It's wrong that it's only Thursday afternoon, but I've already been having an internal monologue like, 'don't stress, just do it Sunday afternoon, it'll be ok'. Weekends are precious, o procrastination centre of my brain, stop with that crap already and get stuff done now, plz? Or write a blog post instead and continue to sink into glum, go on, I dare you.
So, remember those fifty gazillion posts in which I remarked on my own tediousness? Of course you don't. They were dull. I'm not one to bust out of the mould so today's tiresome commentary vis-a-vis First World Problems is on the obscene pricing of drycleaning in this two bit town. I had serious difficulty swallowing my middle-aged ire when I got served with a $73 bill for two dresses, a top and a skirt. None of that stuff was made by fairies out of the golden fleece or any such rubbish - we're talking polyester, baby. The only reason I didn't hand wash these things is that I'd probably just crumple the bejeezus out of them. The price I pay for my own inability to act like a domestic goddess, aye?
Plus, I put a hole in the bum of my pretty swirly dress so I have to pay to get that fixed. Pray that it's not too horrendous a bill, I cannae use a needle and thread. My hem is falling down as we speak and if there was a stapler to hand, well, I'd not hold myself responsible for the consequences.
Apropos of nothing but my general malaise, I feel compelled to tell you that I've not been to the theatre or anything cultshural for an age. Nor have I felt super compelled to comment on politics either (don't worry, still taking on the patriarchy at home. Cornered P on a half hour walk home from work and very nearly made him admit he's a feminist. Badgered the poor bugger to death, I did. He's still recovering. To clarify, he doesn't want the label but believes in the principles which I guess I can take.) Things I should probably care more about and would normally expound on at length include:
- Labour party leadership;
- Miley Cyrus and minstrel show at the VMAs (Hadley Freeman in the Guardian said something insightful with which I agree, I suppose);
- Auckland's Unitary Plan;
OH WAIT. The effed up Hop Card mess in AKL, there's something I care about! And it fits in nicely with the themes of First World Problems, Tedium and White Middle Aged People! Remember children, in a city far, far away there was an Oyster Card. That magical, wondrous card gave you access to buses, most trains in the metro area, ferries and trams. It topped up magically through the internet or - gasp - even magically and automatically from your bank account when you dropped below five quid. Those were the days. But, children, Auckland is hopeless like me and could not organise a piss up in a brewery. So we have different cards for everything, no way of topping up online and only limited and hidden dairies where you can apply funds to catch the bus. You can still pay the driver in ten cent coins. I know that in theory they are fixing this. I know that they were *meant* to have transferrable cards. But. BUT. Sort it out, Auckland.
There, I feel so much better after working up a righteous rage. Stream of consciousness solved my ennui.