Another day, another gas bill.

You know, I got divorced almost five years ago, and have moved twice, but to this day my ex-wife’s name is still on the damn gas bill. At one stage they claimed they couldn’t change the name, they could only open a brand new account, which would cost $20. At the time I said don’t bother.

I wonder if they’d do that if she’d died. Maybe I should have told them that. Told them it was causing me trauma every time a gas bill arrived.

Over the years, the continuing joint names on the bill bugged me more and more. I last rang up about it when I moved. They said she would need to ring them up and get it done, which she then did.

So my gas bill arrived yesterday, and her name’s still on it. So I rang again.

“Hi, I want to get my ex-wife’s name removed from the bill.”

“Is she there with you?” Pah, what a stupid question. We get on okay, but we don’t hang out with each other, strangely enough.

“No.”

“Well she needs to give us a ring…”

“She did that.”

“Oh. I’ll check the account notes.”

…

“You’re right, she did. I see, the name has been removed from the account, but not from the mailing address.”

How stupid is that?!? Why on earth would I want the name on one but not the other, especially in these circumstances?

And I can understand having to jump hoops to add someone to an account, but why to remove them? It’s not like anybody would mind being absolved of paying gas bills.

I look down my street, and wonder how this exists elsewhere in my country:

(From The Age: ‘Chicken coop’ village fights to shed despair)

Successive governments have let things get this bad. Please Mr Costello, don’t give me a tax cut, use the money to fix this and other problems of poverty in our society.

More from the TMI department.

I can still feel the after-effects of Sunday night. I don’t feel sick, but I can feel the strain my stomach went through.

You know how you hear about people who can’t throw-up. Physically can’t. I’m not in that position, but I’m probably not far away from it. Even when I’ve got some kind of nasty present, and it’s necessary for me to do it to feel better, it takes an awful lot of effort for it to happen.

Hence the tossing and turning. The hot and cold sweats. The crouching in the preferred vomitting position (in front of the couch, on the rug in the livingroom, bucket nearby). I even have to think vomit-inducing thoughts to bring it on. Then there’s unbelievable noise, accompanied by the full-body cat-furball-like motion. Physical exhaustion.

It’s like putting my stomach through the wringer, inside-out. Like the stomach equivalent of a sore muscle. A sore stomach muscle.

And my stomach is keen to remind me afterwards what it’s been through. “Oh sure, you got that nasty stuff out. But the effort! The strain! Whatever it was, don’t consume it again!”

Okay I got tagged by Kathy.

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Working in St Kilda Road, dealing with a toddler at home, preparing for a trip to the USA. I was on crutches for some of January 1996.

What were you doing 1 year ago?

Much the same as I’m doing now, except in a crappier house.

Five snacks you enjoy:

Chocolate, chocolate, fresh bread and butter, chips, chocolate.

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:

Billy Bragg — Waiting for the great leap forward.
Ocean Colour Scene — North Atlantic drift.
Paul Kelly — How to make gravy.
Virtually anything by the Beatles. When I was a kid I’d listen to nothing else.
And any number of really annoying songs that I’d have surgically removed from my head if I got the chance.

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

Pay off the house, consider upgrading to a slightly bigger house closer to the city. Give 10% to my favourite causes. By some really nice stuff for my family. Round the world trip, ho yes. The rest into some kind of investment thingy that kept the moula rolling in.

Five bad habits:

Procrastination — I spend way too much time thinking about things I should be doing.
Easily distracted.
Impatience sometimes.
Not being able to think of five things when I need to.

Five things you like doing:

Blogging.
Geeking out.
Reading the paper in the morning.
Walking through the city streets on a grey day.
Being with those I love.

Five things you would never wear, buy or get new again:

Very short shorts.
Sappy music.
Non-recycled toilet paper.
Video tapes.
Anything made by Sharp.

The meme stuff: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot.
the state of indiana
watching me grow
Ready or Not
Zucchinis in Bikinis
Diary of an Average Australian

Then select five people to tag:
Rae (Whoops, Rae’s done this already on the Albert blog)
Tony
Andrew
Brian
Doug

Sunday started out so well.

Long sleep in.

Stroll down to the shops to buy ingredients for muffins, and get a newspaper.

Lunch with globetrotting Doug in Kensington, where he was in residence for the morning. (Marita and I rolled in as some of his other friends rolled out). Much laughter with the discovery that Doug had watched the Hungarian National Day fireworks in Budapest in 2004, while 200 metres away Marita lay unconscious from jetlag in the hotel adjacent.

Homemade muffins for afternoon tea. Yum.

By 5pm my tummy was rumbling.

By 7pm, a slight ache. But I was hungry, and ate a nice dinner.

By 10pm I’d gone home. A stronger ache, and I was kicking myself for not having bought some Mylanta at the supermarket. Was in no mood to go down again, so went to bed.

Failed to sleep. Tossing, turning.

Midnight came and went, as did 1am. About that time the nausea came to the fore and I made use of the bucket.

Regular readers might know, as my neighbours now do, that when I’m chucking-up, it’s never a quiet experience. It’s never all at once, either, but a series of protracted episodes.

The fourth and final episode was around 2:30am, and whatever it was my body had been trying to purge from the system tasted really foul. I suppose if I had had the foresight to save it, it could have been subjected to chemical analysis, but I was just relieved that I finally felt better, the stomach ache had gone, and I could finally get to bed for some rest.

I feel better today. Glad I’ve got one more week of holiday.

One of the great Christmas traditions is the Christmas cracker, and the appalling jokes they come with.

Cast your mind back to the Christmas just gone. Did you get an SMS on your mobile phone, with an appalling Christmas cracker-style joke, from the number 19900025, that you didn’t expect? If so, check your next phone bill carefully. It’s a scam, and you’ll find you were charged $3.50 for the privilege. (I actually got two, and have been charged $7.00. Oh joy.)

Call your phone company bill enquiries line. Insist on a refund. If they refuse, you may like to ask to speak to a supervisor, and/or their TIO liason person. Alternately just ring them again, you may well get someone more willing to cooperate.

You may also like to talk to the TIO (Telephone Industry Ombudsman), or your local state Consumer Affairs department. And if you don’t normally use them, ask your phone company about blocking any future premium messages.

• Lots of detail about it in the Whirlpool forums

I also got an offer of a “free” ringtone. I didn’t take them up on it, and don’t appear to have been charged for the privilege of the offer.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire — Good stuff. I’m not sure if I agree with the other reviews saying it’s the best HP movie ever, but I really enjoyed it. It’s not really worthy of the M15+ rating the OFLC gave it. Had to chuckle at the (probably unintentional) Doctor Who references: the TARDIS-like tent, and some guy morphing into David Tennant…

Narnia: the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — Also very enjoyable, and not just because we saw it in Gold Class on a stinking hot day. Interesting that they included the Professor, even though the first book hasn’t been made. Some might moan about the Christian allusions, but it wasn’t preachy. Reminded me a lot of LOTR, but that’s what happens when you film fantasy battle scenes in New Zealand. Looking forward to the next one. Don’t leave when the credits start to roll.

Recyclable plastic products have a numeric code on them, called a Resin identification code (1 to 7), indicating what kind of plastic they are and how they can be recycled.

But in Melbourne (and, I suspect, much of the world) only types 1, 2 and 3 can be recycled. This leaves an awful lot of theoretically recyclable plastics going into landfill (or worse, into the recycle bins, where it needs to be removed by the waste management people, thus making recycling more expensive).

Evidently it’s not yet generally economically viable to recycle codes 4 to 7. Perhaps pressure should be placed on manufacturers to use 1, 2 and 3 where possible in their products.

While visiting Josh, Cathy and their new baby Owen yesterday, Josh said there are rumours afoot that some of Melbourne’s local councils are on the verge of making the investment in the technology to recycle more types of plastic.

Josh, a long-time battler of litter and waste, has started saving plastic waste for the day when it can be collected and recycled by his council. Given the huge amount of waste us westerners are burying in the ground, hopefully that day isn’t too far away.