People in treehouses shouldn't give out the password

So, Queenie's been a bit lax the last few weeks. Sorry about that. Life has been a bit complicated.

Suffice it to say that the days of coming home from work and lounging around the apartment langorously while dreaming up blog posts are over. For a bit anyways.

Work is as relentless as ever. Even when there are no scandals and no Legislature sittings, which demand a relentless conveyor belt of what my colleague refers to as 'bright, shiny objects' i.e. issues, for the assembled politicians and hangers on, day to day life in the world of oppositional politics still demands a relentless conveyor belt of bright shiny objects for the media.

Plus we had our annual electricity rates bunfight this week, with the power company asking the regulator for a rate increase, and the forces of good rallied against them, and a veritable vulture flock of lawyers going chi-ching, resulting in mounds and mounds and mounds of badly written documentation about coal prices and executive bonuses and why the poorest people in this province have to pay the most for their energy and gas flue desensitisation and blah-di-fucking-blah that Queenie had to plough through to no avail because the power company took the hit before the hearing started in any course....

Here's a thought.

Instead of creating paper and using electricity to write on the pages and send the documentation to a gazzilion people who have better things to do than read them seeing as it appears to be a pointless exercise, why don't we just save a load of time and money and burn the trees in the power stations?

And while I'm on the subject of trees, the ugly issue of the treehouse is rearing its head again.

Treehouses...

When I was nine, the lads on our road built a treehouse and I was never allowed to go into the treehouse because I didn't have the password. I found the whole episode singularly unfair at the time and I suppose it was my first entry into the 'you can't be in our club because you don't have a penis' part of life that DRIVES ME CRACKED and sends me flying into a rage that is so earth shattering that it proves to the boys that it was a good decision not to give me the password.

God knows, I might have torn the treehouse down during one of my pre-menstrual fits!!

One would think that twenty eight years later I would have either figured out the password, or it would have been abolished.

But no.

It's alive and kicking in the twentyfirst century workplace.

The only way to deal with it is to imagine said workmates wearing Just William clothes, including a jaunty school cap perched sideways on their heads, while sitting in a treehouse instead of an office, peering out through the slatted sides with their war paint on, keeping sketch for the other gang, who are planning on making a raid from their clubhouse down the road.

Thinks about that for a second.

That's so like the way it is it's scary.

Thing is, I don't actually want to be in the treehouse. It's cold, it's wet, it's hierarchical, it's boring sitting around waiting for the raid. I'd much rather hang out with the girls and tear their personalities to shreds while we make mud pies for the battle of the treehouse.

I just want to know what they talk about while they're up there. Strategy? Leadership? Tactics?
I should try to tame my nosier shores I suppose. It's just I have a sneaking suspicion they're all in there having a competition to see who can emit the noisiest fart, while us girls are all down at the bottom of the tree making the bright shiny objects that actually win the war in the long run.