High holy days (PM)

Congratulations on your support of the women's league mate! Even if you are only foundation member #86 and not 8 or 6.

Imagine a time when a women's sport generates enough excitement to demand a public holiday. If horses and men can do it, surely women can. (You know one day long after Eddie Maguire and anyone associated with The Footy Show and commentators that call women 'girls' die.)

#daretodream

Loyalty and Shame (AM)

I have a friend who married a fellow with an unfortunate name. Let's call him Joe Pimp. She loves her husband very much, and has a bent towards the traditional, so she changed her name. She became, let's say, Sally Pimp. Sally had a great surname to begin with, and we all wondered whether she would change it. She said that she did in part out of loyalty to Joe. She loved him, Pimp and all. Time passed and the Pimps welcomed to bouncing baby girl. They gave her a somewhat unique first name, let's go with Marmalade. So that bouncing baby girl became Marmalade Pimp. Now you don't need to be a rocket scientist to know that that name is pretty wack, and soon,  the Pimps realised that too. They lived their baby girl and didn't want her to suffer unnecessarily. They figured the world was  tough enough without having to go through life being called Marmalade Pimp. So Sally and Marmalade changed their names back to Sally's original name. It was a tough decision but they did it to prevent suffering and they never looked back.

I'm telling you all of this because since the baby has come, Melbourne has lost some games of footy in a truly woeful fashion. I expect you're thinking what's new, right? I don't blame you. Maybe it's because I'm tired and emotional and have a new baby, but these losses have hit me hard. And got me thinking about what kind of life I want for my son. I always thought that I'd proudly pass on my club allegiance to my offspring, I never questioned it, it's what one does.
But now I'm not so sure I want this misery for him. I'm not even sure I want to for myself.
These thoughts are very troubling to me, and challenge everything I believed about myself in relation to loyalty and commitment. I'm ashamed of them but they are there. And like the folk on Embarrassing Bodies who can't bring themselves to tell a single GP about their weird genital condition but somehow feel ok about going on TV and telling millions, I'm telling all of you. I don't know where to go with these thoughts. I guess this is a cry for help.

In praise of Sundays (PM)

My god,  J's post has totally made me go all misty for Sundays.  She makes them sound like the most awesome of days.
I guess I have to admit to myself and the MSC community that I am still a bit stuck in the mindset of younger J, wondering what the fuck The Bangles were on about calling Sunday a funday. I think I have  to admit that I have a habit of  always scanning the horizon for my next obligation, and on Sunday that shit goes into overdrive.
But I'm actually writing this during a very lovely Sunday afternoon, so I'm going to take a leaf out of J's book and enjoy it.
I've spent the morning at a cafe where the coffee is so fine it could take all cares away. I'm sitting at the kitchen table with the balcony door open, and a warm Irish breeze wafting through as I read about the triumph of the Dees over the Dons yesterday. A game of Hurling is on TV in the background (Cork vs. Clare, a 2013 grand final rematch. Go Cork!!)

Scores are level at 8 points all at the moment.

Shit, I just realised that one of the things that make Sundays pretty great is going to the MCG to see the game. What a joy it is. And maybe one of the reasons that Sunday makes me a little blue is that watching a game, when your colours are red and blue, means watching a loss.
Until this glorious year, of course.
But that's a conversation for another day.
When this game's over, I'm going to suggest to Appleheart that we have a Sundowner. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm going to suggest it. We're the only kids in this outfit, so drinking on a Sunday afternoon remains a delight.
Who am I kidding? Sunday is the best.

When Things End (PM)

It's the pits when TV series end. And when you can't figure out what to sing when you're inside a karaoke phone app with Jesse Pinkman inside a dream. But I love that that's what you dream about, Mate.  Inception would have been a much much better film if you had made it.

The other night I dreamt that I was having breakfast with Matthew Pavlich. He was telling me that he feels so lacklustre now that the season is over, and also that he bought a new Mercedes to go with his BWM. It made him seem really pathetic. But now that I see those car names side by side I realise that my subconscious has not really moved past the 1980s when it comes to luxury vehicles, so perhaps I am the pathetic one. But the main point is that yeah, it's sad and confusing when things end. Like TV series and footy seasons. And my subconscious thinks I need Matthew Pavlich to tell me. Idiot.

The Wayne Carey Workout (PM)

Did you see that Billy Conelly show about the bears? Those guys have it really tough. Unless you are talking about the kind of bear that wears tops and no pants. Those guys seem to have it pretty sweet.

Speaking of the Wayne Carey ensemble it's important to note that the key to the hilarity is that Wayne Carey wasn't wearing underwear in that story. There's nothing funny about a t-shirt and socks if you've got undies on. The pyjama ensemble if champions, that is. Bare legs with a t-shirt is summer's answer to tracksuit pants. But in the Wayne Carey story some young woman walked into a hotel room where Carey sat drunk and beshirted yet pantsless on the end of his bed. Now that's funny.

You can call me old fashioned but undies are usually the first garment on and the last garment off when I'm doing any kind of dressing or undressing. I guess I don't want to know how Wayne Carey gets dressed and I sure as he'll don't want to know how he gets undressed. 

The upshot of all this is that if you weren't wearing underwear yesterday mate, kudos to you for your weird and slightly gross workout. If you were wearing undies, I'm afraid to say you were just another working out at home on washing day.  

The Wayne Carey Workout (AM)

I like to work out regularly these days. Mainly because I have come to accept that I have the metabolism of a hibernating bear and the appetite of one of those bears standing in the river waiting for fish to jump out when they are going for a little fishy swim. It's a challenging combination, but one that I must live with, hence the need to regularly work out. Plus, all the health and wellbeing benefits of exercise, blah blah blah.
I try to go for a run every second day, and on the days I don't run, I try to walk to and from work. Look, it's no olympiad training regime, but it's more than I usually do.
Yesterday was meant to be one of my running days, so in the early afternoon I started getting ready...I put my hair up, I donned my sports underwear, I put on a t-shirt. But when it came to putting my leggings on, I was stopped short. After washing them on Saturday the little suckers were still wet. Or  damp, rather. Unwearable, basically.
Part of me was thrilled that I had an excuse to give the run a miss. But knowing that there was probably going to be hot chips in my Sunday night, I felt like I really should do some sort of exercise. And I was half dressed for exercise.
Then it hit me. I was half dressed for exercise! I was basically wearing the outfit Wayne Carey wore one of the times he got in to some trouble with the law...pants free with socks and a white t-shirt. The funniest outfit of them all! And perfect for staying home, drawing the blinds and getting high like Wayne Carey OR doing this 7 minute workout that I read about on the internet.
Also, perfect for writing about on Miss Soft Crab, because for a while there, few things amused J more than the story about pants free Wayne Carey.
So I did. I pulled on my runners and I chuckled my way through that 7 minute workout knowing that I would have looked like a massive, massive tool but that J would be amused. And after doing it a few times I got quite puffed and sweaty so I think I might do it again.

What people wore on Monday night (PM)

Twigley's outfit on Monday night has further confirmed my long-held and ever increasing suspicion that she is in fact Frank N. Furter.

Look at that crazy face

I have to confess I only watched about five minutes of the brownlow on Monday night. Just long enough to establish that I don't like the look of Gary Ablett's new girlfriend one bit. The problem with the Brownlow, other than the mind numbing boringness of a show that is basically three hours of a man listing names and numbers, is that the WAGs have become too obsessed with looking pretty, rather than using their old M.O. of look slutty. And seeing Brynne's outfit this year basically is the nail in the coffin. This is a woman that once wore this:

Brownlow hos, is there any hope for you now?


At least the ladies at the Emmys are mostly pretty and have enough money that they really do look good. Still effing boring though. When I saw Claire dames I almost vomited. The dress is whatever. It was the hair and face styling that I can't stand. I can't exactly explain it, I just think that hair is  most boring thing I have ever seen.

I kind of like the concept and fabric of Lena Dunham's dress, but girlfriend really has to improve her posture if she wants to pull off that kind of thing. And maybe it should have come in lower down, at the waist. You know?

Thank god for Juliane Hough, a woman I am only familiar with because I saw a god awful movie called Safe Haven that she was in on the plane to USA. Also she was in Rock of Ages. Most importantly she was a professional dancer in Dancing with the Stars. Clearly this had the most influence on her dress sense. Now here is a woman that could show the WAGs how to dress.

 

Awards nights, ladies, you all are going to have to work harder. 

What people wore on Monday night (AM)

For people who like looking at ladies wearing dresses, Monday night was a bonanza.
The Emmys AND the Brownlow, together at last. At one, a bunch of ladies walking that tightrope of elegance that touches on skankiness. At the other, a bunch of ladies embracing skankiness holus bolus, and Andrew Demetriou's wife.
I watched the Brownlow of course and was shocked by the lack of boobs. It's like modesty is the new exhibitionism. I don't understand what's going on.
Look at what Brynne wore!

The others were all so boring that they're barely worth mentioning here. OK OK I will mention what Twigley wore.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA.
This belongs in True Blood if it was set in the 1980s. It also makes me think that Twigley has adopted a who gives a fuck attitude which pleases me a lot. But that might be wishful thinking.

Ok, let's see what the Emmy's have to offer.

This weirds me out. But I like how Rose Byrne has chosen a dress in a shade the same as her name. That's totally something I would do if my name was a colour and not an abbreviation for a measure of distance.

I feel like Heidi wants to look like a sexy snake here. I don't think anyone should do that. Not even snakes.

This next one I actually kind of love...

....because it seems like the dress is wearing a mask because it wants to be incognito.

This I flat out dislike:

It's a little bit wedding dress, and a little bit wedding night neglige. Get off the fence and make a decision Danes!

Ok, lets see what J has to say on the matter. Let's ease her in, shall we?

The Miss Soft Crab Brownlow wrap up

After the success of the 2011 Brownlow Blue Carpet Wrap Up, Miss Soft Crab could not wait to get ringside for the 2012 extravaganza on Monday night.
Would the lazy susan be back?
Would Jimmy Bartel's girlfriend finally realise what a good wicket she is on and smile for once?
Would Twigley look ridiculous? (we didn't really wonder about this)

As usual, Miss Soft Crab answers all your questions through the text messages we exchanged  during the broadcast. J's special comments in grey, mine in green.

I don't know what a Fango is, but the Tango is a dance. 

The Cooneys are lovely, but underboob really should be neither seen nor heard.

You can't really see it here, but it's there. 

As for Lady Jobe...

Zzzzzzzzzzzz.
I love you a little bit, Jobe.

More of Twigley later...
At this point, Trent and Lady Cotchin arrived, wearing something that looked inspired by a chaise lounge.

Am I right?

Baby is beautiful, he's right.

Sometimes our text messages don't make a lot of sense. Someone says something about one guy, then the other one responds with a comment about some other guy. It's a mess. But it always ends up with us wondering where Jimmy is. Anyway, here are Nick and Lady Nat:

And Toma and Ladyhawke:

Back to the broadcast...

Because they didn't show him ALL NIGHT, here is a picture of Jimmy for you, readers.

Now that's a face that has Brownlow written all over it. What? I don't know. But where the hell was Jimmy?

J said it best:

Seriously producers, what the eff. And seriously Twigley, what the eff.

Someone put a party pie in that woman's mouth, seriously.
That's basically all the red carpet had to offer and frankly, it was very disappointing. The count itself didn't really improve things. No Jimmy. Barely any Dees players got votes. No Jimmy.

J was smart and started watching the Emmys.

J meant 'love'. She can't help but love Gary.
Meanwhile, the lacklustre broadcast was made worse by the fact that they kept cutting to what looked like a fluro-lit RSL in Sydney where all the swans were. It was weird.

Does anyone know if Goodesy has a girlfriend? Because obviously the only thing standing between us is some other woman. Otherwise it would be on like Donkey Kong.

Meanwhile, J was watching the Emmys.

Aaron Paul plays Jesse Pinkman on Breaking Bad. We love Jesse Pinkman. He won an Emmy!
And Jobe Watson won the Brownlow.
For some reason, J started referring to Jobe Watson as my boyfriend. Sure, why not.

#hot

So that was it really. In summary, a very boring Brownlow with hardly any hunks and boring dresses. Just like the 2012 season.

At this point, I'm turned the tele off and probably started looking at pictures of Jimmy on the internet or something.
Then, I got this message from J:

I hope you made it out, Mate.

Thank God I checked Facebook again (TGICFA) (AM)

This week has been pretty exhausting. Yeah, this is only my second working day of the week. And mostly I've just been watching Breaking Bad, looking in some shops, chilling with my homies, dancing, cooking, but you know, my brain got all jazzed on spring earlier this week and what goes up must come down.

So looking for inspiration last night I did all sorts of questionable things. I watched 15 minutes of The Footy Show hoping they would give me something. I knew they wouldn't, but Jimmy Bartel was on and I am, after all, a human. Anyway, even Jimmy couldn't make that shit watchable so I turned to Facebook. I hardly ever look at that stupid website these days and now I know why. All FB gave me was a raging jealousy of Chickpea's trip to Tokyo and her access to all that stationary, also I got sore eyes after rolling them so much at all the annoying shit people say.

But then. Just before bed I had one last look. And I saw this! Two friends posted it. And thank Christ! The first time I saw the link I didn't click it. Thanks Little Wonders for posting this clip of Edward and Bella' bad lip reading. Otherwise I might have gone to bed without shedding those tears of hysteria.

The highlights (PM)

Truth be told, readers, I was a wingman on most of those things J talked about in the AM, except instead of napping on her beanbag, I went home and napped on my couch. I agree about all those highlights, but would like to add the bit where the Dees beat the Gold Coast Suns for their third victory of the season as another highlight.

They can't believe it either!

And news just in!

Guess which favourite son of Miss Soft Crab finally beat Roger Federer to win a gold medal in the tennis?!

Atta boy, Andy Murray.

Great weekend all round readers!

The highlights (AM)

What a weekend. Or something. In fact my weekend was really quiet but by the end of it I felt exhausted. You wanna know some of the weekend's highlights? Ok, sure.

1. Friday night - Geelong vs Hawthorn. Especially the last minutes. Holy muthereffing moly you guys!!! Now, you either saw it or you didn't. And you either care or you don't. But in case you don't know Geelong ran away with the first quarter. Just were creaming the Hawks, who, over the course of the match made up ground to be ahead of Geelong in the last quarter. Hawthorn were dominating. Yada yada yada, in the last 20 seconds or so, 4 POINTS down Tom Hawkins took a mark for Geelong right in front of the goals on the 50 metre line. Yeah, you see where this is going? NAIL BITING EXCITEMENT! And he kicked the goal, after the siren for Geelong to win the match. You know, a lot of the time I don't even care much about footy but this was awesome. And by that I mean actually awesome. It was so exciting, I actually could hardly stop thinking about it all weekend. Footy! Get it up ya!

Tomahawk in amazed delight

2. I effed up some muffins. Yeah, this doesn't sound like a highlight does it. I made cinnamon, choc chip and walnut muffins and in my haste used plain flour instead of  self-raising. Dumkopf! When I made the realisation after noticing those muffins just weren't rising I was so disappointed. They smelled so good but they were just going to be crap. But that is when I realised that I could whack them in a dish with some custard to make a bread-pudding-like muffin pudding. Um, warm, custardy, chocolatey, nutty goo! Get it up ya! And add cream

3. I napped on the bean bag on Sunday. I told Chickpea and Strawberry this and they looked at me like a weirdo for sharing such a boring piece of information. But if you have ever been really tired after a bunch of wines the night before and 5 hours sleep and being woken by a child and you have to go to the pub later for a birthday party and you just want a nap and then your child curls up on you and falls asleep allowing you follow suit, well, then you will know how effing good that feels. Naps! Get 'em up ya!

4. Oh yeah, hanging with all my delightful friends was great too. I'm not saying that get it up ya thing here. Come on, guys! That would be really inappropriate.

Haiku Thursday (PM)

Chris Judd Haiku

I

Just because it sounds

Yum, doesn't make it cool you

Chicken wing tackler. 

II

Stop pretending and 

Just punch people in the face

Like the thug you are. 

RE: Afternoon naps with the winter sun on your face

My new work desk has 

A window and privacy.

Opportunity.

Good for you, winter (AM)

Winter is 12 days old and already its as cold as charity. 

We have to put up with this BS for at least three months, guys. Three months! It might as well be forever. 

Instead of crying about it, which I kind of want to do but suspect will make me feel colder, I am going to give winter the MSC positivity treatment. You remember how it goes. 

Winter, thanks for being so damned punctual. You are the only season that turns up exactly when you're supposed to, and as a person who likes to be on time, I appreciate that.  Because there is no image that goes well with punctuality, I am going to post this picture of some potato croquettes I ate one time. I expect these croquettes would be very nice to eat in winter. 

Winter, even though you are really cold, it must be said that you are quite pretty, and I like to look at pretty things. Yesterday, when I went out for breakfast with Crimpy and we sat outside because Alby was with us, it was very still and there was that soupy fog that people talk about and it was quite pleasing to the eye. Thanks for being pretty.

This is a Gerhard Richter painting that while not representative of what it looked like when I was having breakfast with Crimpy yesterday, looks very pretty and wintery.

                             

Alby resting after breakfast.

Winter, you are practically my favourite eating season. You are definitely in my top four. Winter eating is the greatest. Because all the stuff is delicious, and you have to eat it so you can manage the cold. Feeling a little cold, readers? Just eat something.  Things I like to eat during winter are:

• porridge
• goulash
• spatzle
• pies
• buttered toast
• assorted roast meats
• lasagne

Garfield was so right

This is not a complete list. 

Finally, winter, I like the footy and you are the season for footy. Go dees! I don't even care about yesterday's loss, I love you, you little demons.

A really great weekend (PM)

Yeah it was! And I didn’t even find a dream coat! And, although my team did win, it was only against Greater Western Sydney. Whoopdeedo.

Mate, it’s almost as if your weekend was the upset of the season!

Sure, we had tickets to see the This American Life movie of a show, so I guess the weekend was always going to be pretty good, but no one could have expected:

·         You would get a dream park which meant

·         You would find a dream coat

·         Your team, the Melbourne Demons, would have their first win of the season against the ‘in-form team of the season’!

·         The This American Life movie would be so utterly awesome and delightful!

All this from what was expected to be a pretty average weekend!

Plus Melbourne is full of beautiful autumn leaves even though it’s winter. Word to your mother autumn!

And, word to your mother last weekend!

And word to your mother, Matey, for just taking the weekend by the horns hand having a great one the shit out of it.

A really great weekend (AM)

I know you guys don't come here on a Monday to hear about what we did on the weekend. The weekend might as well be a million years ago, right? It's yesterday's news.  Plus, sometimes the stuff we do on the weekend and then write about on Monday can be really boring. I know it. You guys know it. It's the elephant in the room (if we were all in a room).
Despite this, I really want to talk about a couple of really wonderful things that happened on the weekend. I'm sorry if this bores you. To the readily bored - we'll see you guys tomorrow. To the rest of you, get ready to be mildly entertained.

OK, first things first, a little background. The other day I was telling J that I really need a new winter coat. One that is kind of mid-length. Not long. Not short. Mid-length.

This is a mid-length coat.

This is from The Sartorialist. 

We workshopped what this might look like, and came up with something like this:

Now normally we would never workshop something like that. I mean, we are mature adults (if you factor in our ages). We have better things to do (we don't). One of us is a parent (that's a true fact). But for some reason, we just felt like collaborating on the imaginary design of a coat that I don't need. I certainly didn't expect to find exactly that coat. I mean, that coat is an ideal. It's not real. It's a fantasy. It exists in my imagination as the benchmark against which real coats are measured, and eventually through this process, an acceptable substitute  identified. I would never dream of finding that coat. I'm not crazy, guys.

Anyway, flash forward to Saturday afternoon. I was on my way to Richmond and I decided to drive along Lygon street because I thought maybe there would be a park outside Monk House and I could go in and see if they have a nice coat. Of course that was never going to happen because there are never parks on Lygon Street. But I figured I might as well.

Readers, there was a park right outside Monk House. I ducked in. Pretty much the first thing I saw was a coat that looked like this:

It's pretty much the exact coat we imagined. Only green. 

I kind of felt like it might be a joke, like how the eff could I be so lucky to get a park out the front, and find the exact coat that we had designed in our imaginations. That shit doesn't happen. Not to me. I started getting giddily excited, and then freaking out. This sometimes happens when things are going too well for me. I figure that the universe will punish me for my hubris and something will go horribly wrong. I reasoned that it would probably look shit on. That, and the fact that it's just a coat, so I wasn't really in too much danger of a nasty universe correction.  I relaxed a little and took it to the change room.

Readers, I don't want to sound like a real love-o, but it kind of looked awesome. Like, better than pretty much all the other things I have tried on. Ever. Happily I couldn't afford it because I have to take my car to the fix-it shop this week and it turns out that mortgages are really expensive. I put it back on the shelf and left to go to go on with my day.* Even though I didn't buy it, I basically felt like that was unbelievable luck.

After my day's activities, I headed home for a quiet night in. I got a DVD. I had some cake to eat. It was going to be a rad night. Of course, the Dees v. Essendon game was on, and I figured I might as well watch the first quarter, just to check in with my little guys in red and blue. Of course Melbourne were going to lose the shit out of the game. Essendon are the in-form side of the whole competition at the moment (they're one of them). There was no way the Dees could beat them.

Readers, I'm sure you know what happened. The mother flipping Dees beat mother flipping Essendon by a goal in what Richo and Lingy were calling the upset of the season. I can't really talk about it without my little heart speeding up and a general feeling of elation coming over me. It felt like winning a premiership might feel, which of course I can't comment on because I was born after 1964 which is when Melbourne won its last premiership. But none of that matters. The Dees beat Essendon guys. They totally did it.

So as you can see, my weekend was composed of these really wonderful things. And that was just one of the days! Sunday was almost as good, as I went to see the This American Life  live show at the Nova and my smile muscles are still hurting from that. The thing about all of this is that it wasn't even one of those weekends that you know is going to be rad because you've planned some great things or what have you. It was just going to be regular but it turned out super awesome. I hope it lasts readers, I hope it lasts.  


* J met me at Monkhouse on Sunday and after  about 10 seconds of trying the coat on again, we agreed that I should put that beautiful baby on layby.

An open letter to Harvey Norman (AM)

Dear Harvey Norman,

Usually when Miss Soft Crab writes an open letter, Miss Soft Crab eases in to it. Miss Soft Crab starts nice and gentle, and then Miss Soft Crab rams it home when Miss Soft Crab is good and ready.  But Harvey Norman, your latest ad is such a bunch a total bullshit, Miss Soft Crab does not feel like doing you any favours. 

You know the ad i'm talking about.  It's the one where a man and a woman are in the kitchen doing some domestic labour. The man excuses himself because the footy's about to start.  He goes in to the living room, which miraculously turns in to a football ground  (I assume this is to indicate that the TVs and shit you guys sell are so rad, they will make you feel like you're at the ground, but I hate this ad so much I haven't even registered what it's for. Truth be told, Harvey Norman, I'm not even 100% sure it's your ad, but I think it is, and I need someone to blame). The man looks really really happy, and then a small boy comes in the room and says "Daddy!" and hops up on the couch with the man so they can watch TV together. In the background, the woman comes out of the kitchen and leans against the door frame and tilts her head as if she is really touched by this vision of the special men in her life bonding over the football.

Um, you've got to be fucking kidding me Harvey Norman.You're trying to sell TVs by telling us:

• women belong in the kitchen, and have no interest in the footy
• only men and their infant sons like sitting on the couch watching the footy  
• women derive a LOT of satisfaction from taking a brief break from their domestic labour to look at the back of their man's head while he is sitting on the couch watching the footy. 

WTF, Harvey Norman.This ad peddles a totally antiquated, totally effed version of domestic life, and one made even more nightmarish by the implication that in this world, women don't like football. What the eff?!  Nuclear families. Women working while Men relax. I guess he's been at work all week and needs to relax, right Harvey Norman?  I guess she's just been at home looking after the kid all week, and therefore doesn't need that time on the couch.
This is the worst kind of bullshit Harvey Norman. The kind that appears simple and innocuous and fleeting, but nevertheless implies things that are totally effed and have no place on my TV, which, I'm sorry to say, I bought at Harvey Norman.  You should know better. And if you know nothing else, know this: I wouldn't buy electronic goods from you if you were the last purveyor of electronic goods on earth. Bam!


Love from K




PS: Also you want to sell some TVs? Storyboard this, mother effers. 

OPTION 1 - Based on actual events that took place at Chez K on Sunday


Note: This scene takes place in a small but cosy apartment, where there are no dishes to be done because the occupant cleverly went out for brunch to avoid creating dishes. Specifically the breakfast pizza here - try it, it's unbelievable  


Woman gets on couch an hour before the footy starts, to be sure she doesn't miss it. 
Woman is delighted to discover that a repeat of Downton Abbey is on. 
Woman watches it until the footy starts. 
Woman has a lovely time, especially up until three quarter time because her team has been quite competitive. 
 FIN

OPTION 2 - Based on events that are yet to occur but universe, if you're listening, it would be really rad if they could occur at some point this winter. 


Note: This scene takes place in a cosy cottage type deal, possibly in Hobart, and there may be a fire going in the background. There is definitely a cute dog curled up on a rug somewhere. It opens with a man and woman in a kitchen. Man loooks like a young Mandy Patinkin. 

Man: "Honey, the footy's about to start."

Woman: High five!

Man goes to oven and pulls out tray of party pies and sausage rolls.

Woman places tomato sauce, stubbies (in stubbie holders...football is a winter sport after all and no one likes a cold hand) and serviettes on the coffee table.

Man, woman, cute dog all take a seat at the couch.

All take a party pie and start eating.

First siren sounds.

FIN

Bam! TVs get sold.