Dear Aunt Slough

Miss Slough 2007 has started an agony aunt column on her blog: http://fogchicken.blogspot.com/

It puts me in mind of an incident from several years ago, which has left me still brimming with questions. So here goes... help me, Aunt Slough?

"Dear Aunt Slough,

Several years ago I found that I needed a little something extra income-wise to support my caffeine habit, and as such began to work as a babysitter several nights a week for some rich Sydney parents.

The parents, Mr and Mrs Boorish and Obnoxious (B&O) lived in a huge Victorian terrace in Glebe with their two children, Neglected (5) and Neurotic (3). I was contracted to mind N&N between 6pm and 8pm, to fill in after the nanny clocked off, on the nights Mrs B&O worked late. However, as Mr B&O would often not come back until 2am, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol, and Mrs B&O seemingly would not return home at all, I often found myself quite unable to tell Neglected and Neurotic when they'd see their parents again.

Neurotic in particular would grow alarmed as he began to suspect that he might not get his good night kiss from his parents, whereas Neglected had already found her parent subsitute in the combination of Fox Kids and her GameBoy, and provided she was left undisturbed, seemed perfectly content.

One evening, Neurotic became increasingly hysterical. He was running around on tip-toes, sobbing with pain, and screaming for Mr and Mrs B&O. After 20 minutes or so of useless reasoning, I had no choice but to switch off Fox Kids and take the GameBoy hostage, so that Neglected could translate for her brother. After her own lengthy tantrum, Neglected explained that Neurotic needed "to go poopy for dad".

I moved the conversation with N&N into the bathroom, where Neurotic flat-out refused to go near the toilet. Neglected explained once more, as I was clearly an idiot, that "Neurotic want to go poopy for dad". I explained that "Dad was not there to watch poopy", and that I had no clue when he would return. Both parents had thoughtfully turned their mobiles off.

Neurotic shot out on tippy toes, and I found him in the pantry, sobbing and pointing, apparently at the ceiling, reciting the mantra "Power Choc! Power Choc!". Neglected explained to me that Power Choc was a product, and in the pantry. We played Hot Cold, until my hand eventually strayed onto a maxi-sized tin (think Protein Powder dimensions) of something called Para-Choc. Neurotic sobbed with relief, and I sobbed with disbelief, as I discovered that the child had been screaming for chocolate-flavoured kiddy laxatives.

I refused to give Neurotic the laxatives, and after another 20 minutes in the bathroom, put both hysterical children to bed. The inevitable happened from there, with Neurotic producing more sewage than a standard household once going to sleep, and Round Two of Hysteria ensued forthwith.

By the time Mr B&O returned home, peace had returned. I told him what had occurred, which he found hilarious, but seemed to find me at fault for not simply using the laxatives. "Neurotic needs them for his constipation". He explained, having sensed that I was a moron. "But he wasn't constipated! He just wanted to go poopy for daddy! He's replaced his daddy with laxatives!". Nope - I was clearly a Moron.

So, Aunt Slough. What should I have done? In retrospect, I'm thinking that just draping Mr B&O in the poopy bedsheets on the way out might have been good, as that way Neurotic could have at least gotten his poopy to daddy. I value your thoughts.

Please help.

Dr Von Woof.

Pasta for sore eyes

Well, the doctor sent me home from work, having diagnosed me with "Allergic Conjunctivitis", so I could rest my eyes while the eye drops took effect. I learned today that a blind art director is a useless art director, so this suited me just fine.

Well, what better to do when sent home with sore eyes than make pasta? I'm not sure that making, eating, or typing about pasta really counts as "resting eyes", but after this I'll take my eyes straight to bed. Promise.

So. A recipe for "pasta for sore eyes". Loosely based on a far fancier variant in this month's Delicious mag.

While your 400g of pasta (I used fettuccini) is boiling, toast a handful of walnuts in a dry frying pan until they look faintly golden and smell toasty (mmm). Remove walnuts from the pan, and saute 3 rashers of bacon and two small chopped onions until soft and golden. Add to the pan as many chopped mushrooms as your heart desires (I think my heart desired about 8 medium-sized ones from memory), and the leaves stripped from four fat rosemary stems. Saute another five minutes or so, then add a 250g tub of low-fat sour cream (courtesy of Anna's overstuffed fridge) and about 120g of grated Romano cheese (you can add some pasta water if it doesn't look like a sauce). Stir for a minute or so, adding the pasta when it's cooked. Stir through the walnuts. Serve with a generous amount of salt and pepper.

Will feed a blind Dr VonWoof for about 5 lunches, I reckon.

While on the subject of toasted walnuts (and it's a tasty subject), honey toasted walnuts (done the same way as above, but with a tablespoon of nice aromatic honey added in the final minute to caramelise) are fabulous in salad. Combine with ripe, juicy tomatoes, torn basil, crumbled goats cheese and salt and pepper. And if you're feeling gourmet, pomegranate seeds make this look and taste like a million dollars. If your tomatoes are nice enough (I spent a lot of money on "heirloom" purple tomatoes when making this salad) you won't need a dressing, but otherwise a tiny bit of balsamic will be lovely... Recipe inspired by the very wonderful Yellow Bistro in Potts Point.

Oh no! There's an alien in my eye socket!

And it's trying to get out. These photos don't really do it justice, but my right eye is swollen, the white bit's all red and I'm dizzy and nauseous. Ugh.

Off to the doctor I go.

Ah! Real Vampires!

Miss Slough 2007 recently met a real vampire while weekending in Northern England. So while on the subject, I thought I'd introduce you to my own vampire heritage. Meet my grandfather, who was born in Transylvania (unfortunately not in that fabulous dracula castle however). Apparently Attila the Hun was also buried on my family's land (or am I exaggerating? If my well informed mother is reading this, can she confirm or deny?). Regardless, I feel this photo has a certain vampireish quality.

So anyway, the next time you're about to call me Pimple Queen, consider who my grandfather was. You might be very, very sorry. No amount of garlic can save you now.

And this is my grandmother. She's no vampire, but is (or was) possibly a fairy tale princess.

A passing gesture to saving the environment

While the least said about last week the better rule still applies, I thought I'd attach my entry to the Cannes Lions Young Creative Competition, done with a talented young writer named Tom, in part of the mess that was last week.

We needed to use the medium of press (newspapers) in an innovative and interesting way to communicate that a company of our choice supported Earth Hour. Earth Hour is a fantastic joint initiative between the WWF and Fairfax, where they're getting Sydney to turn its lights off for one hour on the last Saturday in March to put out a message to the world about fighting global warming. I'm hoping it'll be big (and dark). Some huge corporations are already on board, and the big landmarks, like the opera house, harbour bridge and ANZAC bridge.

Anyway, without further ado, here were Tom's and my contributions. If you click on the images you can view them full size.

Ah, most dependable Saturday!

Last week was a mean reds kind of a week (that's a Holly Golightly phrase if I've lost you). And the least said the better, really, as it fell into the most depressingly average mould of emotional turmoil.

Basically I got on my rat wheel on Monday, and ran until my little rat legs could carry me no more on Friday night.

But then came sunny Saturday to heal all wounds, as Saturdays inevitably do. If Saturday could be personified, she'd be warm, loving, forgiving, undemanding and dependable. Saturday is everything I'd like to be as a person. But I think in all honesty she's probably everything I'm not.

Anyway, it was a languid sort of a day. A walk to the park and to get takeaway coffees with Dr Spruce (the photo documents her latest activity, which is lurking in the native grasses of our local roof garden and diving through the undergrowth for her football). A (free!) two course meal with a (free!) bottle of Sauv Blanc with C at the very pleasant Tilbury Hotel, as thanks for hosting my birthday drinks there (no, really, it was MY pleasure!).

Then a walk to the ever interesting Surry Hills to a fabulous shop called Scandinavium, for some escapism. I'm still plotting a grand trip to Scandinavia and London, but I'm increasingly unsure it'll happen financially this year. If it doesn't, C and I have agreed that we'll replace it with an NZ ski trip with his work mates (C's alternative), and a trip to Melbourne (my alternative), as I will need a cosmopolitan experience if I'm forced to sacrifice my Euro Trash fantasies.

Surry Hills is also where I took the "Agile" photo, of someone's ingenius means of privacy screening their letter slot.

We walked home through Woolloomooloo, where C and I partook of an ale at a seedy old wharfies pub (complete with seedy old wharfies with names like FleaBag, Micko and Scruffy), and Dr Spruce drank from a cast iron bucket and was adored by the locals. She was granted regular status in the first few minutes (C and I were tolerated because we were friends of hers), and she spread herself out to cover the entire footpath so everyone could stop en route and rub her belly.

A cornucopia of leftover takeaways from the long week await for dinner, an invisible singer is serenading us through our window, and thus the wounds of the week have heeled.

I hope all your Saturdays were similarly rewarding.

And that's about it really.

today I feel
like a rat on a wheel
and the more I run
the less I'm having fun

Still terrified of lightning

These photos were sent into Time magazine following Sunday's lightning storm. Thing is, I'm pretty sure they're of lightning striking our building. They're certainly in the right spot.

Poor Dr Spruce lay on the bed snapping at invisible demons whenever the lightening struck.

And I remain patheticallly terrified myself. A few years ago, I was, quite literally, chased by lightning, while in the grounds of a psychiatric hospital (Callan Park) with Dr Spruce. And now just the mention of lighting makes my blood run cold and my eardrums ache.

Inspired signage, inspired by Miss Slough 2007

Miss Slough just posted a "no fouling" sign on her blog. I agree - they're mighty special things.

There was a most brilliant bit of signage in Kings Cross a few weeks ago, but sadly it was removed before I could photograph it. Right next to the El Alamein Fountain is one of those brilliant touristy directional signs. The one that reads: New York 15768km Moscow 13600km etc. Well, some inspired person from Sydney City Council added an extra arrow sign which read: Toilets.

A bonus was that it pointed directly into the fountain. Only in Kings Cross.

Indeed, only in Kings Cross... The other night, a guy died of a drug overdose on the footpath in front of me. And I don't exaggerate either. I arrived at the spot at the same time as three policemen, who checked his pulse and said "he's dead". Sad.

Peter, Bjorn and John at the Metro...

Totally rocked out! No photos, I'm afraid. But I can offer you this text message, as proof that the mortgage is starting to take effect on my bank account. It was sent to C when I realised I couldn't afford two bottles of Becks at the bar. Augh! What is the world coming to???

But beyond lack of beer funds, this was a brilliant gig. Three very cute Swedish guys playing 20-minute hard rock versions of their normally sweet, folkish songs. (Coincidentally, Peter is the cutest, followed by John. Sorry, Bjorn!).

Three drunk and beautiful Swedish girls, drinking VB from the can with straws, spent the gig rubbing their tanned Swedish bodies on everything male in sight (much to the discomfort of said men). And a photographer from The Brag singled C and I out for photos and insisted I wear my glasses. Should I be flattered? Do I look (as C suggested) more Swedish in my glasses? Hmm.

One downer, however, in the form of a Round-Faced Troll from my past. She used to call me Pimple Queen, if you think my blog name for her is overly harsh. She also did everything in her power to humilate and alienate me through a whole 6 years of high school. I didn't need the help - I was, and am, quite capable of alienating and humiliating myself all on my own.

I feel vaguely better for knowing that she is now a Torts lawyer and on the way to being a barrister. I think she'd look perfect with a horsehair wig perched on the top of her very round head. And I'm sure Pimple Queen is an outstanding name to call people at the Bar.

Does one ever recover from the lingering ache of high school cruelty?