'Cause I can't get a column.

As I type I'm at my kitchen table wrapped in a towel. It's a 'bath sheet' actually, as you and I both know, a standard towel would not encase my outer Goddess. I've not had a chance to dress since showering with my infant twins, one at a time, in an attempt to establish the concept of bed time in their soft little heads. They both missed the meeting about going straight to the cot and a sound slumber from the shower so I'm rocking one with my foot and my husband Adrian is rocking the other with his. Don't know which, does it matter?

Bouncy rocker things have changed since my day when they looked like an old moll's fishnet stocking strung over a contorted clothes hanger. These ones send a vibration through the baby's nether regions and play show tunes. Sounds like a pretty good night out to me, however the babies are so-over-it and now demand to be rocked as well as vibrated. In fairness, that does sound like a better night.

All the time we attempt to send them off, the fairly newly acquired shelter dog BJ stands directly between them barking at the cat. Every time he does it, we scream "BJ!" in unison. He glances over his shoulder smiling broadly and barks again. I decide to poor myself another glass of cask wine rather than throw the glass at the little blighter and realise the tempo of my foot rocking has increased to catapult speed. The occupant is quiet and has his eyes close so I continue apace.

Adrian reckoned he would cook Spag Bol tonight but it's 7.15 an there's no sign. I'm hungry enough to eat the bum out of a low flying duck but I say nothing as it'll shit him and ruin my chances of a bit of action later on. Not that my chances are great mind you, but you gotta know when to hold' em. I'll eat some gherkins from the jar. (Not an analogy, actual gherkins).

OK, so now that you have a picture of the true suburban banality of my life, and the jaunty resignation with which I live it, TELL ME I SHOULDN'T HAVE MY OWN COLUMN SOMEWHERE!

You know, like a newspaper column or one in a magazine. A little strip down the side of the page with a photo of me with too much make up and a forced smile at the top. One of those bits in the magazine that you only read when your on a flight or in a waiting room, and you've read all the good stuff so you go back and read the book reviews and Jennifer Hawkins interviews and columns and that. I want one of those.

It's bullshit, it really is. I've been trying for years to get one. I eventually tried to get just a local one in Brisbane which frankly would not have satisfied my literary dreams but I thought it would be a start. Well, the Brisbane 'media' expects you to work for free, and even then national anonimity appears to be a prerequisit. They let me fill in for their resident domestic diva once when she went on holidays, then refused to cough up the fee afterwards and that was that. Bullshit.

Just check out my credentials. I'm 36, (old enough for self-deprecation, see bath towel gag at top,) married 13 years, (not as long for murder etc. etc. etc.) have just given birth to IVF twins (career girl leaves run too late and almost misses out, should not be subsidised by rest of society, see current Medicare safety net debate. Topical.) I am relatable as f@$%.

So, I've decided to blog as no one can stop me and if I'm not going to get paid, I don't expect to have to follow any rules either. Let's go bitches.