased my awkwardness with the chopsticks. Just take it easy, I told myself. I stabbed at the squishy tofu and slowly reeled in the noodles. But I lost control of the chopstick. It flew across to the next table and landed on someone's shoe with a plasticky clink at the same time I schlooooped up the noodles. Dots of spicy liquid pelted my t-shirt like tiny gunfire.

"You wouldn't want to have laksa on a first date, would you?" commented my dining companion. "It's not particularly elegant."

At this rate, I won't have to worry. By the time my next first date rolls around, I will be toothless and batty and we'll have to be chaperoned by a nice young nurse who will feed me spoon by spoon. And I can legitimately wear a bib.

CANBERRA, AAP -- Local blogging identity Miss Shauny was coaxed down from a tall building today after receiving the seventeenth rejection letter in her fruitless quest for a new job.

"This one really gutted me," said the distraught Braddon resident. "I've been looking since January and this time I dared to dream. Thirty-five applicants and I actually managed to get an interview, I prepared like crazy and thought I had it in the bag."

After receiving her rejection letter, Miss Shauny went to Telstra Tower where she stood on the viewing deck and bellowed "Goodbye cruel world" to anyone who would listen, dangling her toes over the edge.

Her deranged cries were heard by two Japanese tourists who notified Tower staff. After three hours of intense negotiations and use of megaphones, Miss Shauny was lured from her perch with the promise of chocolate and an agreement that Channel 10 would reduce its screenings of Everybody Loves Raymond by 75 percent.

Representatives from the interview panel were hesitant to comment on why Miss Shauny was not offered the position; a web developer role in an unnamed large government building located on the shores of Lake Burley Griffin that resembles a poor man's Parthenon and houses a shitload of books.

"While Miss Shauny believes we don't want her because she is untalented, unattractive and incapable, there's more to it than that. Let's just say that we get a lot of people applying for jobs here purely because they always wanted to shag in a library and see this as their chance. She has that look about her."

Meanwhile, the secretarial world rejoiced at the news that they would not be losing one of their brightest new talents.

"She is really coming along with that Excel," said an anonymous source. "And today she learned how to change the toner cartridge on the printer and only got a small amount of ink on her clothes. We all gathered round and clapped politely."

"Miss Shauny, you have nice skin. I would love to have skin like yours."

"But you have really perky tits!"*

"Yes, well, but... I'd much rather have your nice skin."

"Nooo! Perky tits beats nice skin every time!"

"Nooo! I don't think so!"

"I'll trade you my beautiful skin for your beautiful boobies."

Why can't people ever be happy with what they've got?

* I was drunk.

"Why would you want to go to Vietnam for?"

"It's a popular tourist destination, mother. Its a beautiful country. And affordable."

"But what would you do there?"

"Oh I don't know. Crawl through some Viet Cong tunnels. Step on some landmines."

"Are you being facetious? Oh, hang on a minute..."

Her head cocks to one side like a magpie, eyes narrowing. She has spotted one of her students, out shopping with its parents. She darts across the crowded K-Mart, slipping into Teacher Mode as effortlessly and comfortably as a granny sliding into slippers and dressing gown on a winter evening.

Out come the wild gesticulations, the booming classroom voice, the wide sparkling smile. Well! How are you today, Fred? And how are Mr and Mrs Fred? Out doing a spot of shopping are we? Enjoying the first day of your holidays? Recharge those batteries Fred coz we've got an exciting Term 3 coming up!

"Look at her there in PR mode. Schmoozing. Being at one with the children."

"She's like Jesus."

Moments later she bounds back right into the conversation.

"Anyway, I've decided that if you really want to go to Vietnam, I'm not going stand in your way."

"What is this, 1965?"

In the car, listening to the Oasis J-File.

Hi, this is Peter from Perth and I was wondering if you could play Some Might Say. I always said loved rock'n'roll but before Oasis I could never say I had a favourite band. They really got me through my university days, man. And this song is one of the greatest rock songs of all time. The guitars just go right through you like a chainsaw for days afterwards...

"This song is not one of the greatest rock songs of all time."

"I agree. The guitars aren't going right through me like a chainsaw. A butter knife at the very most."

"I never was an Oasis fan."

"Well Definitely Maybe was a good album."

"I liked What's The Story Morning Glory. But then the Mothership started saying 'What's the story, morning glory?' instead of 'So what's new?' on the phone because she thought it was cool and it really wasn't bloody cool at all."

"My big problem with Oasis is that Noel Gallagher is too freaking lazy to write a second verse. Every bloody song, he trots out a nice opener then it's second verse, same as the first! Like Wonderwall. Todaaaay's gonna be the day... and then a chorus later, todaaaay's still gonna be the freaking day!"

"Now that's just sheer laziness!"

"I know! I've got half a novel sitting beside my bed, and if I was to apply the Noel Gallagher Theory of Writing I should say to myself, 'No need to write the other half! I'll just photocopy this and add it to the pile and send it to the publisher and voila!'"

There's talk of a wedding in the office.

"My mother is being such a control freak. We had a roast chicken for lunch the other day and I went to throw the carcass out and she starts shrieking, No no! Put the chicken down!

I say, but it's an empty chicken, mother! But she's all, No no! I have to save the wishbone!

She huffs and puffs and takes the chicken off me and ferrets round for the wishbone. She wipes the little bits of chook off it then goes to the pantry and pulls out this plastic bag. And there's a dozen wishbones in there!

Crikey Mum, I say, what are you up to?

I am collecting wishbones for the wedding. I'll spraypaint them silver and put them on the tables.

And I'm like, Muuum! That's bloody revolting!

But she thinks it's a fantastic idea! Everyone at the reception can sit around pulling skanky silver wishbones.

So I say, Mum, I have one hundred and twenty guests, how are you going to collect so many wishbones by then?

But she has a strategy. She's told all the neighbours to save them, and she even went down to Charcoal Chicken Land and asked them did they have any lying around.

And I'm like, jeeeeez Mum. I am going to have to put a note on every table, Disclaimer: This Was My Mother's Stupid Idea.

But she protests, Well it's better than those stupid sugared almonds!"