Overheard recently on a Footscray street:
“Well, they can stick their crappy house right up their Kaniva pass” (man – bad temperedly – into mobile phone whilst gesticulating wildly.)

Where? (and how???)

Which is completely unrelated to the notable postmark on mail I received from the UK:

Happy birthday Dr Who!

There is a new person in the world today.
Welcome to little Alia Rose Pollard.
And congrats to her mum and dad – Kathy and Gary.
Big smiles!

One of the most useful benefits of my new student card (complete with dodgy photo) is, of course, student priced movie tickets. Or it would be a useful benefit if I remembered I had it in my purse when purchasing said tickets. I guess at the moment it’s benefit is still ‘potential’ given I haven’t actually exercised it yet. Mind you, the last movie I went to see was so good it was certainly worth the full $13.00 price tag. (A Mighty Wind, Cinema Nova, last Saturday night). Judging from word of mouth a reasonable percentage of Melbourne’s population was also in the cinema with us – which is surprising really given that it did not appear over full. I probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway as I was too busy crying with laughter. I had a very good time.
As I’m on a movie theme I might relate some movie gossip which came to me via my mother (if you know her, you’ll agree she’s the person least likely to impart gossip of this nature, but there you go). Actually, it’s not really gossip, just an interesting snippet which involves my family.
Paul Hogan, Michael Caton and Pete Postlewaite (all fine actors – well all members of the profession) are starring in a new film entitled ‘Strange Bedfellows’. It’s being filmed in Yackandandah – a beautiful little town in Victoria’s north east and one of my favourite places on earth. The premise of the film is that two guys pretend to be a gay couple (?!) in order to gain tax advantages (?!) – and are spied on (?!) to validate the ‘truth’ of their relationship. Tres amusing, yes? (Oh, undoubtedly?)
Anyway – a large part of the film is set in my grandparents’ house. Yes, it’s now a ‘secure location’. A film set. Only film people are allowed access. Lots of security, etc etc. (One hopes they are checking all of the cows which walk pass the house every morning and night on their way to be milked at the dairy. You know what kind of film groupies cows can be?)
It will be interesting to see how the house comes across in the film nevertheless. While my grandparents died a number of years ago my cousins still live there and my uncle still runs the farm. I spent part of every school holidays there for years and loved it so much. What will they do to it?

This one comes courtesy of my office mate – Trish.
An inveterate bargain shopper, Trish spied a long sleeved, polar fleece, zip fronted top on sale at a certain department store. Just perfect for keeping out the winter chills. And under $20. A bargain indeed.
She pounced.
While waiting at the checkout she noticed the said item was scanned through as ‘Lady’s G-string: $4.95’. Most unexpected.
The clearly bored, disinterested (and apparently ill-informed regarding the usual elements – or lack thereof – composing a “Lady’s G-string”) lad on the scanner duly requested $4.95.
Trish handed him $5.00. Received $0.05 change and a plastic shopping bag containing the incognito ‘G’. Contract completed. Everyone happy.
And Trish is both warmly and comfortably dressed for what remains of winter!

I attended the book launch last night, arriving with five minutes to spare – thanks to a longish wait at the bus stop.
I purchased my book. Said hello to the familiar faces from the history department crowd squashed into the back of Readings bookshop. Tried to worm my way to the counter for a drink.
Then settled back to hear Greg Dening speak which is always a joy. He doesn’t launch books, he said, that’s for WMD. But he opens them. And that’s what he did.
Then followed a few really gracious words from the author – who was also my thesis supervisor many moons ago – where he thanked those who had helped along the way. He was so kind and generous about my contribution to the project – which was wholly unexpected given that it seems to me that anything I might have contributed was in a time long ago and a land far away and a bit inconsequential anyway.
I’ve always considered myself fortunate to have worked so well with someone I consider a very fine scholar. While I didn’t ever finish my own thesis, it meant a lot to me that some of the work I did then could have played a small role in the making of something much larger.
I went home with something much more than just a new book.

I’m going to a book launch tonight – which is all very well. Bravo. Bravo. Book signed, etc. Excellent.
But to get there from here I must brave the most unreliable bus in the world.
OK so I could walk from Smith St to Lygon St BUT I’m wearing my pointy boots which – while they look lovely – were never meant for a trek from Fitzroy to Carlton.
I have tried this road trip on a number of previous occasions and have never succeeded in making it to the other end at my preferred time of arrival. The ETAs on the timetable at the bus stop seem to be random choices. Merely there for form’s sake. Just something for disgruntled passengers to look at while they refer to their watches and ‘tsk’.
Sometimes my arrival at the stop coincides with the arrival of the bus. Praise worthy so you might think. But I’m usually only there because I’ve given myself 1/2 hour waiting time.
There is just no outsmarting the bus. Give myself 1/2 an hour to wait and I arrive at the other end way too soon. (Thank goodness for Lygon Street’s yummy bookshops.) Arrive at bus stop at nominated ETA only to breathe in traffic fumes in the cold for 3/4 of an hour. Arrive late. (Again.)
Is there a small god of public transport? I’m pretty sure if I arrived at his/her temple/depot I’d be greeted with the words – sorry, not in service.

The heater at work is broken.
Someone left it on overnight and it’s run out of puff. (It was mighty toasty though when I arrrived this morning.)
Each time I walk past it, it flashes and blinks its digital display accusingly at me.
The ambient temperature is gradually lowering.
About every hour I put on an extra layer of clothing to ward off the demon chill.
It’s not working.
I look like the michelin (wo)man. It’s hard to type with your arms sticking straight out sideways as a result of clothing build up.
And it will be worse (colder) tomorrow.

Reading over someone’s shoulder on the train this morning I spied the headline ‘Pagan: I won’t change’ in a section of the paper seemingly devoted to a critique of footy’s current coaching styles.
‘Hmm,’ I thought. ‘That’s an unorthodox approach.’
Do they employ druids? Does it mean dancing? Are training sessions held under the full moon? Where do they put the gourds?
And, most importantly, DOES IT WORK?
This led to a good ten minutes of wonderment.
Before reality kicked in.
‘Oh, it’s Dennis Pagan’.
Not quite what I’d envisaged at all.

After a weekend of heavy reading for the new course, I thought work might offer some light relief today.
Which it has – of sorts. Light-headed relief really. We’ve got the painters in doing touch up work and the whole building consequently is awash with paint fumes. (Awash is probably wrong for fumes, but my brain is not currently providing me with any alternatives so it will have to do for now. If I think of something better I’ll let you know.)
But not only do we have paint fumes to contend with within, there is a jackhammer next door providing a noisy, staccato accompaniment to the fumiferous(?) working day. The combination of fumes and insidious, bone-rattling, nerve jangling vibration has some really seriously weird dental overtones.
Which reminds me that I really should make an appointment to see my own dentist – it’s been a while.
Being a dentist would be a pretty horrible job. Steering a jackhammer would also be pretty rank if you had to do it all day too. Although when I asked the jackhammer guy if he wouldn’t prefer an office job he said, “No way mate. It’d be bad for me mental health”. Actually jackhammers are a bit tame for him, apparently he told one of my colleagues that he’s looking forward to getting a ‘powder monkey’ licence so that he can blow things up. I think he feels he’s wasted on the jackhammer!
Given what I’ve seen (and heard) today though I’ll give both painting and jackhammering a miss in terms of future employment opportunites. Sometimes a little old desk job like mine is not such a bad thing.

It was early Monday evening.
It was on the escalators at Melbourne Central station.
I was ascending.
He was descending.
I had a map of RMIT and an air of distraction.
He had a McDonalds takeaway bag of chips.
I looked up to get my bearings.
He leaned across and said, “Will you marry me?”
I say, “What?”
He waves and disappears into the depths of the underground loop.
Ah, romance!