three things

1. postscript to post about daniel chirico and his fine, prettily-dressed bread servant-girls/baristettes:

do you think you could get them to wear some gloves? is there something about latex that just doesn't go with those whimsical sundresses and oh, how about the accents. there are uk accents, a european, /franch/ accent. ok, the bread is to die for, the girls are all spunky daniel, i get it, BUT THEY NEED TO PUT SOMETHING OVER THEIR HANDS WHEN THEY PICK UP THE FUCKING BREAD.

they have tongs for the patisserie section. i can see why tongs don't work for any bread product bigger than a bagel.

but you know what. just cause they're pretty, and wearing nice frocks, and have nice hair-dos DOESN'T MAKE THEIR LILY-WHITE HANDS ANY CLEANER THAN THE DUDE WORKING THE DELI AT IGA DOWN THE ROAD.

we all pick our noses, or rub, or scratch near there. we all go to the toilet, we all shit, we all piss, we all cough, and fart and have GERMS ON OUR HANDS. they're handling money, for chrissakes. isn't there some research saying money is the dirtiest stuff in the world? or that hands are? put them together and you've got a bacteria-festooned bunch of digits.

i'm pretty sure that they used to use a square of wax paper a la baker's delight or whichever declasse bread shop it is. one of those (baker's delight/brumby's) does and one doesn't. or didn't.

but chirico's - they need some paper squares. really. it was fucking packed in there this morning at 7.30am. maybe it slows them down using paper squares - and i tell you, they could learn a briskness tip or two from brumby's/baker's delight.

2. sorry number one turned into such a whinge. it was a real poppy moment. anyone who gets that reference gets a gold star. and anyone who can guess whose voice i had in my head while writing it gets TWO gold stars.

number 2 is short. i've thought of something else we did as kids that i wouldn't like to know my kids were doing. we used to get hold of matches and "smoke" them. this is how you smoke a match - you light the match, you breath in the stuff that comes out at the moment of ignition, and then you breathe out smoke. i don't think i did it that often, but it scares me that i did it at all.

3. RIP killer kowalski. reading his obit the other day brought back all the big wrestling names to me. mario milano with his blue shorts. killer carl cox. brute bernard. we used to love watching it as kids, and my grandmother loved it too, and would watch it in her fancy-pants toorak villa, where all the tones were lilac in the lounge room. my memories of the wrestling are blended with memories of the world of sport, with lou richards and the big guy with a rich voice- name? jack dyer? - sparring, and talk of huttons hams, and patra orange juice (big guy with rich voice would make the patra orange juice sound delicious, the way he said it, sounded juicy, and he'd always use fricative force with the P of patra). there were handballing competitions, and letters in, and guests, and i think i used to watch it to see whether the man i loved peter mc kenna would be on. oh, how i loved him, with my weedy 9- or 10-year-old girl-brain.

so that's it, this fine, nay glorious, melbourne morning. this weekend for us is quietist, but with large, italian festivities tomorrow for father's day at the in-laws. there will be food a-plenty as is the custom, and then we will roll home and hopefully not miss too much of the geelong v st kilda game.

go cats.

ps thoughts are with a certain someone who is entertaining lady-guests at his house this weekend. i hope it goes well P.