I'm full of rage. For the last probably eight minutes I've been unsuccessfully trying to upload another photo of my daughter Billie-Mae with a different pair of shorts on.
And nothing happens.
I'm also listening on my headphones to a very soothing meditation tape featuring a restful flute, tweeting birds & a running water soundtrack. I could just scream.
And just after I've written all this, whaddya know, the second photo miraculously appeared, making me look a little hysterical & unhinged.
Now my daughter has walked in & said that she doesn't like the top photo of her with the parasol in a Field of Knomes. But I'm not deleting it.
I'm loving her shorts, but glad that I'm not wearing them. I don't wish to appear a Captive to Age Stereotypes, but I'm not fond of shorts of any description on women over say, 21. Maybe a little older.
I particularly don't like those longer, baggy ones favoured by many women of my age who love to bushwalk whilst looking like an Porky Scout . Baggy shorts never have & never will look good on anyone even Kate Moss, who I don't think looks that great, but everyone else seems to think so.
In case you're wondering, which you probably aren't, we're on a small holiday together, which has nothing whatsoever to do with My Rage. I spent four days visiting her in Canberra where she attends University & then she v. kindly has been staying with me in Sydney. My friend Marge who I visited last holidays in California is here seeing her 95 year old mother, so we've been doing a few things together. This evening we had an early dinner in a popular & homey looking beachside cafe. The food was dreadful but it didn't stop us eating it all. Never in my life have I been served slightly hard brussel sprouts & squash in a Goats Cheese Salad.
And I was slightly disgusted with myself for eating part of a communal dessert which was a hugely ordinary Tiramisu. I realised that there's not much that anyone can do to ruin cream, which it was full of.
So much for being a Zen Monk.