9th September 2010 (Thursday)

You know the way male placentals have nipples, even though they don’t serve any purpose? Well I was wondering, do male marsupials have pouches, even though they similarly wouldn’t serve a purpose. Looked it up. Surprisingly, no. Also (double surprise) male marsupials have no nipples. Well we’re only talking about the species that have nipple-possessing females, unlike say the platypus who just sort of sweat-lactates in an incoherent and sloppy manner.

But wait, there’s more. As a footnote to this explanation, I also found that this is not even strictly speaking true. The males of two species of marsupials DO have pouches (or did, in the case of one of them, the extinct Tasmanian wolf) – but these were dedicated to the greater protection of the scrotum. Extra scrotum sacks. I think we can safely assume that were they in the business community these species would opt for a low-interest savings account in preference to wheeler-dealing on the stock market. Cautious or what.


School outing to Oakvale Farm today. I didn’t go, but Lillian’s mum was one of the three in the class who volunteered (she came back deathly pale and were she me I’m sure she’d have hit the bottle hard, irrespective of consequences). Once again it seems it’s all go at Oakvale. Last time we were there we heard (though didn’t witness) a donkey decided a very young goat or sheep just wasn’t their cup of tea, stamped on it, and kicked it high in the air, at which it expired. Today it seems a keeper who was inside a kangaroo’s pen got quite seriously scratched, one of the mums had to help haul her over the pen barrier because the kangaroo was still after her, an ambulance had to be called, she had a few stitches put into her ear. Lucky it was only a few stitches. The helper mum had to be given clean clothes because she was covered in keeper blood.


Nevertheless, the kids came back satisfied but utterly tired. And despite having a severe cold and really quite beside herself with fatigue, Lillian insisted on the Thursday play. She really wasn’t quite herself but they still seemed to have some fun. Talking of which, once again my sore throat is returning. Simply won’t clear up. I swear, it’s been hanging about for a month and a half. Enough already.


The poor Mr couldn’t sleep again last night for a couple of hours – just what he needed after the gruelling last two days. No idea why, but says he woke up with a headache. Early night tonight, I think.


Flat inspection today, so I made a slight effort to put away a few things (not too much though – good lord.) Woman from the agency turned up and I was about to let her loose on the house when she saw I was sitting there reading a book (still on the tail end of Wolf Hall) and started asking about it. Turns out she’s quite a book fan, has set up a book club in Lake Macquarie which has been running for four years, and recommended some books which sound interesting: The Sacred River, and 1788. (Both Australian based). Then we sat spitting venom at Dan Brown and Tom Hanks for a short while longer. Eventually she got up and did her check round for about five minutes and left.


We’ve finally got our gym memberships though – it’s official, Ian brought home the cards, there’s even a bona-fide one saying Lara Grainge so she can go to the pools and so on (though I might change my mind in the holidays and just stick her on a treadmill on fast). This presumably means I have to get off my arse and start doing something to rein in that waistline that’s gone a-gallopin’ over the horizon somewhere into the blue yonder. Hell’s bells.