365 Days of Us: Day 90
365 Days of Us: Day 90
I’ve watched countless horror movies in my life. I grew up in the television glow of Fright Night, Thriller, the Twighlight Zone series, Nightmare on Elm St, the American Werewolf In London, the evil clown in IT and that crazy arse creepy fuck Chuckie. The eighties saw a plethora of horror flicks made and I watched all of them, seemingly fairly unfazed by the exposure. The nineties introduced the world to Interview With a Vampire, Alien, Silence of the Lambs, Candy Man and the Blair Witch. All a very differnt type of horror, the horror I knew was changing. But it was brilliant. The thriller horror grabbed you by your knackers and sat you in your seat. My bestie and I spent many Friday and…
I’ve been living out of home now for 20 years. I moved out of the family nest at 18 into a house I shared with a girlfriend. Since then most of the bath towels in our home are ones I moved out with. Folding them this morning, I realise I’ve turned into my Grandmother. Long threads hanging from the guts of some towels, seams ripped up the sides and hanging in loops along the edge on others. Worn towels, stained and faded towels with a handful of new ones. Fuck, am I really that tight? Just buy some new ones Nom, for fucks sake! I’m reminded of the towels in the bathroom linen at my Grandparents when I was a child. So thin and…
The G Mart, my 85-year-old granny, worked all of her life in the local hospitals kitchen from the tender age of fifteen. Countless early mornings for 60 odd years she walked to and from work, enduring hours of cooking, peeling vegetables, carving meat, plating it all up and then the cleaning. She loved her job and only retired when they forced her to. She sat in the industrial sink on her last day while they doused her in flour, the cheesiest grin on a little old woman you’re ever likely to see. I’m not even sure Gran is five foot. She has a tiny little body of probably less than 40 kilos wringing wet! Short pearl white hair, that’s freshly set every Friday. Daily…
Horses aren’t one of my favorite things. They were for a period, however over the years a couple of experiences have steered me away from them. I can ride, that’s for certain. Well I could! Not sure about now though, getting on one might be a task with me being older, less flexible and somewhat heavier than in my youth. Not to mention the issue of breasts. Horse riding and an ample bust are really not friends, unless of course you’re wearing a sports bra, crop top or two, and a straight jacket over the top. This story isn’t about riding though. Nor is it about breasts. Clunes lies next to an old volcanic mountain, Mt Beckworth. Back when it was formed it threw…
LIke most kids, I grew up watching my parents canoodle. The odd pinch on the ass here or a quick grab of a tit there. There was never a real sexual buzz about it, it just, ‘was’. Dad was a real Romeo. The Don Yuan of farts, ass slaps and dry humps. The kitchen sink was often a place for him to pounce, while mum had her hands distracted in the sink. He would tower over her, arms roaming, hips grinding and the canoodle would begin. She would giggle, pushing him away, flicking suds every where. It was normal. Dad is the eldest of eight children, and was the shortest of the five boys, standing at six feet two inches. The term “built like a brick shit-house”…
Folding the washing today, I couldn’t help but think about how easy it is now. I detest the fuck out of it, but it’s easy. Collecting the dirty washing is the chore for me now. Always a never-ending supply of it. It’s in the bathroom, in the bedrooms, pushed down the back of the lounge suite, screwed up in a corner, left lying around over a chair or outside where the boys took it off. It never ends, and then there’s the missing socks… where the fuck do they go? We wear them, chuck them in the basket, they go into a washing machine, then a dryer maybe or onto the line and then wallah! One of the fuckers is GONE! Kill me now.…
