A pleasing number of election day sausage sizzles were reported to me from across the metropolitan area and in regional Victoria. Primary schools led the way in this regard, closely followed by church halls.
Sausages consumed by self at voting day sausage sizzle = 1.
Sausages consumed by my social voting group* at voting day sausage sizzle = 3. (He went back after voting.)
Types of marmalade on sale at the eastern suburbs polling location I attended: dozens. (The stall was staffed by two senior citizens who have honed their ability to turn anything into marmalade into an art form in itself. There was orange, lemon, lime, cumquat, combinations thereof, “with added ginger”, “with a hint of honey”, etc …)
Amount of marmalade purchased by self = 0. (I don’t like it.)
Amount of time spent thinking self to be clever by voting absentee in the eastern suburbs and therefore reducing total time spent in voting on day = 3 hours (approx.)
Total time spend in absentee voting queue = 20 minutes (in addition to 15 minutes in the ordinary voting queue.)
Total time spent by Daniel in all voting queues = 15 minutes.
Total time spent by Daniel feeling smug and eating an extra sausage while waiting for me to finish up voting = 25 minutes. (Grrr.)
Level of disappointment at election result: infinite.

* A social voting group is an interesting new election day cultural phenomena I recognised this year after being asked by two people from different parts of my social network if I would meet up with them in order to vote together. I had to decline both offers as I had been swayed to join Daniel’s social voting group (consisting of Daniel and the guarantee/promise of an eastern suburbs sausage sizzle.)

I have a three-legged dog. Poor girl. It’s the change of season and she’s losing her winter coat. In tufts. Great clouds of hair. It’s everywhere. And it makes her so itchy. Every few steps she has to sit and scratch. Often there’s no time to sit – so she carries on with three legs, using the fourth to scratch as she goes! Sometimes we see furniture vibrating and know there lies beneath a small dog scratching for all she’s worth. Poor, poor girl. Soothing baths (or a quick dip in the pond) seem to relieve the itchiness but not for long. Hopefully the transition to her new wardrobe won’t last too much longer.

We get to vote again this Saturday. Apparently there are still large numbers of voters unable to decide which way they will go. I have made my decision. There was never really a decision to make.
What I do need to decide, however, is where to vote.
When I lived in Elwood we voted at the local primary school. Not only was it convenient but there was guaranteed to be a sausage sizzle. Undoubtedly the highlight of voting day. (Except maybe for when Antony Green delivers his statistical updates – but I suppose that’s technically after voting day ends.)
Since moving to Footscray we have voted at the local secondary school. Where there’s been not a sausage in sight. Nary a one. The best bit of voting day has eluded us.
This year I hope to see a return to the sausage sizzle. I’ll be voting over the other side of town at the local primary school. I’m quite looking forward to it. And, goodness knows, I’ll probably need one with ‘the works’ as I face what looks like another depressing conservative victory.

Rummaging around this evening for a small box to put something in I came across a plaster cast of a full set of my teeth.
Ok.
Better keep those – could be useful one day. Maybe. I could frighten/fascinate small children with them I guess (although I don’t know why.)
Anyhoo, continue to rummage. Another box. Another plaster cast of a full set of my teeth.
I can understand perhaps having one set – I have been a poster girl for orthodonic services in my time. But two sets of my teeth? Excessive.
…
At least I think they’re my teeth.

Someone at work today described me as “calm in a crisis”. In fact, she said I was “always calm in a crisis” and that “it was one of your (my) great strengths”.
Hmmm. This is not the me I am familiar with. Nor the me most people who know me know (me. know. me. Oh – just stop it!)
I think I’m a bit of a seething mass of indecision and panic. About just about everything. A worrier most definitely. Turmoil – that’s my middle name.
It’s very strange when someone else’s assessment of you is so completely contrary to that which you yourself know to be true.
What sort of crazy calm facade am I presenting at work?
And what happens when there REALLY is a crisis?

This morning I was forced into a convenient Haighs chocolate shop in order to break a $20 note.
I invested in some chocolate frogs for later and a couple of the lemon truffles for my tram journey.
Sitting on the tram enjoying my truffle the woman beside me asks: “What perfume are you wearing. ” Going on to say: “You smell lovely.”
“Why, thank you.” (Silently congratulating self on superior perfume choice and more than adequate – ie commentable upon by a fellow public transportee – understanding of general social codes in relation to one’s personal aroma.)
“It’s Dolce e Gabbana’s ‘Light Blue’. ”
…
“Alternatively, it could be my truffle. ”
“I smell geraniums,” she says.
“Hmmm, it’s a lemon truffle,” say I.
Silence as both of us look at and then smell the truffle in question.
“I don’t think it’s the truffle,” she says.
“Perhaps it’s a combination,” say I.
Hmmmm.
More investigation is required. I’d better go back and buy a few more of those truffles.

We arrived in Budapest on St Stephen’s Day – a national holiday.
Crowds gathered along the Danube to watch an aerobatic competition involving small planes flying under bridges perilously close to the viewing public.
There was music. There was dancing. There were fireworks in the evening.
And all outside our hotel. What a perfect place from which to view the festivities in our mildly jet-lagged state!
A little too perfect perhaps.
I fell asleep.
In spite of the roar of the crowds outside the window.
In spite of the tantalisingly good view to be had of the fireworks.
In spite of the, apparently quite loud, fireworks display.
I was there but I missed it.
The photos were lovely, however, and I’ll put one up when I can find one.

It’s a very hard thing, it is, having too much to blog about.

One of my favourite places in Budapest was Statue Park. With the downfall of the Communist regime, an enterprising proto-capitalist (there’s always one) rescued many of the political statues – which had hitherto dominated the city’s streets – before they were carted off and unceremoniously melted down, placed them all in an open-air exhibition a short bus ride from the city’s centre, built a wall around them and now charges tourists a small fee to view them. (Not to mention producing an irresistible range of tacky souvenirs to commemorate the experience.) It’s a total tourist trap. But it’s absolutely fascinating. I had my photo taken with Mr Lenin and Mr Marx. (And now can’t find the appropriate pictures. Grrr. Another time.) It’s interesting how these statues which must have been so brooding and dominating when placed at strategic points across the city could be transformed into such a freak show. Compelling viewing though.

It was three weeks of spending time in favourite places with favourite people. And seeing new sights. And eating good food. And relaxing.
It’s hard to leave that behind. To return to your non-holiday life. To come home.
It’s no wonder the dog is depressed.
Yes, after her three week sojourn in the country with her grandparents while we were away, the bitter reality of ‘business as usual’ has hit our dog particularly hard.
She mopes. She sighs. She won’t eat her dinner.
She gives us sidelong glances which seem to say “you are not my people. This is not my place. Take me back to the other people and the other place. It was good there.”
She has post holiday blues.
(I think I’ll get mine when the Visa card bill comes in.)

Yawn.
Yawn.
Yawn.
Waking up.
Where am I?
It’s my house.
I’m home.