Yay for the police! I am a big fan of the Victoria Police. They get a bad rap in general for being police officers and so on. But if you remember that they haven't shot any mentally ill people for a while perhaps your own prejudices may be overcome. Perhaps they may seem to overreact to things at times and I guess sometimes people may not like it when there's a little bit of lying in court and all that sort of thing but really what does that matter in the scheme of things?

I was reminded this morning just how marvellous our Victoria Police are when one of their hard-working and, no doubt, stunningly beautiful officers rang me at work to tell me that The Stolen Falcon had been found.

The car was exactly where the professional and, no doubt, witty and good-fun-at-parties officer told me it would be: in a side-street off Sydney Road, with no more than a busted driver-side doorlock, a missing rear quarter panel window and an empty fuel tank.

I admit that when I got there I saw no evidence of the mammoth forensic examination of the crime scene I was expecting. There wasn't any tape roping off the area; no crowd of dashing red-headed detectives keen to further their careers scrabbling under the seats wearing rubber gloves and yelling “A hair! Take this to the lab. Stat!”

However my own sleuthery managed to uncover the clue that the perp (see! I'm so down with the lingo) was a shortass. I was able to deduce this vital evidence by having to move the seat back when I got in and then having to re-adjust the rear vision mirror. In your face, Sherlock Holmes!

So, I'm a big fan of the Victoria Police. When you next see a helpful and, no doubt, riot-in-the-sack officer I want you to form a parade and give three cheers because they've made at least one Harpo very happy.

  ¶ 6:20 pm 10 comments

  The world was round last time I looked at it This Friday is Australia Day and that excites me. There may be some people reading this to whom this is news so I guess I had better explain the significance of this celebration to them. A couple of hundred years ago a bunch of people fell off a boat and decided that this country was theirs and that they would set up shop. The fact that people had already set up shop here was ignored because they didn't have muskets or a conservative fiscal policy and so Australia Day was born.

Celebrations include fireworks, barbecues, citizenship ceremonies and — the one thing that stops a nation — a speech from our prime minister.

Throughout the land little children will be filled with joy as their loving hearts swell with pride for their country and crowds will spontaneously gather on footpaths to wave little flags and cheer and swap stories about civic duty and national fervour.

As I say, Australia Day excites me. I shall be wearing an Akubra and Blundstones. I shall be wearing Stubbies and a blue singlet. I shall be singing in joyful strains about waltzing Matildas and how women glow and men plunder. I shall be draped in the flag of the southern cross, our beloved federation star and the union jack. Oh I am so thrilled to have our colonial subservience to our Queen (I did but see her passing by but I shall love her till I die) acknowledged so prominently. I shall be dodging canetoads and making racist comments. I shall be eating damper and pavlova. I shall be planting banksias and dying of thirst in a desert. I shall be winning gold medals in swimming and beach volleyball. I shall be getting eaten by sharks and stung by stingrays. I shall be mining uranium with my hand over my heart, crying “Australia, it is to you I give my fidelity. To you I give my faith. Oh, fair homeland, accept my humble praise.”

And so thank heavens we are celebrating Australia Day. Otherwise I would forget that part.

  ¶ 8:40 am 8 comments

  Care factor I've been in a sort of holding pattern for a few weeks now. Lazy. Careless. Useless. I haven't been bothered to keep the house tidy. Couldn't be arsed to do any shopping for myself, to do the dishes. I have a letter I keep telling myself I should write for at least one of my friends. Bugger it — she can wait. I did a course last year and to graduate I need to complete some final assignments and send them in: not the slightest bit interested right now.

I presume we all get these little spells occasionally and frankly I'm not that fussed about it. Meh. Whatever.

You must be thankful, however, that I don't work in airspace control, say. Or emergency:

Dude In White Coat: “Harpo. The Dalai Lama has a contusion in the thoracic-femoral cuboid. He needs twenty CCs of biothorene, stat!” (that's right, punks: I've seen ER. I know how these people talk)

Harpo In White Coat: “Meh. Whatever.”

Every summer I enjoy playing cricket with my club, the Harpo Massive (not actually the club's real name). My average this season so far has been very poor but thank you for asking. All cricket clubs have their own atmosphere and ours is no different in that it too is a little different (oh man I'm writing really well today. Meh. Whatever). It is traditional at every club that slips fielders spend the afternoon telling the batsman how badly he's playing, what shot is going to get him out, how much better than him the bowlers are and all that sort of thing. We at the Harpo Massive spend the afternoon talking about whether Herbert Van Karajan's Beethoven's cycle is better than Sir Neville Marriner's and we discuss Blake's Innocence and Experience with reference to Shakespeare's sonnets. After the game all cricketers gather in the rooms or out in the sunset with a beer and chat. We at the Harpo Massive have wine tastings and play board games.

Just one box of match balls cost $400 so to raise funds this year we are having a condiment sale. A few of the lads have prepared a magnificent collection that includes tomato chutney, apricot jam, tomato sauce, green bean chutney, and BBQ sauce. Won't that be splendid!

My contribution is my Chennai Sun Chilli Oil. For your chilli oil-quaffing pleasure I might as well post a recipe:

Chennai Sun Chilli Oil

A bottle of some half-decent olive oil
A bottle of some other oil like vegetable or canola if you feel like being cheap. No stress.
A few fresh chillies
A packet or two of crushed dried chilli
A clove or two of garlic
A sprig of rosemary from your or your neighbour's yard.
A bottle of whiskey

Find a pot large enough to comfortably hold the oil. Pour in the oil. Add the dried chillies, roughly chop up all but one of the fresh chillies and throw them in. Slice the garlic and drop that in and put the pot over a low heat and let the oil warm up. This will take a little time and you will be tempted to go and watch Wheel Of Fortune but if you do you will become hypnotised by that spinning wheel and the flashing lights which would be bad because you really do not want the oil to boil. If it does the oil will not keep as well and the garlic will fry and impart an unpleasant tang to your infusion. After anywhere between ten minutes and six hours of some gentle heat turn off your burner and let it all cool. Buy a vowel. Try to complete the famous phrase. Sterilise a bottle (put it in the oven or fill it with boiling water or just breathe some condensation onto it and rub it with a cloth) and pour the concoction into it. Drop in the rosemary and the last of the fresh chillies for prettiness and then top up with a splash of whiskey. Drink the rest of the whiskey and cheer when the wheel lands on top dollar.

This recipe is more involved than it should be (it should just be “put some chillies in a bottle of oil and then go back to what you were doing”) but I wanted to share.

On the weekend I was supposed to put my batch into all the jars that the club has given me to fill. But I didn't get around to it. I spent Sunday lying on the couch. Meh. Whatever.

  ¶ 6:00 pm 6 comments

  Not a vegetarian If I can wind our minds back to ancient history for a moment, the day my housemate left to spend Christmas and New Year's with his family in country South Australia he gave me a Christmas gift: a leg of smoked ham. OK I spent the Christmas break in a house by myself with four-and-a-half kilograms of smoked ham.

Four-and-a-half kilograms. What are you supposed to do?

It has been several weeks now since Christmas and I am still eating ham. Ham on toast for breakfast. Ham sandwiches for lunch. Ham in my noodles for dinner. Ham on Ritzes in front of West Wing DVDs before I go to bed.

“Hey guys,” I tell my friends, “come over to my place and we'll have ham.”

Ham béarnaise.

Trifle with ham.

Gin and tonic and ham.

Lobster Thermidor aux Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provençale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle paté, brandy and with a fried egg on top and ham.

Just between you and me — I think that's too much ham.

  ¶ 11:00 am 8 comments