I have absolutely NO idea how your cat got lung cancer...really....

Next door neighbour's cat is a rather strange feline indeed.

Though I've almost (unintentionally) crushed it's little furry head as it's darted between my legs, thrown it out of my washing basked whilst it lay on top of my wet clothes and unceremoniously hauled it's stripey ass out my house as it's grasped the minute, fleeting opportunity with both paws to fly through the open back door it still really..

really..

likes me.

At least once a day it will meow folornly at the back door whilst my son gets down on his hands and knees, looking at it through the safety of the glass sliding door and loudly pronouncing that "the little cat is looking gorgeous" with a somewhat terrified look on his face.

The only real problem I have with this moggie besides the fact it tends to jump over the fence and scare the fucking shit out of me as I dump the rubbish into the wheelie bin late as night is that I think it's a closet smoker.

Besides my venturing outside to hang out the washing and drive the kids here, there and bloody everywhere and thus fullfil my duties as unpaid house slave and free, cranky taxi driver I will occasionally step outside to light up.

As I sprawl about on the seat sucking on tobacco and 69 different chemical thinking about, well...life, the little cat that's looking gorgous squeezes past me, sits in my lap, rubs against my hand like a masseur who doesn't know when to stop and purrs contentedly like the cat that did indeed get the cream (and probably the double cream at that) whilst my second hand ciggarette smoke with it's 4000 chemicals envelopes it like a thick cloud.

Though I tell it it's a vewwy, vewwy naughty puddy tatt and smoking is vewwy, vewwy bad it just looks at me with the highly amused expression one would expect when an adult talks like Elmer Fudd.

I can only conclude from this that it's either a cat which is rather partial to ciggie smoke or in a past life was a slightly neurotic, mostly frazzled woman with problems that were mainly created by her good self who needs a fag every now and then to escape the house, work and sometimes even her own mind.

I'm going with the later....

I have an aversion...

to filling out forms.

An affliction so deep-rooted, withering and potent in it's force that only many long hours spent with my hot and sweaty back pressed against the cold, uncaring leather of a psychiatrist's couch with a tear-streaked face and a very shiny, very red nose will alleviate the condition.

Please.

Take my hand.

Step with me this way.

Let me take you back to where it all began...

A portion of blame may be attributed to my father and his lack of English speaking/writing skills. Long days and nights spent on the tobacco fields trying to eke out a living for us all meant he was unable to learn much of the Aussie language except for the word "bloody" and a few other choice Italian swear words.

Friends popping in to visit me who had the front door opened by my father had his cringe-inducing shout of "Anica, WHERE YOU ARE?????" in their earholes.

Forms from his work were all handballed to the child who in reality had knowledge only slightly more than her parents in what she was reading and able to write.

My mother, who was unable to write in English but able to read my private diary detailing marijuana use, also enlisted me to write notes such as "I was sick and unable to work" to her employer and fill out any boring paperwork.

As I moved out of home I thought my phobia could be carried, coffin-like, with large, beautiful flowers and silent weeping to be put to rest.

But no.

My husbands brother and his family upon arriving in Australia from Bosnia some years ago now had form after form to fill out. The paper used was enough to fill a timber plantation.

Several times over.

Does Bosnia have less red tape and paperwork than Australia?

If so I'm moving there.

So you see I just can't escape my loathing, even in everyday life.



Want a red-hot, super urgent, mustbefilledoutyesterday credit application?

Sure, I'll put it in my manila folder.

You know the one...

Opened occasionally to peek at in disgust, pull Jim Carrey faces at and then put away to the furtherest corner of my desk.

I usually get to those tasks anywhere from now until twelve months later.

You right with that?

Most excellent...

Wanna give me a form which must be filled out, like, immediately, otherwise it will cost me bucketloads in fines?

Great, I'll hand you the money right now. Cash ok?

And did you want to kill my libido?

Fine. Just present me with a form which must be filled out in block letters and a black pen. Not even a handful of little blue pills will save that one.

So last night, having a quiet ciggie outside on the back verandah, unable to sleep I began to think about a form I had yet to fill out for my mother-in-law.

And farted...

Loudly.