- Arthur: Old woman!
- Dennis: MAN!
- Arthur: Man, sorry. What knight lives in that castle over there?
- Dennis: I'm 37.
- Arthur: What?
- Dennis: I'm 37! I'm not old!
- Arthur: Well, I can't just call you "man".
- Dennis: You could say "Dennis".
- Arthur: I didn't know you were called Dennis.
- Dennis: Well you didn't bother to find out, did you?
- Arthur: I did say I'm sorry about the "old woman", but from behind you looked...
- Dennis: What I object to is you automatically treatin' me like an inferior.
- Arthur: Well, I am king.
- Dennis: Oh, king, eh - very nice. And how'd you get that, then? By exploiting the workers! By hanging on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in our society. If there's ever going to be any progress...
That's the problem with getting older. I just don't feel it. But if you turn up at nightclubs and bars inhabited by the young, or those substantially younger than you, you get those funny looks, like you're a dirty old man who should be in his slippers at the old folks home. My birthday on Sunday advanced that theory. Everyone asked me if I was having a nice relaxing day, not if I'd hit the town and was suffering a hangover of gargantuan proportions. Sadly I was in bed rather early, but that was choice, not infirmity. Well maybe a little infirmity, so shut up.
We've started on the nursery. I always thought that meant a place to sell plants, but apparently the literal translation is, "room where your books, computer and guitar used to be, that is now empty and waiting for all the stuff at the baby shop to come off lay by". I'm now surfing the net next to the ironing board.
At babies galore on the weekend I began to learn how much crap is required by small prune like creatures who's existence is primarily focused on your wallet. Prams that become strollers, cots that become beds, change tables that become space shuttles. The baby monitors look interesting. there are the basic walkie talkie types, and then there are the ones that tell you the temperature in Brazil whilst servicing your car. One place we went to in Chatswood was fun. The lady working there spied Mrs A. and said in a sweet shop assistant voice, "Hello". Then she saw me and said, "Well Hello! Ooh I do love a man with a moustache"! She said this while clutching my arm and making suggestive movements. Strangely Mrs A. chose to shop elsewhere.
I bought myself a couple of birthday presents. Although I do try to buy Australian, these items were only for sale via the net in the US.
Even though the wax had the correct spelling, many other items I looked at in the States didn't. I know that in general America dislikes putting the U after the O in many words, honour, colour etc, but this instance seems to show that they sometimes don't like to put the O in front of the U, making the word mustache instead of moustache. I kind of like the drawn out MOO-starche sound. Then again, Australian accents are probably just as strange to most English speaking nations regardless of spelling. Wearing the t-shirt on my birthday a friend pointed out that if you thought about it, the slogan made a good point when you considered people like Hitler, Stalin and Hussein. I didn't like her point so I killed her. Actually, I bought her a vodka and orange and let her beat me at pool.
Maybe I am getting old.