Thwart me at your peril

Back in the mists of time, when Mark and I made the trek over to Granville to sign our lives away on a contract to buy a house that we didn’t have the money to pay for, I held a long conversation with David. David claims to have a law degree. He also claims to have written (and published) a book or two about astronomy. Apparently he knows all about marine aquariums, deep sea diving, and is a chess master. Which is all well and good – but he backs up these claims with actual knowledge of the subjects, so I am inclined to believe him.

And when he said “don’t agree to clause 36”, I thought it sounded all grown up and lawyery, so I said it, the clause was crossed off the contract, and we signed.


Fast forward to yesterday. Monday. The monday before the friday that is the settlement date. I am in the car, driving on a windy road on my way to drop the power supply for the laptop to the husband so that he can earn the not bacon to pay for the house that we are buying on friday. The shiny pink phone rings, and the solicitor acting for the vendor calls to ask that we write a letter to the real estate agent asking them to release the $35,000 that they are holding as a deposit for the house. Today. Urgently. Or it may delay settlement.

Well, I rang David. Who (thank FSM) wasn’t in class at the time. He directed my attention to clause 36. Which by omission, says that they can’t get their mitts on our money until we get our mitts on a title deed. Fair enough, right?

Well, the weasels decided, that since I am acting for myself, and I am not a solicitor, they might as well try one on, and try to get the money from me because, clearly, I had no idea what I was doing.

But I had David (and FSM) on my side.

I rang back, directed their attention to the the absence of clause 36, and told them that they would not be getting my money until they were entitled to it.

And then it got interesting…

Evil Solicitor Bitch (ESB) got exasperated with me and asked me to get my solicitor to call her, as it was clear that neither of us were smart enough to understand the finer points of her argument.

So David called ESB, who declined to take the call, and after two hours, when she still hadn’t called back, I rang her.

Apparently, she had decided in the interim that they could get the money elsewhere, and that I need not worry about the letter.

Of course.

So basically, they thought they would try it on, and then I got difficult. They asked to speak to my lawyer, because they thought I was lying to them, but when they figured out that I do actually have backup, they backed down and decided to stick to the contract that their client had agreed to, and had signed. I have a copy of it if they need to check.

After this was resolved, I swore a lot. Ampersand is getting used to the sound of his mothers voice as a shrieking harridan, with the vocabulary of a sailor. Great. Anyway, I told the whole story to my mother last night, and she wants to send a letter of complaint to the Law Society. Take that ESB!

Now, if you don’t know my mother, this may seem like an idle threat. But bear in mind that this is a woman who managed to get a cheque for $5,000 and a letter of apology from the Department of Social Security (on my behalf), when Amanda Vanstone was minister. Truly, the woman is a legend.

Thanks Meg!

Last week, I came home to find a fat parcel on the front step. Inside, I found the most wonderful handmade toy for Ampersand, and a card that made me cry.

Since I seem to be suffering from photographers block, I’ll be sneaky and use a link to Kate’s blog that shows Bazza the Ram presiding over Sally‘s birthday party.

Thanks Meg – he is divine. Ampersand is a very lucky kid indeed, and I am very lucky to have you in my life.

Again, we look like assholes to the rest of the world…

A BBC article about Dr Haneef.

I haven’t said anything about this case on the blog, as anyone who knows me in the slightest would assume that I am very cross that this poor man has been locked up, interrogated, lost his job, lost his privacy, had his home trashed, been accused of some idiotic charge, and been denied access to his family.

The Australian Federal Police Commissioner admitted that the police had stuffed up badly, and yet STILL REFUSED TO APOLOGISE saying, “We did a good job on the investigation”. Makes about as much sense as the rest of the bullshit that has been said about Dr Haneef.

Now, let’s talk about character. Apparently, you can fail a “character test”, and lose your immigration status in this country. Let’s take a good hard look at our mighty leader….

Ooooo! Stitch ‘n Bitch for Blokes

Amazon link here.

Speaking of knitting, I have progressed beyond baby hats. I got all clever, and worked out how to turn the triangular “Swallowtail Shawl” into a square, which I have made into a blankie for my sister in law Christine, who is having a (girl) baby about three weeks after Ampersand is due.

Christine and her husband really wanted to be parents, and have struggled to conceive – I’m sure it was really hard for her to hear me being so ambivalent abut being pregnant, and I wanted to give her something special for her baby, to acknowledge that her baby is precious and special, and that I know she and Matt will be great parents.

Project Specs to come after blocking, weaving in ends, and photography.

Life comes to bite me on the arse

The car still hasn’t been diagnosed. I dropped it in on monday afternoon, and it’s now wednesday night, and all I know that it has something to do with the power steering system. Could be expensive, could be just a hose.

We got a letter from the credit union – apparently we need to provide a shipload more documents for settlement, including a recent surveyors certificate (we need to pay a surveyor to do that – and we need to do it YESTERDAY – settlement is friday week, seven working days!), we also need certified copies of both our birth certificates for the first home buyers grant (which we were told the credit union would deal with), and also another certificate from some department or other. I feel like a ton of bricks has just landed on me, after feeling that everything was going a little too smoothly earlier.

Add to that the fact that the bloody real estate agency has decided to show our house this saturday (to try to get new tennants), so we have to make sure the place looks respectable while we’re in the middle of moving. They asked us to mow the lawns too, but I declined. There is only so much stress I am prepared to deal with in one week.

It’s a good thing I have such a large arse. I can still turn the other cheek.

And to prove that I’m coping, not drowning – waving, here is a really cool video that I have been searching for for about ten years.

And more great news – Mohammed Haneef‘s case will be reviewed by the Director of Public Prosecutions. About bloody time.


Thanks everyone for your support. I really am ok with Ampersand and his testicles – some of my favourite people are men, and though my projections for my immediate future are having to be altered slightly, I do see the upside of having a boy.

The depression is more about moving. Firstly, the massive amount of work involved in moving a three bedroom house full of stuff, and secondly, it’s about dealing with change.

Though the house we are moving to is gorgeous, and we’ll own it one day, and we won’t have to worry about putting pictures on the walls or painting it orange, it is a pretty big change.

I’ve lived most of my life around here, close to family and familiar landmarks and shops, and I tend to be resistant to any change. I crave it, but I hate it at the same time.

This house has been the stage for some of my happiest moments, and though I hope the new house will be even happier, it’s a family house. Mark and I are moving from the carefree days of youth to the responsible days of grown upness, and the symbolic change requires a bit of respect.

Add to all this the fact that my middle has ceased to resemble a waist, and I seem to have pinched a nerve in my lower back, and (on reflection), it’s no surprise that I’m feeling a wee bit sorry for myself.

But I will get over it, and having good support helps a lot 🙂

How do I really feel about having a boy?

I’ll be ok.

I’ve spent a few days thinking about it, and I think the real reason I wanted a girl is because I feel that I have more to offer a girl. My experience is as a girl, and there is a hell of a lot of stuff that I worked out and feel that I could share with a girl.

But on the upside, boy stuff is pretty uncomplicated.

Now to the serious stuff.

I think it’s ok to admit that I’m miserable. I crashed the car on saturday night, and scared the shit out of Mark and myself. We’re OK (I had some cramps, and was worried about Ampersand for a bit, but ok now), but the car is in hospital. It’s making odd noises, pulling to the left, and bottoming out in places where it never did before. So my trip south to visit Ailsa has to be postponed. And I just went to her blog to get the link, and I see that she HAS A NEW PUPPY!

The social worker form the hospital rang today, and I just couldn’t tell her I was ok. Instead, I burst into tears, and found myself realising that I’m losing my grip on the OKness of the world. There’s a bit of industrial action at the serotonin factory. So I spent most of today feeling sorry for my self without recognising it, then bawling into the phone at a complete stranger, and then I had to drag my sorry carcass up the hill to the car hospital, only to be told that I’d have to leave it overnight for a diagnosis. I didn’t cry, but neither did I continue on to the shops to get something for dinner tonight.

Back home to bed, wondering if Mark can cope with boiled rice for dinner again tonight.