Jabba, you're a wonderful human being

2009-11-11T14:55:00.002+11:00

Further proof that the universe, or even just the number 96 tram, is indeed benevolent.

Singing group breaking out into Throw Your Arms Around me between Alexandra Parade and Scotchmer St last night. Delightful.

My sunglasses were on so no-one saw my reaction. Certainly further proof I am a sook.

2009-11-09T22:33:00.002+11:00

Colleague: What did you get up on the weekend with your sister then?

Me: Oh we had lots of fun. Ended up going out to Scienceworks.

Colleague: Oh, um, how old is your sister?

Me: She's 25.

Colleague: (surprised) Oh, um, riiiiiiiight.

Scienceworks is a museum out in the industrial suburb of Spotswood, and is primarily aimed at school aged children, hence the abovementioned bemusement. But for the last four months they have hosted this , and naturally the sister and I popped off out there on Sunday. I then got propositioned by a scout trooper. Life actually complete now.

Connex, being the highly professional customer centric organisation that they are, thoughtfully gave us a lovely scenic tour of the Western suburbs including the thriving metropolis of Laverton. Just delightful to finally see for ourselves the oil refineries from the comfort of a non air-conditioned train replacement bus in 36 degree heat. I was all ready to provide some constructive feedback to the Connex man at Footscray, but he had a kind face with a mo and I couldn't bring myself to do it.

2009-11-07T22:19:00.003+11:00

Gorgeous day today, punctuated by brunch with the girls, Baggage being back in town, shopping in old Richmond stomping ground and investing in summer wardrobe, and picking up sister.

Also, in case anyone thought I was making it up...

2009-11-05T22:30:00.002+11:00

I am actually too short to fucking straphang, ok?

Is what I should have said to the glowering old gentleman this evening who I accidentally bumped when the tram came to a sudden halt. G forces are difficult to deal with when you are my height as well as clumsy. (I just smiled apologetically). Nonwithstanding that, summer may have arrived. Left work at 5, and the warm evening was full of wrap around sunnies and shirt sleeves striding along the warm pavements, and chatter and fake tanned legs spilling out of bars. Also the pizza place on the corner sells rather good gelato tubs for $6. I must remember that.

Eviction

2009-10-23T00:12:00.001+11:00

A couple of weeks ago, it was about 2am, and I found myself awake (and this happens quite frequently, and I count myself lucky I can function on 4-5 hours a night, but I am not going to detail that here, nor am I going to detail my latest romantic disappointment, because I am not really in the mood to whore my personal shit on the intertubes right now) and thus I was in my bathroom, fossicking about for my valerian root, when my hand touched something that moved.

Not a nice feeling when something crawls over your hand now is it? Especially when you are not expecting it.

Removed my hand. You know what it was? A cockroach. A fucking disgusting cockroach. Reddish brown in colour, about 4 cm long with antennae as long as its body.

I attempted to capture it, but as I said it was 2am. I was awake but not at my personal bug squashing best and so retired to bed, with a parting 'Look. Don't think I didn't fucking see you, little fucker. I will be dealing with you tomorrow. Do you understand?'

I don't think he took me seriously. I hate cockroaches.

Next morning he kept a very low profile, knowing the issues he had caused. I named him after my ex boyfriend – shifty, filthy, scuttling away at the first sign of trouble, etc. (Bit unfair, on the cockroach, but we digress). Made FOAH aware of unwelcome new tenant. She refused to let me kill him, as killing one of God's creatures is not right blah blah and some other hippie bullshit she got me to swallow. She saw him and he scuttled away again, evading capture. Little fucker.

I was beginning to believe that C had found his own way outside, when tonight I heard a blood curdling screech from the bathroom, where FOAH was showering.

'The cockroach! Michelle I can't deal with it. I can't! Get a container!'

(Aside: FOAH is a nurse. She deals with human fecal matter, blood and old men's willies on a daily basis. Bugs are a different ball park? Odd.)

Rolled up my (dressing gown) sleeves and made my way into the bathroom, empty yogurt contained in hand. Tactically placed some shampoo bottles around C, blocking off his means of escape. He was then trapped, placed in container and in quick motion the lid was placed on top of him, sealing his fate forever. Ran to the door and dropped C over balcony and into the night.

Swaggered back into the house. I'm not a total fucking princess am I?

Also, although I have had an average day, I am ever so grateful for small mercies.

2009-10-15T12:56:00.003+11:00

Is it too early to buy myself a little* birthday present? Birthday not til 28/12.

Well, too bad if it is. Cos I have. Red. Silk. Stunning. Boobalicious. Needs alterations to make more 'licious', and slightly less 'booba'.

*outrageously expensive

2009-10-14T20:10:00.001+11:00

Was a bit delighted to see entry in today's MX 'here's looking at you' column:

'To the short blonde suited chick on the 96 tram, you were reading your SE Asia Lonely Planet and looking tired although smiling lots. I am the tall, bald Scotsman who you made eye contact with. Jamesons?'

If it seems a bit good to be true, it probably is.

2009-10-03T15:17:00.002+10:00

Had some girlfriends over for dinner last night; made chicken breasts with proscuitto and sundried tomatoes. And then in keeping with the theme of the evening, I tried to weigh my own breasts, using the bathroom scales and then when that failed, the kitchen scales*. The things I can be encouraged to do after a bottle and a half of riesling.

*about 3 kg either side. I think.

2009-09-30T11:09:00.000+10:00

If I had a dollar....

- for every time someone called our office wanting to book for the Dali exhibition*
- for every time the number 96 was late
- for every morning this week I have woken up with huge puffy eyes from the spring

I would have at least $20 (to buy me some eyecream)

*we are one number off the NGV. Three phone calls this morning, so far, and counting.

Home

2009-09-21T17:15:00.005+10:00

Last week, I was home for the first time in 18 months. By home, I mean the garden city of Christchurch, New Zealand. This is the place at which I was born, educated, and where I left at 22 for the first time and 24 for the second time - permanently.

Flying back yesterday, over the alps, in the very early morning. The sun was just rising, and the light was just hitting the peaks of Mt Cook, and it looked truly spectacular. Twinge of nostalgia. Every time I go back and somehow expect it to be the same, and it isn't.

Back there again for Christmas. I guess I need to get over it.

2009-09-06T12:16:00.000+10:00

Dear Managing Director of Voodoo Hosiery

I write to you in extreme frustration and a somewhat red face. Allow me to begin by saying that I am a prolific pantihose wearer and have been since from at least the age of 18 (and possibly before) due to my shyness of exposing my less than toned legs. (My flatmate says I have quite nice legs, but still I prefer to keep my legs covered, and anyway she is just being nice, and she is a nurse so naturally empathetic). It is a rare day (one over 30 degrees) where I neglect to clad my legs in fabric of some various denier; and your brand has always been a favourite. Not quite as nice as the scaperelli, certainly nicer than the brand at priceline. A very good reliable brand (and the firm control shine in celestial have been a fave). In summary, I believe I am in a good position in my consumer habits to form opinions around your product.

So Friday night I am in my office, preparing to go out for Little Anna's birthday. It remains chill at nights in Melbourne these days, and as I opted to wear a black shirt dress that has become a true favorite over the last month, pantihose of some description were obvs required. I had noticed earlier that day that there was a hole in the current (opaque, black) pair that I had been wearing, so naturally before getting changed I went downstairs to the chemist and brokered a deal on the new ladderless technology.

Well, I am here to tell you, Mr VD, that the name of your ladderless tights is indeed spurious.

I won't go into the detail of my discovering of this technology failure, except to say that the hose was not in contact with my leg for more than a second, when it snagged and, yes, it laddered. Suffice to say it involved a little bit of unladylike language and an aim at the bin. So there I am, (bare)legging it back down to the chemist, who were somewhat surprised to see me again within such a short period. Not wanting to make the same mistake, I opted for a pair of your micronets.

Back to ladies'. Slight sense of deja vue. Pulled (gently, promise) the pair of nets on, only to once more be bitterly disappointed as a large hole immediately insinuated itself around my hip / buttock area. Knowing the chemist would now be shut, I knew my only option was to venture out onto the streets of Melbourne, with a large pantihose hole under my dress, trying to ignore the cold air on my skin. I did in the end, have quite a nice evening, (apart from the best part of a glass of pinot noir being upended into my lap), in spite of wearing substandard tights under my outfit. $40 on hosiery, sir, and one very cold buttock to show for it. You can imagine my disappointment and frustration.

I would ask that you give some serious thought to your marketing material around ladderlessness. I don't suit trousers at all, as am too short. And we are a long way off 30 deg yet.

2009-09-03T21:14:00.003+10:00

I do wonder how many places in the world you can leave the house with your sunglasses and an umbrella, and legitimately use both items within the hour. Despite the Melbourne sky being its fickle self, there was a definite feeling of spring here today, and a lovely whiff of jasmine flowering.

Camera back in action (I didnt really isolate the problem. It was the battery, ok?) so here is a little picture taken today, showing much of Northcote, the Eastern Suburbs and the Dandenonks.

Tired & Emotional

2009-08-29T19:49:00.004+10:00

Some nights just kind of get away on you don't they, and that is what I realised about 3.15 this morning when I found myself in a Karaoke Bar with one of my mad Irish friends. Dreadfully hungover today; popped down to Caulfield to see Abbey & Bella, came back and carbo loaded, and am presently pissing round on net having done my ironing for the coming week. Wild.

Anyhooo, below was written in the week before I departed Ireland in March. The year there went so fast, and it was tricky at times but I don't regret it for one moment. Now there is a bit of distance between where I am now and where I was then, I feel ok about posting it. Onwards.
___

The third day I was in Dublin, I was ready to head back to the airport and leave. Finding things tricky, and the place despite being friendly was strangely impenetrable and for the first time in my life I was so afflicted with homesickness it ached.

I had woken early to leave the worst hostel in the history of the world. I attempted to have a shower, there was no hot water in the mouldy, cold bathroom. I sat in the common room in the corner, while some boys from Italy talked infront of the TV, and began to contemplate the consequences of going home after only 3 days. What on earth possessed me to do this? I have a home and a career in Melbourne. And more importantly, people who knew me! This was clearly a hugely arrogant move on my part.

I started to make my way over to the new hostel with my large coffin like bag. My back was aching so despite having very little money to myself, gave up and I flagged a taxi down. The driver happily assisted me with my bag, and sat me in the front and asked where I was and where I was going. It was the first time someone had spoken to me all day, and I burst into tears.

The poor cabbie would have been 40ish, a Dubliner, having a quiet day of driving round and finds a greasy haired kiwi hysteric in his vehicle. He offered me a tissue and a cigarette (to have once I got out, its a $3000 fine for smoking in cabs here) and upon hearing the fact I was a kiwi recently arrived in Dublin, and not knowing a soul, got on his cellphone and called a fellow cabbie who was a kiwi to take me out for a drink.

There was also the story of the passport control officer, commenting on the blonde photo in my passport and saying that my darker locks 'look very well' and I should keep 'them that way.' Try getting that from the Home Office.

And then there was John, darling twinkly eyed John with his bushy beard, who didn't know me from Eve, but was happy to escort me around Dublin, take me out for drinks (and pay for them as he knew I had no money, despite being skint himself) and befriend me like I was one of the gang for years, not some random woman who was friends with his exgirlfriends sister's friend. I don't know what I would have done without him and Paddy as my friends here; they are both kindred spirits. Ann-Marie and Felix, letting me stay at their house, AM lending me clothes to wear to interviews, Felix and his dark sense of humour.

There are so many stories of lovely Irish people. People are so lovely. I will miss it here more than I thought.

2009-08-26T22:27:00.002+10:00

Cos its about the quantity. It is.

Things I can never have enough of:
- camomile tea and honey
- white work shirts
- clinique, generally
- shoes, generally
- 80% cocoa lindt
- the sun.

Fecking weather gone beserk here. At least in Dublin the weather was consistent (consistently shit). Here, it is just mad.

2009-08-23T18:36:00.002+10:00

Absofuckinglutely fucking tired, after quite a busy weekend, partying at a mate's 30th til 3am this morning, and participating in walking tour round streets of Melbourne, learning about cold cases and other cool stuff. Walked all the way back to 3068, am now so tired can barely function. Definite whiff of spring in the air now.

2009-07-21T13:42:00.003+10:00

So this morning I was having a small crisis. Well, actually, to be more accurate, I was having a smalls crisis. My knicker drawer was looking very tired and very old, and despite me being well on top of my laundering, the best it could offer me this morning was not, shall we say, very appetising.

So I did what any normal woman would do, and took myself down to DFO for lunch. Popped into La Figure, as I knew they have very feminine pieces as well as nice practical pieces. After selecting a couple of your daily neat and tidy pairs, I chose a couple of reasonably cheeky ones. Why not? Might as well try and feel like a woman, even if no-one gets to see them.

Off I rocked up to the counter, and then saw a washbag for delicates and added that to the pile as well. Shop lady (other side of 40, plump and quite sweet looking, despite looking pretty grumpy) began scan the purchases and fold them up.

'Oh, wow', an English accent was clearly discernible, even from that short sentence.
I looked up from fossicking around in the handbag for wallet. 'Pardon?'
'Oh wow,' she repeated, this time holding up the very very pretty knickers, which were lacey and pale green, and to be honest, very brief. 'I would never wear these'.
I smiled, but was thinking, 'so?'
'Well, they are very ... well, small, aren't they? I could never wear that.' She very very quickly eyed my figure (I'm not a small thing) and went back to her scanning.

Hmmm. I had forgotten about English shopgirls. Amused me a little rather than pissed me off the way it used to - way to treat customers love. Someone should have told her in training that commenting on a woman in Australia wearing a g-string is a bit stupid, hardly the road to whoresville that it might be in other english speaking nations. But was she actually going further than that? Was she saying that *I* didn't have the body for it?

I could care less actually. Got back to the office and admired my new purchases (the boys are out of the office today). I smiled a little as I cut the tag off the offensive pair. 'Embracing your curves' it said. Hee!

2009-07-20T21:11:00.000+10:00

Monday tanty:

1.The Tool Next Door who currently has his telly turned up so loud I can almost hear it over the Ashes commentary on SBS
2.Ganesh from Oasis, who is on our floor in the serviced offices, loudly proclaiming to his mate Judith about the time he and his new boyfriend Ethan had in Healesville last weekend. Oh SHUT. UP. FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST.
3.I know there should be a third one to round this off. But those two will do for now.

Good grief Freddy Flintoff is a tidy specimen. And he just got another wicket!!!!! Nice one bruvva!

Cue the flow and blob jokes

2009-07-15T21:30:00.003+10:00

Coles is taking the GST off feminine products. I approve. Loved the comment in MX yesterday from a man asking if he could have the GST excluded from his male 'essentials' (beef jerky and beer), and a clever reply today appearing: 'if you had to use beef jerky in the same way we use tampons, your comment would have some merit'.

(Anyone who knows me well IRL, will attest to this: I am an utter fright when I am on mine. My poor Paddy threatened to leave me in Berlin I was irritating him so much, and sometimes I really do suffer. 30 cents off each month is not going to make an enormous difference, although it is a nice concession).

Retroness

2009-07-14T08:42:00.004+10:00

Isn't it nice that people can be good neighbours and become good friends? I have just set the body corporate onto my fucking neighbour, who likes turning up his telly to ear drum piercing levels. He also wears a CAP despite being 40 odd – tool. But then I live in an apartment in the inner city in the noughties, rather than Eastern suburbia in the 80s. Go figure.

So once upon a time there was a show called Neighbours. It took Australia and the UK by storm, even ending up on the cover of Time Magazine. These days it is still apparently big in the UK, as the busloads of pommy backpackers who depart the Elephant and Wheelbarrow to go down and see the set in Vermont will attest to, but is considered a bit of a filthy secret if you watch it as a Melburnian these days. FOAH actually has to leave the room when Karl Kennedy comes on screen because she cannot abide it. But this episode, made over 20 years ago, was actually made when Neighbours was, well, quite good! This episode was described as the wedding of the year or summat, so a bit of background on this before I start this recap.

It's 1987 in the deepest darkest burbs o Melbourne, in a place called Ramsay St, your typical suburban ~~hell~~ cul de sac. Think brick bungalows, gumtrees and cricket in the street. Scott is a schoolboy and getting married to Charlene, an apprentice mechanic and the girl next door. They are about 18 and and 17, a pair of babies, but the alternative was them living in sin so the 'rents eventually relented. (Totally believable, except for when I was 17, I got caught playing mummies and daddies at my boyfriends house and got grounded for a week, but whatevs.) The episode is all about their wedding, in all it's 1980s glory. Lady who plays Charlene went on to become international megastar with huge gay following and a range of bottled perfume shaped like her bottom, however right now she is in a budget Aussie soapie with a really bad perm.

We start at number 22 Ramsay St, home of couple Paul and Gail, Paul being Scott's older brother and lately married himself. But in contrast to the pending romantic union of Scotty, Paul and Gail's marriage is one of convenience, they tied the knot to secure a lucrative deal with rich Jap businessman. It was the 80s after all – almighty dollar and greed is good – nowadays we get married for convenience for such things as UK visas and student allowances, but there you go.

Catsbum faced Cousin Hilary is in town for the wedding, their guest at present, and is gently rousing her hosts by knocking on the bedroom door with a breakfast tray and announcing that it's '6.30, time to be up!'. Now I don't know about you, but anyone who knocks on my door before 10am – even if they did have a food laden tray – would be receiving a glass to the face, but that's just me.

Oh, problem though! Gail and Paul don't have that sort of marriage of convenience, i.e. no convenience sex, so they have separate bedrooms, sorta like house mates (who don't shag). And they have kept the little fact that their marriage is a sham on the QT from their families as well (as you do.) Of course Paul comes out of the spare bedroom, and Hilary's like... the fuck? And then Gail pops out of her room, and its obvs that they are not sharing the same bed. Busted!

Christ Paul looks young. I mean he is young. This guy is STILL in Neighbours all these years later, and is a bit long in the fang now, and all the scheming, lying, murdering, defrauding, womanizing etc has not been good to him, but here he is almost shaggeable. I say ALMOST because his yellow jarmies are like my grandfathers, and coupled with the fetching brown dressing gown, matters are not good. Small wonder his wife doesn't want to share a room with him. Imagine waking up to that. You would be expecting dentures in a glass on the bedside table.

Hilary is downstairs being her (bitchy) self, dressed like a librarian despite the early hour. (That hair that looks like a pudding bowl cut. Boys at my school had that hair. In standard 2). Hilary accosts GailPaul, all 'I thought people who were married sleep in the same room' and Paul's all 'er, er, er' but clever Gail thinks on her feet and explains that she and Paul had a fight last night and that's why they slept in separate rooms. They immediately begin to reenact their supposed domestic, and Hilary tells them off. She leaves and they burst out laughing. Would I be imagining it, but I think these two actually are actually rather fond of each other, despite their housemate type marriage.

Meanwhile at Chez Robinson, everyone is running round like bluearsed flies as the reception is to be held in the lounge, and the wedding's at 11. Quite quaint really, and budget weddings are totally going to come back with the global financial crisis. Youngest child of the Robinson brood, spoilt little brat Lucy, possibly the worst child performer ever to grace Aussie screens (and that is saying something) is whining about plucking her eyebrows and Big Dad Jim ain't happy the youngest wants to pluck her eyebrows. Encourage it Jimbo, at least she isn't piercing her eyebrow. Matters could be much worse, for sure. We learn that Lucy's pet mice, Victoria and Albert (yup) have gone missing and are running round the house somewhere. UH OH. Mice droppings in the passion pop! NOT. GOOD.

Hils comes in and opens her big yap to Jim and street matriarch Gran Helen that the Pail marriage might be in trouble cos they were rowing last night, and Jim immediately is about to charge over and stick his nose in – (involved much? Ugh). Scotty rushes in all sweaty palmed about getting married – oh Scotty you hunk with that wonderful mullet! And he even got it trimmed for the wedding! BLESS! I saw an interview recently with Jason Donovan and he confessed to being a mad coke head at the time Neighbours was at its peak. Frankly, I can see this. Running round the house like a mad thing, dude has been hoovering off the mirror that very morning if you ask me.

Over at the Casa Del Ramsay, house of the adolescent bride, Madgey is ironing her outfit for the day. Love practical no nonsense Madge - no drycleaners for her. And that sixty fag a day gravelly voice. Legend! Brother Henry comes in, shirt open and being his curly blonde larrikin self, moaning that he didn't get any face time with the bathroom due to his little sister monopolising it. Dude, cope. Takes time to arrange all the gipsofola in your hair you know.

God Kylie is a tiny little thing isn't she? Has she even reached puberty yet?? She's kind of sweet though, stuffing her face with a croissants and getting scolded by Magdey, despite the fact she weighs about the same as a handful of wasabi peas with less fat. She even still sounds like an Australian in this rather than the half baked Pom she is now. Was she from Camberwell or am I imagining that? Chief bridesmaid Jane comes in with her apricot dress and white shoes. So. Fucking. Chic. (Whatever happened to Jane? I have a feeling she starred in a nudey scene once and everyone was aghast just like they a were when Julie 'climb ev'ry mountain' Andrews got her kit off, and that was that.) Anyhooo, Charlene's grandparents from up north are there and give her a garter to wear for the day, and everyones all.... awww. I am such a cynic, but this scene just wants me to turn bulimic.

Cut to the church, and the boys arrive to be greeted by some of the old gang from school. ZOMG @ the amount of mullets on display here. Its like walking into the fish section of the Queen Vic Market. Best Man Mike was a bit fretful cos most of Charlene's family couldn't make it and the church would have seemed empty, so he let everyone at school know and a few people have shown up having bunked off 3rd period biology. Onya Mike! These are all extras, playing characters who we haven't seen before and won't again, but nice one anyway. And to think that Mike is played by Guy Pearce, who in a few years will cruise through the outback in sequins, and who now actually earns money from being an actor all these years later. His craft as an actor isn't readily apparent right now – however he is borderline sexy in those charcoal tails (rowl) so I will let it go.

Scott's still a bit strung out with the whole thing, hyperventilating he will forget what to say and Charlene won't turn up etc. Bugger me, here she is. Charlene is wearing much much much eyeshadow. And it is peach. Small wonder she was late, you would need a trowel to put on all of that slap. And she is flanked by her bridesmaids in glorious 80s peach. Hmmmm peachy. (I used to threaten Hoself and Rox with outfits like that, complete with pearls in the bodice and puff sleeves if I ever got married, but have gone off that idea now.)

Hang on, is that a bit of maybelline I can see on Scotty as well? Angry Anderson is singing as Scott & Charlene get married. This really is one of the worst songs I have ever heard and it makes me want to stick pins in my ears, so I have just put the telly on mute. Cut to montage of the Ramsay Streeters, Madgey having a sook (emotion, I think, rather than disappointment) and another Ramsay St couple Des (local bank manager) and Daph (ex stripper, but comes from Toorak family) looking all lovey dovey at each other. Mrs Mangel, resident old trout, gives Harold a bit of a glad eye – methinks she might have a few designs on our favourite wobblechops! Hee !! (Harold is such a legendary character with those awesome jowls of his. And Ian Smith is cool as well – apparently some dork English backpacker asked him on one of the neighbours tours once why he was so fat and he said 'cos everytime I shag your missus she gives me a biscuit.' LOL)

OH the 80s fugliness filling this church. Good fucking grief. I mean, I know it was a bit budget, I know it was in the years before SABA and Alannah Hill but CHRIST. And then camera lands on Gail, sporting the best violet lippy, and looking a bit taken with this whole marrying for love thing, and Paul picks that moment to turn round and look at her – they share a rueful look. BigJim isn't crying, he just has that intense concerned Dad look about him. Have a bit of a soft spot for Jim considering he is a. a kiwi and b. wore his replica all blacks jersey on Neighbours more than once. He's not wearing it now more is the pity, just another Kiwi in a city full of kiwis. Despite their young age, no-one gets up and says they object, so Scott & Charlene are pronounced man and wife and have a great big game of tonsil hockey right there in the church /shudder.

Cut to sausage rolls and party pies at Chez Robinson. Old Codger Grandad pops open a bottle of the bubbly, whilst Grandma Edna urges Dan to lay off the drink, and he insists he's only filling the glasses. Silly old sod. Big DadJim, having done an aboutface on the whole concept of his sons teenage marriage, tells Scott he is proud of him, and welcomes Charlene to the family. Daphne thanks Mrs. Mangel for calling off the law suit, and then Mrs Mangel comments that her solicitor thought $1000 was not enough compo. (Mrs M fell off a ladder in their house in a previous episode, and Daph is up the spout so Des didnt want to worry her about the whole thing, hence the out of court settlement.) Hilary snipes to Gail about how she noticed Rob was missing from the service, and Gail pushes the fuckoff button on Hils, by trying to excuse him by suggesting he was probably busy at work. If I were Gail I would be getting the serious shits with this family I had married into. (This looks like quite a lame reception actually, I don't want to sound nasty but where are the groomsmen groping the drunken teenage guests, and the bridezilla going all prima donna because the table settings aren't perfect? Off!!)

Harold finds Madge crying in the kitchen, and comforts her as she laments 'losing' Charlene. Time to pop a xanax Madgey, things aren't that bad and its not like you had to pay for the shindig. Madge is seriously phoning it in here. Harold gives her a little cuddle, aw. Everyone gathers in the living room to hear the ~~emails~~ telegrams being read out. Daphne pulls Des aside and gets stroppy about the out of court settlement she has just heard about. Oh Des we have some couch sleeping to do tonight matey! As Jim gets up to do his 'not losing son gaining daughter speech' (puke), Grandan spots one of the missing mice and tries to pick it up. He accidentally hits off Mrs. Mangel's foot, and she is outraged, accusing him of groping her leg. Dan protests that he was looking for the mouse, (sure sure) and then an argument erupts between most of the guests. Ah, this is getting better now. I love how fights happen at weddings once the booze starts flowing – wouldn't be a proper celebration without one.

Later, Scott and Charlene are foreplaying on Scott's bed, and hear giggling, and realise Paul and Lucy are at the door looking at them, (GROSS! Seeing your sibling getting it on is hardly a laughing matter, but what the fuck would I know.) Lucy whines to Scott about how much she will miss him, despite him only moving next door. Scott cheers Lucy up by giving her his skateboard and she runs out to practice on it in her spiffy bridesmaid gear. God Lucy is a dreadful character, you just want her to fall off that fucking skateboard, preferably into some heavy traffic on the Nepean. Fingers crossed.

You would think if you were getting married in this suburban nightmare it would be to elope and escape forever, but no, it looks like they are coming back, they are just off on their honeymoon (somewhere very exotic, like Daylesford. Sort of holiday where you don't go outside a lot, wink.) Everyone is out on the street waiting to see the couple off, and they come and get into the rusty old kingswood which has been defaced with shaving cream and coke cans. Kitsch!! Madge realises Charlene forgot to throw her bouquet, and yells after her. Charlene gets out of the car and throws it over to the crowd - and Mrs. Mangel catches it. She turns around and gives a totally porno look at a worried Harold. Ooooer dude!!

Thats all for now you lot. I think if I had been one of the guests I would have hung round the drinks table all day and then seduced Mike and got the fuck out. Again thats just me.

2009-06-17T14:30:00.004+10:00

If you were to believe the meeja, it would seem living in Melbourne is more dangerous than (insert appropriate metaphor) - what with shootings in broad daylight, swine flu, and cab drivers who insist on driving down one way streets in the wrong direction, over speedhumps, at 70 kph. (true story. I am yet to have a positive experience with a Melbourne cab driver this year.)

It's not that dangerous. I am still alive, after all. Despite lack of blogging.

Back later (maybe)

2009-03-25T22:13:00.000+11:00

Conversation, Abbey & Miche at S. Yarra station, 8.30pm.

(Eyes fag packet coming out of handbag) 'Abbey, I don't think we are allowed to smoke on the platforms'
'That guy down there is' (gestures)
(looks)'Er, Ab, I think that guy might be homeless'
(giggle) 'Yeah, but so are you, Michka. Here'.

2009-03-15T20:46:00.003+11:00

Anyone who has lived with me would probably attest to this fact: I can be very very silly. What possessed me to get so drunk the night before a 26 hour journey? Am such a fucking moron.

Had lazy day yesterday, and then went and met Rox at Charing Cross. I should have known the direction my evening was taking when she came back to the table with a bottle of merlot and two glasses, saying 'obviously, we will drink a bottle, not much point in buying by the glass'. Several hours then disappeared as we gossiped and giggled, fortified only by a bowl of tasteless olives. (That Rox is a chancer, she looks like butter wouldn't melt but I know the truth.) Cousin Sam then came and met us and we had several more pints, and the next thing it was 11, and I was gliding my way back to Victoria, pissed as a pissed thing.

Suffice to say, am feeling rather delicate this morning and have just had lucozade. Presently am sitting in a departure lounge of LHR T4, contemplating a large muffin from Costas and how much I am going to sleep once I get seat number 55K.

2009-03-15T01:47:00.003+11:00

Chatsworth in Derbyshire exceptionally cool. The inside, very impressive as well as oppressive, with paintings and decorations and brocade and oak and carpets and kind faced men in old fashioned suits telling you what this piece is and who slept in that bed, etc. The best bit of Chatsworth was undoubtedly the gardens, cultivated and calm in the middle of rough ruralness of the Peaks, but it being a chill blustery spring day I didn't stroll round them as much as I would have liked to.

Back in London now, have crammed all essential crap into coffin like bag for journey back to Oz. Can't say I am entirely enthused at prospect of 26 hours of travel ahead of me. I think that teleporting yoke they had on Star Trek and Blakes 7 could be for the win.

And now, to the Town, where a pint and a Rox is waiting for me.

2009-03-10T23:55:00.002+11:00

The London I knew in 2002 is nowhere to be seen - it only took me six years to reach some sort of peace with what happened. Five months here in the summer of 2002, four of which were lovely. And the end of everything, so horrible at the time, is so very insignificant now in the grand scheme of things.

Have seen lots of stuff I always mean to see whilst I am here and seemingly never get round to: Tower, National Portrait Gallery. Spent some quality time with the Rox, and darling Vic whom I had not seen in so long but it seemed like no time had passed at all. Bit of indulgent shopping at Topshop and H&M, all for essentials as cannot be going back to Oz looking scruffy. Getting everything back there might be another matter.

2009-03-02T23:46:00.001+11:00

Am a bit nonplussed at how fast the last year has gone. Last weekend in Dublin flew by in haze of laughter and hugs and booze and going to the Stags Head and playing pool and eating curry and smoking cigarettes and saying goodbye to Kitty and Carrie and leaving the Rathgar Gaf for the last time and so many other lovely lovely lovely things.

Presently am sitting in a barer room amongst boxes and bags. Only problem about going back to Melbourne is the fact that I can't be here as well. Odd how things just came together in the end. I will miss it very much here.