Oh blimey more news.
Julia Gillard knits a toy kangaroo for Royal baby and loses the political thread:
These (rather flattering) photos of Gillard clutching balls to her breasts and guarded by a former political ally now tasked with hiding her “cankles,” were launched as a charm offensive to appeal to Australians. Didn’t work.
Today – sorry “Tuh-Day” as she usually loudly prefaces most utterances, Gillard lost the long-running party leadership struggle and her political career unravelled. Kevin Rudd smiled and revealed that yes, he did know the Mandarin for “fine merino.” Gillard now hopes to have the time to knit her second sock:
I on the other hand, debated whether to hit the beach which may provoke it and cause the beach to hit me back, or go shopping. I was hungry so I thought I’d walk to AMC (Ala Moana Center), have breakfast and then shop until I dropped – which should take about 20 minutes.
I started with Eggs n’ Things at AMC (because I’d read some good reviews on Twip Advisor) and settled in at the bar whilst John got me a coffee. One of the waiters whose name I never got to see (he was always behind me) walked past and managed to kick my stool. He apologised and I waved one hand behind my head as acknowledgement and mopped up my coffee with the other. John asked what I’d like to eat and I asked if the “Ahi” on the menu was tuna. John looked puzzled and said, “No, it’s fish.” I looked puzzled back and said that “I thought Ahi was tuna, but I didn’t remember if it was Yellow Fin or Big Eye.” No, it’s fish.” said John. I asked what kind of fish and John shrugged: “I dunno it’s just fish from here (indicating in the general direction of the carpark), but not tuna.” “Is it whitefish?” I asked and immediately wondered why I had bothered to ask that question and why I should expect John to know the colour of the fish. Sure enough the answer from John was, “No it’s not white fish but I don’t know what colour it is.” I gave in and ordered the eggs benedict and pancakes. Whilst I was waiting I checked to see if there was any free WiFi available but there wasn’t – unless the “It’s not tuna and it’s not white fish” network was one of theirs.
The rest of the meal passed uneventfully apart from two more stumbles over my bar stool from Quadratlatschen (German slang for big feet) and the arrival of the worst eggs benny I can recall having the mis-pleasure of eating. The eggs were pale-yolked, watery and had a hint of bleach. The Hollandaise was sort of saccharin-sweet with a hint of bleach but attractively sprinkled with something brown and powdery which could have been either a mutant spice, ground coconut husk or leftover dried Ahi. The muffins were sort of sour with a (by now reassuringly familiar) hint of bleach and the bacon (ham) was slices of the round roll variety. It was salt-less but the dashing hint of bleach provided an interesting elevation mid-palate. I was relieved by that otherwise I may have wondered if the bacon was past its best – should it ever have had a “best”.
I was hungry so I ate most of it and wondered if they raised round roll-shaped pigs fed on a strict diet of bleach especially for this taste treat sensation. The pancakes followed and I followed the local custom of smothering them with the local coconut syrup which is sort of saccharin-sweet with a hint of…. coconut. I was ready to leave but waited just long enough to time my push-back from the bar as Quad came past carrying a tray of food (probably carpark-raised brown Ahi with bleach additive) for the table behind me. I think they’re probably still cleaning up.
I strode purposefully in the direction of the store, through the construction area where a ground floor section was being remodelled and summoned up the courage to enter the shop where quiet music played, young female sales assistants wafted effortlessly around the store, shiny new footwear glistened and signs promised 50% off a second pair. OK it wasn’t really a shoe shop it was the home of Crocs. The shop was empty when I walked in but within seconds Joy who had been showing me the latest in black front teeth (too much coconut syrup eh Joy?) had been drawn inexplicably away from my commanding presence to assist various members of the rent-a-mob that had waddled, hobbled and wheeled their way in and were now exclaiming at elevated volume how cute everything was; if Mother would just lift one foot from her wheelchair we could see whether violet or lime green would better suit her complexion; how various other members of the Shout family had to be called immediately so that they should get down here while the second-pair-for-half-price deal was available; and if Grandad would take his socks off for once we could see if his bunions would be hidden from view by blocking-up all the holes in the top of the shoes with flashing Stars and Stripes shoe jewellery that seemed to be all the rage (with the Shout family at least).
I parted company with $52.33, Joy’s teeth and the Shouts and figured it was time to go home for a lie-down. I had lasted less than 15 minutes in the largest open-air shopping mall known to cars. If you’ve been there you will know it is almost impenetrable if you arrive on foot. More than 2m square feet of leasable space and more than 4,000 car park spaces means that if you are too poor to drive your own car there, you had better hijack one because getting in without a vee-hic-ell is probably illegal.
I elected not to walk back to the apartment but rather to enjoy the relaxing ride in the open-air “trolley” that for a mere 2 dollars will whisk you very slowly around every major hotel in town whilst the driver shouts, sings, honks the horn and randomly rings a bell to remind you that riding on a truck with side facing seats in Waikiki is one of the world’s must-do adventures, and has to be completed before you die or you change your name to Joy and your teeth turn black. I fell off at some point and walked the rest of the way home when a crowd of Australian women started shouting out requests for the driver to sing all known songs ever recorded by Bruno Mars.
At the “Pink Trolley” stop at AMC this woman had arrived on the wrong day and was distressed when she found out she had missed her welding lessons:
And on the trolley there were several package tourists for whom a thoughtful tour guide had labelled the next scheduled change of shirt day for them: