An NRMA representative called me yesterday – on Halloween – and asked me if I’d like a loyalty discount on life insurance.
Life insurance. On the spookiest, stabbiest, bump-in-the-nightiest, most supernatural-horrifying day of the year. I was sorely tempted to tell this guy that his offer was some ‘morbid, fucked up shit’, or something to that effect, but as I’d already had a couple of glasses of pinot gris, I decided to remain fairly philosophical about the whole thing. Thankfully, once he’d asked a few questions and discovered that I was mid-twenties, single, living at home and had precisely “hell no” dependents, it wasn’t difficult to convince him that I had very little actual life to insure.
Though, had the circumstances been different, I still would have refused. I don’t want my family or friends to benefit from my death financially in any way, lest suspicion fall upon them when my decomposed remains are found dumped on barren wasteland. That’s how you take care of your loved ones after you’re gone.
We had a few trick-or-treaters come knocking last night as well. They had their parents with them, but hey, this is Mayfield – you might as well have a police escort, it’s still suicide going door to door. And some of them didn’t even have costumes! I’m sorry, but if you just rock up to my door in school uniform and demand candy with the threat of property damage, that’s not a holiday tradition. That’s extortion, you little bastards, and I have the right to defend myself.
Still Mum gave them chocolate. I would object to this, but there’s an enormous jar of Caramello Koalas left over, which I am eating right now. It’s hard to stay angry with a sugar rush.
I’ve spent this week watching the first two seasons of Lost Girl, which I’ve now decided is my new favourite show. It’s like a Canadian True Blood, except instead of an annoyingly perky and Southern waitress with faerie light powers, its protagonist is a sultry bisexual Succubus who feeds off of orgasmic energy while solving supernatural mysteries and kicking arse with ninja weapons. She has shurikens. She can quite literally fuck a man to death. Are you watching this, network executives? This woman should be the archetype for every modern heroine.
She’s accompanied by a hilarious, snarky, street thief human sidekick who dresses in Gothic lolita and speaks fluent Russian, and has on-again, off-again relationships with an agonisingly sexy manwolf cop and a brilliant blonde forensic researcher. Seriously, I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl watching this show and I don’t even give a shit. It’s campy, self-referential and never takes itself too seriously. Watch it. Off you go.
Oh, and before I forget, we’re absolutely thrilled to have Ruth Hodge on board as a contributor to the site! Not only is she a wryly articulate young woman living her dream in Paris, but a French correspondent is just the sort of classy high-brow touch this website has been severely lacking. If we’re sangria, she’s a 1920 Château Latour. Check out her first thoughts here when you can.
Say it with Cognac?