White nights

I've got insomnia at the moment. Even though I'm ridiculously tired, my brain refuses to shut down for the night. The off switch is broken, even though the gears are moving slower. Or they're moving slower until I put my head on the pillow, at any rate. So what better way to while away the wee-sma's than blogging about it, and thereby sharing the pain with the blogosphere?

Have you ever noticed that you can't complain about being tired without someone in the room assuring you that it's nothing, compared to how exhausted they are/have been/were five years ago? Or is it just because of the people I work with that I'm thinking that? There's the middle aged Greek woman, who manages to complain about being happy, and the middle aged plastic surgery fan who is the stereotypical sales woman, right down to being in the process of trading her sports car for a four wheel drive that is unlikely to ever venture off road. She says it's to drive her dad and his friend around now that they can't do it for themselves. Anyone who has seen the elderly attempt to climb stairs will realise just how bad an idea is it to have a car they have to climb into. But I digress...

Not surprising, really. Lack of sleep does that to me. I should be happy and content at the moment. I've finally received the results of my thesis, and I passed. I weighed myself today, and have actually managed to lose a little weight - I could put it in percentage of my goal, but I won't, because that's a little depressing. I have had an almost moron free day at work, and have money in the bank (it was pay day on Tuesday). But it was also Valentine's Day on Monday, and the few morons who came in were spectacular (yes, I'm talking to you, Mr there-are-no-white-lines-on-my-street-why-are-we-so-left-out). While I should be thrilled with my thesis mark - it's a distinction, for anyone who cares, something I would have been thrilled to get in my architecture studies - I was a little disappointed; I have no right to be, when I submitted it knowing there were huge holes in both my arguments and my research, but there you have it. I think I know what I want to be when I grow up, and it involves more study, and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. But I've applied anyway, and now I'm trying to work out the logistics of maintaining a job while I study, getting through the study in as short a time as possible, and figuring out how the hell you can keep a full time job AND fit in the practical experience component of a teacher training course. Because that's where I want to get to. Teacher training. Only I'm not there. Nowhere near. And I haven't heard any confirmation about my application. And it's freaking me out. In fact, pretty much everything is freaking me out right now.

I spent some time looking into how much money I would need to buy my own property, and how much the banks are likely to loan me. And it turns out that I would actually need to have more money saved than I plan on borrowing from the bank if I'm to get my hands on anything halfway to what I want.

Out of curiosity - I was bored, the thought popped into my head, and my laptop was both there and on - I looked into going back to the UK. I find myself missing the crispness of a cold morning. I blame the humidity. Except that it turns out that they have put a stop to the visa that I had before, so I'd need sponsorship. And the only industry I'm trained for has gone down the toilet, so even if I did decide that I wanted to, I couldn't go back. And it peeves me no end. Except I wonder if I could...because I do have a letter...but then again, my visa expired, and...it's all so complicated and its so late, and...

It's the middle of the night and I'm lying in bed blogging. It seems the sky is falling in tonight. Except it's not. Oh, and I just found out on Sunday that not only is my sister-in-law pregnant, but so is another person I know. I'm not supposed to tell because she's only 7 weeks gone. But there you have it. That's another thing I have no idea how to get to.

I really shouldn't blog when the weight of the world is bringing me down. The sky isn't really falling. It's just another Melbourne thunderstorm in a summer that has already seen more natural disasters befall the world than I can ever remember coming so close together. Perhaps it's time to try and sleep again. I'm sure the world will look better tomorrow. It has to - it would be hard to look worse, right now.

Away from the bright lights

There's been a whole lot of attention focused on Queensland weather recently. And with the massive floods, followed by a cyclone, all within a month, it's little wonder. And it's not just happening in Queensland. Around the world, the weather seems to have gone just a little bit mad so far this year, much to the delight of certain media outlets who feed on the "thank god it's not happening to me" side of the public. And again, fair enough. I can see why the dramatic footage of record snow falls, landslides, cyclones, and raging torrents of flood water attract an audience.

The recovery process is now drawing all the attention here. The proposed levy to rebuild after the floods has been pretty well condemned by many - in spite of the fact that it averages out to less than a dollar a week for most people. The opposition leader has been condemned for attempting to cash in on the floods, running a party fundraiser on the back of the unpopular levy. We're being warned to prepare for sub-standard and expensive fruit and vegetables in shops, with the suggestion being that it's our duty to buy these goods to support the farmers in their time of need (although how we're supposed to know for sure that the damage was caused by floods I don't know; for all I can tell, it might just be that the grocers have found a way to get rid of damaged goods for a ridiculously inflated price). Volunteers are flooding into Queensland to get everything off the ground again.

Don't get me wrong about what's going to be written next. I feel for the Queenslanders who have gone through this. The loss of property and, worse than that, the loss of life, has been terrible. The state is understandably reeling from the events of this year and must be wondering what is going to hit them next. But at the same time, they are not the only ones who have been hit by this, not by any stretch. In fact, there are communities in Victoria that have been flooded out four times in the past six months - farming communities, who had weathered a seven year drought, only to be inundated when they just get a crop that looks good and is about ready for harvest.

And now it's come again. The two cyclones that have lashed the north of the country, weakened enough to be downgraded below cyclone classification, joined forces and headed south, where they ran into another front that was headed north. They all came together over Victoria for a weather event that seems to have had at least one meteorologist all but salivating. There are parts of my state that have had their annual rainfall come down in a two hour period. The Yarra might not have flooded, but the Lodden and Campaspe, the Mitta Mitta, and the Murray, as well as many others, are all up and about. There has been flooding in the north, the east, the south-east, flash flooding in Melbourne. No, there has been no loss of life, as far as I know only one serious injury when a girl was crushed by a falling tree. But please don't for a moment think that what has happened here is any less worthy of attention, because it's long term effects will be just as widespread. Perhaps the most dramatic photo I've seen was not a gushing torrent of water - although there are a few of them from a wide variety of places. It was a photo taken in Laverton of what looked like a swamp. It was covered in dead birds, who had not been able to withstand the winds that came through with the storms that hit the area overnight. Victoria has never known anything like it, and the forecasters say there is more to come. A quick look at the Sydney Morning Herald website, though, you'd think it was any other day. The weather is wrapped up in the fourth lead, a story which deals largely with the combined impact of cyclone Yasi on Queensland, Victoria and the Northern Territory before finishing by saying that the heat wave in Sydney is, in fact, unrelated. Surprise, Sydney-siders, it is summer, after all.

When the people who should be informed about events by media outlets like the SMH are complaining about the flood levy to rebuild Queensland, perhaps it might do to remind them of events on a national scale. Have a thought about the billions of dollars that could be spent here in Victoria, where the area responsible for fruit and wheat is doing it tough. When your bread costs more, think of the Wimmera and their six months of flooding that has wiped out the wheat crop. When you can't get grapes, think of Mildura's fields, currently under about a metre of water. Then look at the $1 a week it could cost to get Queensland on the road to recovery; wonder if any of that cash will make it to the areas that have gone unnoticed, because they have been overshadowed by the bright lights and the spectacle in Queensland. God knows half the people in Melbourne are barely aware of what's happening. How on earth would the rest of the country be expected to know?

The Dating Game

I might have mentioned before that I've been putting a tentative toe back into the murky waters of internet dating. There hasn't been much success. Admittedly, I haven't been pursuing it too hard, but there are a few reasons why. Two glaringly large ones, to tell the truth.

The first is pretty straight forward. Although I've been checking out other people's profiles, I haven't really been up for attempting to contact the ones who were interesting, as a general rule. No good reason why, I just tend to click away before letting them know I'm interested. On the rare occasion that I do click the 'wink' button, there's generally no response. Seems my profile isn't attractive to them. Which leads me to the second reason for my dating fails.

My profile is, I think, fairly straight forward, slightly amusing, and on the whole, better crafted than most of my blog posts. It sets out my criteria as far as age, distance from a set point in Melbourne for them to be living, all the usual things. Yet somehow, this all gets ignored. So far, the contacts from this profile have ranged from the aging locals to the age-appropriate Swiss.

Now call me nuts, but there is something a teensy bit wrong about a 57 year old man winking at a 30 year old, even if it's only electronically. It's old-fashioned and potentially age-ist, I know, but there you have it. If you're old enough to be my father, chances are that I'm not going to be interested in you, whatever you might see in magazines about young women and their billionaire sugar daddies.

Also, if you live across the other side of the country, chances of a healthy long term relationship, not good. Even worse if you're on the other side of the world. And for those who are both twice my age AND on and entirely different continent - perhaps even planet - take the comments above and double them. Triple them. And add in sound effects of me dying laughing at the thought that you meet the criteria of having a bit of a brain.

Yeah, I know, it's harsh. And given, as a friend observed today, that there are no single men left in our age group who aren't single for a good reason, or broken beyond saving by the load of baggage they're carrying, perhaps I shouldn't be so choosy. But dear god, there has to be a better way to meet someone. If anyone knows what it is, please let me know. Because there's no way in hell that the internet is going to work for me.

Monumental Stupidity

One of the hazards - or perks, depending on your point of view - of my work is that I get to deal with the public on a semi-regular basis. Most of the people I deal with are just ordinary folk, going about their business and interacting with me in the way you'd expect as they attempt to get the designs for their homes approved. Some, though, are special.

Take the phone call I had late last week. It was on my direct line - you have to have been running an office on a mobile phone connection for more than 6 months to know just how exciting that statement is! Direct line! Luxury! - and I answered with the usual greeting.

"I was just wondering if you're back from the Christmas break yet?" asked the dimwit on the other end of the line. He is, to date, the most ridiculous person I've dealt with. One of my colleagues snorted when she heard. And fair enough too.

Then there was the landscaper who came into the office today to tell me that someone else had damaged the storm water system, and water was gushing down the hill near where he'd been working. I went up to take a look and discovered that a neighbouring developer had tapped into the water mains on that street and yes, water was gushing down the street, but not from the point where the main had been tapped. It was burbling up from the middle of a nature strip, right about the point where I could see signs that the landscaper's backhoe had been operating. I haven't confirmed anything yet, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it might not have been solely the neighbours' fault that the water was flowing so freely.

There's the serial complainer, who comes in every Monday with a variation on the themes of 'cut the grass so my kid can play in land that doesn't belong to me without me worrying that he'll get bitten by a snake that I'm the only one to have seen', or 'can't you make that person build on their land?' Or perhaps my personal favorite, when is the phone going to be connected? Because I have a crystal ball, and more clout than him in this area, even though for the past 6 months he has been told that we don't know any more about it than he does.

There's the couple who called me back in November to complain that someone had been dumping soil on their (unfenced) lot. I arranged to get the dumper to clear it, but in the meantime it rained. And it kept on raining. Every time a bobcat appeared on site, down came the rain. Until eventually, someone else started dumping. It was inevitable, really. Vacant land in an estate under construction is always treated as a dumping ground for its neighbours. You'd think they'd have learnt from the first lot. But no. A third lot was dumped there over the Christmas break. And suddenly, after I'd done the hard yards and gotten 2 of the 3 dumpers to clear their spoil, it was my fault. I was supposed to advise this couple where they could send the invoice for having the remaining gravel cleared. It was disappointing that they hadn't been aware that we did not undertake the maintenance and security of the land that they were the proud owner of. Have they never looked across the road and seen the mountain of crap that is growing at the dead-end of a street? Or perhaps they might have noticed that our maintenance guys struggle with the land that we still do own, let alone the stuff that we've sold. She should talk to the serial complainer. He's certainly noticed.

Honestly, apart from the stupidity - which is rampant - I've never met a pettier bunch of people than some of the residents of this estate. They complain to each other about us. They complain to us about each other. Occasionally, they will band together and just complain. Loudly. Over and over again. Because apparently, repeating the abuse changes the response into something more favourable to your cause. Yelling at me, yeah, that's going to make me continue to go above and beyond in an attempt to help you. Abuse me now, and then expect me to speed up the approval process for you? It's only going to end in tears. And I think they might be mine.

Yes, I've got January-itus, the illness that afflicts those who have not had more than a week off work in six months. The disease that grabs you when you walk back into the office that first day of the new year, knowing that most people you know are still lazing at home for another week. Knowing that you'll run out of things to do because your industry doesn't fir up until the third week of the year. I've also got off-probation blues, a sense that perhaps I could be doing better elsewhere now I've got a whole six months of experience behind me. The uncertainty that if I jumped ship, like I'm tempted to do, I would end up somewhere that made me actually think, that challenged me, that demanded I put in the hours that I have always hated and avoided.

And in all of this, only one thing is certain. By this time next week, I will have dealt with more people. And more of them will be completely batty than will be sane. Oh the humanity.

Giving in to temptation

I have finally succumbed. I should have known it was coming. It's only been acts of supreme will power that have seen me last this long. Perhaps that was why I could never quite kick my cola addiction, I was diverting some of my self-will into avoiding the moment when I would give in. But it's happened. Sometime last week, I caved in and by the end of Monday, I was holding it in my hot little hand.

Yes, I have once again admitted that I am a super nerd, and jumped back on the Apple bandwagon. I am now the proud owner of an iPhone.

Of course, if I was a true nerd, I would have painstakingly typed this blog post into my phone, just to get the little message on the bottom that tells you I have sent this from my iPhone. Because you need to know that I am online, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, where ever I may roam, whatever I may do. I can be switched on all the time. But sadly, my hands, hot as they may be, are not really that small. I have yet to master the art of typing with reasonable accuracy and something vaguely resembling speed. So I'm on my trusty laptop.

Only recently, the laptop hasn't been terribly trusty. So now that I've given in to the iPhone urge, to match my 2 iPods, the thoughts are starting to creep in. Damn those new iMacs look good. I could really use a 27 inch screen. And since my poor baby PC is riddled with viruses that no bloody virus checker seems able to eradicate, the pressure is mounting. I want one. I can already see the arguments building about why I need one. It will be like the iPhone, which I kidded myself was a necessity because my old phone was starting to freeze and was losing some of its functions. Of course, the iPhone doesn't necessarily have the lost functions, but it was necessary, in spite of that. And I got such a good deal. I really would have been almost negligent to leave it there, to have missed the opportunity to buy what, by all accounts, is the most troubled Apple release to date.

Sure, I know the problems. I knew them before I spent 4 days solid playing with the damned thing, meaning that every night it needs to be re-charged. I knew that the App Store would be my downfall. And yet I bought it. Because I am a nerd. Because it has the shiny Apple logo on it. Because it's just. So. Damned. Pretty.

Yep, the temptation is mounting. And, as Alfie Doolittle sang in My Fair Lady, "With a little bit o' luck/ When temptation comes you'll give right in". Then again, Alfie was a 'natural philosopher' in the original version of the play; he knew enough to add another verse which, for me at any rate, usually follows the temptation - "With a little bit o' luck/ You can have it all and not get hooked." Except that's the problem with Apple products. Once you've had one, you are - well, I am - often exactly that. Hooked. Perhaps I'd best put the phone out of sight for now...

Peace, out

My guest has departed the scene and I have my flat back to myself once again. It's a true luxury that I hadn't really appreciated until I kept having to curl myself up on the 2-seater couch, rather than stretching full length on the 3-seater as my visitor did every night (side note: I'm quite a bit taller than her...so how come she always claimed the longer seat?). Two days after Christmas, Guest and I set off on a road trip to Sydney, along with a recently-returned L. That all 3 of us survived the road trip is a testament to the power of biting your tongue, turning the other cheek, and simply walking away when necessary. Because as much fun as Guest was in my flat, she became even more so on the road - and that was travelling in separate cars.

It seemed that nothing L or I did was going to get her pleased about the route and itinerary we had planned for the road. She wasn't happy with the hours spent wandering Raymond Island looking for koalas, until she'd seen enough to make both L and I over-tired and grumpy. She made the almost fatal error of disagreeing with L's pronouncement that the light was gone for photography. If there's one thing (other than Excel spreadsheets) that L can be counted an authority on, it's photography. Guest, with her small point-and-shoot camera that she needed to pull the lens out of by hand to take a photo, ought to have known better than to question the knowledge of the person who was clearly better equipped. When we declared that we were tired and hungry, we were declared to be 'boring'. I notice that we weren't so boring when we gave in to her demand that, since it was her birthday, she was claiming the big bed in a room on it's own while we were in bunks next door. To be honest, I think at least part of the reason for giving in was to escape from her for a few hours.

So there we were, the next day, apparently managing to get her back up again by selfishly refusing to veer across oncoming traffic on a blind corner so she could take a photograph of coastline that looked remarkably similar to what we looked at all day. Things improved a little once we got the part where we - rather, I, as the one who had travelled the coastline as a little tacker on family holidays - had decided stops could safely be made. But even there, having been told that we couldn't see her gesturing out her window, given that we were in a car travelling in front of her and all, she took the credit for "suggesting" various stops. But we gritted our teeth and soldiered on to Bateman's Bay. It was unfortunate that our hotel had also been chosen by several schoolies age kids, who were partying it up in a few rooms. It was equally unfortunate that I was angry enough from earlier events that the kids bore the brunt of it; Guest certainly wasn't prepared to do anything other than moan about the noise, and L wasn't ever going to act on any annoyance she felt. Fuelled by days of pent up frustration, I thumped on the door and put the fear of God - or worse, his mother - into a teenage boy, and frightened an older man hanging out with a few teenage girls into actually acting on his promise to call a taxi. I was figuring we'd need the sleep to maintain the calm the next day.

The last stretch of driving, between Bateman's Bay and Sydney, seemed to me to offer only a few good stopping points - the major one being a minor diversion to Jervis Bay. Before we set off from our hotel, I dutifully informed Guest of the plan, only to have her tell me that she was planning on stopping at any beauty spots on the way through, whether we did or not. Stuck in traffic almost the entire way, I couldn't help but enjoy the thought that the roads stayed stubbornly distant from the coast until the Jervis Bay turn off.

We managed to lose her going through the barriers into the national park, and, in spite of catching her at various points ('Why are you eating lunch in the car park? You should go for a walk and carry your lunch in with you.' 'We saw your car parked there and were waiting for you, we thought you might not have eaten.' 'Oh, shame. You must take a walk through there. I'm off to Cave Beach, see you there.') didn't see her again until New Year's Eve, when frantic texts all morning were more insistent that we be at the park I'd found out about by 9am.

To be honest, I was kind of dreading spending a day with her by that point. But L and I agreed that we would go - although it was 9:30 before we even got up, having "forgotten" to set our alarms - and wait it out. L established herself in a bunker and proceeded to roast in the 36 degree heat. I attempted to steal a little of the shade that Guest had herself borrowed from the neighbouring Irishmen, but kept being told to move myself further down as the shadows shifted throughout the day. Heaven forbid that she should have to shift herself to the other side of me and inconvenience herself in any way.

But still, Sydney does nothing well if not new years. The fireworks spectacular shook a by now very drunk guest lose from her boring friends, and we parted shortly after midnight. She hasn't been heard from directly since. There have been no thank yous for having put her up in my flat for a week, for having clothed her when she moaned about the cold, for feeding her (not just while she was in the flat either, but also supplying her with breakfast and lunch for the whole road trip). There was no acknowledgement of the planning that went into the trip, for finding our New Years spot, for L and I standing guard over our patch of ground while she and the others wandered down to the railing for the best possible view of the 9 o'clock fireworks. The only reason I know she made it home safely is because she posted on Facebook that she'd had a great night. I haven't posted a new status since; for all she knows, L and I ended up in the Harbour when passengers surged to get on the one and only ferry that arrived around 1:30am. Clearly, I am no longer of any use to her.

L and I made our way back to Melbourne over 2 days. They were largely peaceful days, once L managed to navigate us back to where we'd parked the car (it was at her brother's place; given the trouble she had getting us there in the first place, I should have known I'd need more specific directions from the concierge at the hotel to get us there). The early days of the new year were enough to wipe out the unpleasantness of the last days of the old year. Until I got home and found the wodge of ginger hair still stuck on the drain of my shower, the dusting of talcum over the floor, the screwed up mess of bedding in the spare room. And as it all came crashing back into my memory, I was able to take a deep breath and let it all go. Because no way in hell is she going to be crossing the threshold of any place I'm staying ever again. As if thank you was so hard to say.

The art of visiting

I've been playing host to a house guest for the past week. I like to think I've been a pretty good host - provided spare keys so they can come and go as they please, directions at any time of day, suggestions for what to do, and three days of escorted touring that has added about 600km to the mileage on my almost-new car - at hefty cost in fuel considering that it's Christmas. Most important of all, I have taken her along to my family Christmas, making sure that she wasn't orphaned for the day. I have taken her to my friends' Christmas, including buying a Kris Kringle present for her so that she didn't feel left out. I have cooked for her on no less than three occasions, two of them after having been at work all day.

In return, I have had the pleasure of her company, received a bottle of booze, and had my dishes washed twice (although apparently, finding the place where everything goes was a little too much work). I have had my shower clogged with her hair, I have had my bathroom sprayed with water, my tap twisted out of alignment, my spare bedroom made into a bigger sty than I ever managed, every power point touched left switched on, every light in the flat on at various times, a hissy fit chucked when I dared to suggest that on Boxing Day perhaps I might see some of MY friends that I haven't caught up with for Christmas instead of trekking all the way down to the frigging Mornington Peninsula for her to see some friends of her aunt's who she met when she was 20. You'll notice, the one thing I haven't received - any sign of thanks.

I know I won't comment, but I have almost ripped her head off on several occasions, the best one being when she insisted that she knew my mother MUST have a particular cleaning product in the house, in spite of me knowing that she never used the stuff. My knowledge of my mother's house cleaning habits was, of course, inferior, because she dived under the sink and came out with the product in question, and a very smug look on her face (turns out that kitchen benches must be cleaned with disinfectant before dishes can be stacked on them - wiping them with a damp cloth simply won't do). Not sure she noticed it later when Mum picked up the bottle of cleaner and asked where that had come from, because she didn't know she had it. I'm also incapable of even folding my own laundry. A trip to the loo before sorting things into a state that she considered appropriate for them was too big a delay for her. I came out to find her folding my underpants, and not listening when I did everything short of swear at her to get her to bugger off and leave my clothes alone. If I'd wanted to move them, I would have done it myself, as soon as I was out of the loo. We've been mates for a while, but we're hardly at the point where it's fine to fold each other's undies.

Earlier today, when someone cut in front of me as they got on the freeway, and I benefited from the wonderful joy of her driving instruction, about how she would have acted. Me having my foot on the brake was not enough of a response, apparently. I should have changed lanes. I should have done this, I should have done that, because this delightful guest of mine is always in the right, and can never concede that she might be wrong - although she has proven to be so quite a few times. I should know all of this. In fact, I did know it before she arrived, but it had never been brought home quite so strongly to me before. Or maybe it had, during some of the weeks that we spent working together on hotels in the UK. I remember seething with resentment quite often, but knowing that me venting any of it could very well lead to a stand-up fight, so I always swallowed the bile that rushed to spill out of my mouth. And I've done it again this time, biting back the words that I want to say, the times when I can feel the steam about to blow the top of my head off. Or more likely, the top of her head. I'm not known among my closest friends and family for my subtlety, but I'm not close enough to this one that I will blow my top openly. So I seethe and plot revenge, instead.

But if she thinks I won't repay the favour of being the world's most annoying house guest by visiting her in Brisbane in 2011, she can have another think. Of course, I can't chuck a tanty when she doesn't dessert friends and family during the holiday season to chauffeur me around town - her family is still back in South Africa - but I can make life difficult for her. I can run up her power bills, her water bills, I can be messy, I can sit around and watch her prepare dinner after a day at work. I can give her advice on how she should be doing things, I can correct her every thought, wilfully misunderstanding her, and never giving an inch in an argument even when the people involved are talking about completely separate issues. I can do all of this.

The question is, can I do all of that and still keep the friend? I think not, on the whole. And the annoying part is, when she's not being the world's biggest know-it-all, she's great fun. It's just that at close quarters, the fun gets buried in the pedantic crap that she also spews, and the fact that you realise she doesn't know half as much as she thinks she does. I can't see the friendship lasting long-term, in all honesty. But I'll be damned if I give it up before I get a weeks free room, board and transportation in Brisbane.

Bill me

Somewhere out there, some companies have put together a list. On this list is the name of every person that those companies feel can be over-charged on their bills, without anybody noticing. Somehow, my name seems to have ended up on that list.

First there was Lumos, a power and gas company, who keep trying to charge me for power and gas. Two problems. Firstly, they aren't my provider, I go through a different company, which I have told them several times over. They still keep sending me bills. But the biggest reason why I know I don't owe them any money, apart from the fact that my name isn't on the actual bill? It's because at least some of the charges go back before I'd even signed the lease on my flat.

Then the phone company tried it on, adding a ridiculous amount to a bill, but deleting it as soon as I queried it, telling me that if I hadn't been informed about the charge when I signed up, then I didn't have to pay it. The ease with which I got them to take it off makes me think it's a "hit-'em-up-and-hope-they-pay-it" kind of charge. Well, nobody gets one over on this little black duck, let me tell you. Especially not to the tune of $80 a month. It all adds up.

This month, it was City Link who had a crack. I use the toll roads they administer for work, on the rare occasions that I have to head into head office, and even more rarely when I'm heading into town for a night out. It doesn't happen often. So getting a $140 bill for a month came as something of a surprise, especially given that the last month had been a zero balance. I shouldn't have been totally surprised. I'd had a warning shot fired over my bow last week, when they sent me a text saying that my account was being suspended. I couldn't work out why, but didn't get around to finding out why, because I wasn't planning on using it in the near future. But now I want to use it, and I can't. The strangest part is that nobody can actually tell me why my account has been suspended. All the bills that have been issued before have been paid. This one is in dispute, and only arrived in the mail today. The kicker, though, is that the account was suspended 2 days before the statement was even issued.

I have to say, I hate that the roads are tolled in the first place. The most commonly used stretch for me is a road that was built when my mother was still at school. I begrudge having to pay to use it. Before I moved away, I refused point blank to drive on it, out of principle. Notice, time in London has eroded my principles in favour of ease of use. Because it does make my life a whole lot easier, halving my travel time to and from head office. But if the price of convenience is a 25 minute phone call with someone who couldn't actually resolve my query, and could barely enter my problem into the system because there wasn't an automated option, then I'll go back to taking my time to get places. And if they argue that it was my car, I can call in character witnesses to help defend me, because anyone who knows me at all would agree, there's no way in hell that I was passing under one of the City Link gantries at 06:50.

So I'm issuing a warning. I've had enough. Any company that thinks it's OK to over charge me, or add false charges to my bills, don't say you weren't warned. Just ask Virgin in the UK. I am capable of prolonged phone calls where I am able to maintain anger and coherence, all at the same time. It might have taken me a while to get Virgin to do what they were supposed to, but I know how to do it now. And I don't have the cash to throw away on the whims of some accounts department screw up. If you see my name on that list, cross it out. Because one way or another, I'm not paying and you'll regret sending me a bill for something that I didn't use.

Fanatic

I need to start this post by putting out a disclaimer. I am not usually one of those fans of things who goes around trying to either become a character from their favourite novel. I've never knowingly stalked anyone (there may have been a few coincidences in bumping into people, or accidentally googling them; these do not count, because the people involved were not famous). I've never read fan fiction, either. For those not in the know, that's the sort of thing where someone who is in love with a book will write their own version of it, changing things a little to bring about a different outcome, or creating entirely new scenarios for future works. I knew it existed, of course I did. I am, after all, a bit of a nerd about these things. But only a bit of a nerd. Like I said, I'd never read the stuff before. Before, of course, let's slip that I've read some of it now. And it's all the fault of the office temp.

When I arrived at work on Monday, I found a note on my desk. Scrawled on it were the words, "You have to Google Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality.' It's FREAKIN AWESOME." (her caps). I'd heard her talking about various fan fic things before. Apparently in one version, Malfoy ends up with Hermione, which is what inspired her and her boyfriend to head along to the latest Harry movie dressed up as those characters. She's a big fan. But either way, I was a little wary. But it's been bucketing down so much this week and, in a moment of boredom at lunchtime, I checked it out. And now I'm hooked.

I'm sure it's just this particular version. And there are huge chunks of it that I just skim with my eyes slightly glazed; there's a whole lot of science in there. But it's like someone took Harry Potter and jumbled him up with Artemis Fowl, throwing in enough sci-fi and genuine science to get every nerd on the planet completely addicted. It turns out that a completely mad, despotic version of Harry, who is friends with Malfoy instead of Ron, and ends up in Ravenclaw, throws up a hugely entertaining novel (if you ignore the bits that go whizzing over your head). So I guess that means I'll be paying more attention to some of the suggestions made by the temp. But I don't care how good the fan fic is, I'm not dressing up. I've got to have some part of me that stays non-nerd. Or at least got to be able to pretend that. Yep, it's all about deniability. Harry Potter-Evans-Verres would understand, I'm sure.

The week of death

I'm in the process of dieting, trying to undo all the badness that was done during my race to the finish line on my thesis. It's going to take some work, apparently. I've entered the third week of the diet and, overall, I'm half a kilogram heavier than I was when I started, in spite of religiously checking my food, following a strict diet, and eating things that I would normally scrunch my nose as I turned away from. All in all, not the best way to spend the festive season, but I figured I'd seen enough sweet sugary or chocolatey things to get me through. Perhaps not. Cravings from hell for all things sugar, and nightmare withdrawal headaches for the first week. The headaches have eased, but it turns out that the cravings haven't.

And yes, the scales say I've actually gained half a kilo...what they don't tell you is that, due to what I think (i.e., hope) are ordinary fluctuations, I went up by 2.5kg in the first week. So I'm not telling myself that I've gained. Oh no, in my head, I've lost 2kg. Which sounds less impressive when you know that it's taken me 3 weeks to do it.Especially frustrating since the diet I'm following is supposed to drop a dress size in six weeks. Well, diet people, I'm halfway there. Where's my new wardrobe coming from? Oh, that's right. It's not. Because this week, not only am I entering the stage of dieting where I normally start to sneak back to my bad habits, but I'm also entering the week with the first Christmas party of the season. It's under three weeks to go, folks. My tree is up, my presents are, if not bought, then at least planned, and the festive season is in full swing. And I haven't had a a single mince pie yet. Not this month, anyway, and the one I had on a visit to Nana's doesn't count because, after all, she's my Nana... So, as the season gears up for the week of death for all diets, who thinks that this time next week I'll be griping about my eating habits? Yeah, fat chance...

When I grow up...

When you're a kid, everybody asks you what you want to be when you grow up. Fireman, astronaut, princess, - they rank high on plenty of kids lists, I'm sure. But I never really wanted any of those things. Sure, I liked the idea of being a hero, or of having people running around having to do exactly what I, beautiful beyond belief, wanted them to. But my aim never seemed to be as fantastical as all of that. For a long time, I wanted to be an author. This was back in the days when I actually finished the stories I started (although, based on evidence found in several exercise books buried deep in cupboards when helping my parents move from the family home this month, I clearly didn't finish them all then, either). Of course, those stories ran to 10 pages of illustrated drama - my all time favourite is titled "Murder in the Dark", written at age 10, and featuring dripping knives, things that go bang, and finishing with an arrest after the gruesome death scene - but hey, for a kid, they were master pieces. I was convinced that I would be published.

Once I'd given up on that dream, or at least pushed it further back in my mind, I wanted to be in the Air Force. Blame it on being made to watch The Right Stuff and Top Gun too many times, but I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I had visions of me flying all over the world, doing aerobatics, being an ace like the ones I saw in movies. Reality put paid to that dream when I got to about 16. As an unfit, lazy female, there was no way I was ever going to be put in charge of several million dollars worth of fighter plane. If I was lucky, they'd let me fly a cargo plane; women didn't get to do combat operations. And thank god for that, is all I can say, because the thought now of being in that situation is enough to scare the pants off me.

I think the last dream I had was to be a journalist; yes, the shy kid in the corner who has barely met a deadline in her life and certainly never voluntarily asked a question, you'd make a fine member of the press. One of my class mates did follow this road, into TV news. The other day I saw her interviewing the former deputy principal of my school and having to criticise her; it must have been a kind of bittersweet moment for both.

Notice, though, when asked what you want to be, it's always a job. No kid ever says they want to grow up to be kind, or funny, or anything that involves a personality trait. Maybe I'm noticing this because I'm evaluating what I want to be when I finally finish growing up - because 30 clearly isn't grown up enough. What will I end up being? I'm yet to settle on a dream that fits, but I don't want to resign myself to the idea that I will never find myself somewhere that is truly and completely me. Yes, I enjoy my current job most of the time. I could do without the whinging of a colleague, without the stupidity of people, but as far as jobs go, it's not bad. Somewhere in London, L is picking herself up off the floor at me saying that a job isn't bad. But I conceded long ago that work is a necessity; it just could be more...me.

So the search continues. My recent run-in with writing a thesis has put academia firmly out of my head. I've tried architecture and interior design with some success, but little joy. So the question remains; when I grow up, what will I be? If I figure it out, I'll let you know...

You're kidding, right?

I made the mistake of reading the Herald Sun today. It's always a mistake for me to dip into the tabloids. They only end up making me angry. But what can I say, it was the only available reading material at work at lunch today. So I read it, and proceeded to get angry.

See, it seems that the Australian PM has been visiting the other countries in the region, and she took along her partner, who the tabloid in question has patronisingly dubbed 'The First Fella'. I had thought that all the ruckus about having a female prime minister, and an unmarried on with a live-in boyfriend at that, had died down. I figured that the conservatives had resigned themselves to the fact that a woman is just as able to do the job as a man, and that anyone - even the PM - can live in sin if they choose to, without endangering the well being of anybody under their care. After the lashing that Bettina Arndt received following her comments about the relationship between Julia and Tim, a piece of writing that set Australia back about 50 years in most people's opinion, I had thought that it would all die down.

Except now it's flared up again. "Serious" media has commented on the man's dress sense and presentation, as well as her choice of clothing. But today's little stinger took the cake. Because apparently, the fact that Julia took her partner with her on a trip to Muslim countries has made her unsuitable to lead the country. It's supposed to be insensitive, and to have caused all of the leaders to pull out of meetings with them. Yeah, because people who live for politics let somebody's relationship status come between them and a potential route to power. Just as likely a reason for the cancellation of the meetings - which probably wouldn't have been made in the first place if her living situation was truly an issue - was the fact that there was a volcano erupting in Indonesia - a reason also given the Hilary Clinton for not meeting her this week. In Malaysia, the leader is said to have chicken pox. Yes, a potentially life threatening illness for adults, especially difficult for adult men. But no...he's faking it to get out of a meeting with the promiscuous woman who travels - shock, horror! - with her partner.

If she was a man, who installed his mistress as a secretary in order to take her with him on business trips, would there be so much comment? And perhaps the greatest irony is that the people who are criticising her for being insensitive to the Muslim beliefs that prevail in Indonesia and Malaysia are the very same people who attack the backwards world view of Muslims arriving in Australia from the Middle East and North Africa. What the hell, people? I know there are plenty of people who don't agree with living together without being married. Fine, you can have whatever beliefs you choose - that's the luxury of living in a developed, Westernised society. But don't think that it's OK to impose those beliefs on others. And don't think that as Australians, we have to choose our leaders based on the beliefs of countries in our region. Because those beliefs will never match each other perfectly. And at the end of the day, surely our leaders ought to represent our own beliefs? Call me nuts, but just a thought...

Welcome wagon

I love my new flat. Really, I do. I've been almost 2 months now, and it feels like home. I've got things how I like them, my stuff is everywhere, and I love having my own retreat from the world. Not least of its plus-sides is that it is 6 minutes from work.

And for the most part, I like my new neighbours. The senior citizens downstairs are friendly, the women in the next block always smile and say hello, the gardener is hot - as he should be - and very friendly. But the guys who share a landing with me have a little bit to learn about how to not piss off your neighbours. So I thought I'd compile a list of tips, all the things I'm too chicken to say to the white shoe wearers.

1. Never, ever play your music so loud that it rattles the plates in your neighbour's dish drainer. If they can hear the words - assuming, of course, that there are words - it's too loud. If they can feel the bass as they sit on the couch, it's too loud. If they have their own music on but can still hear your combination of turkish pop, rock, and south american pipe music, it's too loud. Same goes with your television, the football, in fact any kind of noise.

2. Don't fill your neighbour's bin the day after they have been emptied. How do I know it was you? Well let;s see...you has a party in the stair well till all hours, the bottles in my recycle bin are a lovely combination of girly sweet drinks and turkish liquer, and there's a collection of chip packets, pizza boxes, and styrofoam takeaway containers; I'm guessing it isn't any of the pensioners.

3. When you drive past my window, I should not be able to hear your radio.

4. When your friends arrive, there is no need for them to cluster on the stairs and have conversations that would seem loud if they were in my living room. Get them inside, shut the door, and shut them up. And they shouldn't have to knock on your door. Be an adult and get a door bell.

5. Smiling and waving in a Joey-from-Friends "How-you-doing" way is not neighbourly. Especially when I've seen your girlfriend.

SO there you have it. My tips for the cavemen next door. Now all I've got to do is get the ones on the other side of the fence to change the program on their swimming pool filter to not start at 9am on weekends, and it will be the perfect flat.

We've gotta stop meeting like this...

So I'm back in a settled existence, working, seeing friends, blogging, and it only seems fair that it was time one of my other stable occupations kicked in: I'm back on internet dating sites.

Yes, sad but true. And right now, I'm wrestling with levels of frustration that I should be familiar with, but somehow always strike me as something out of the blue when they come.

First there was the guy who messages regularly, seems interested enough, but never quite gets to the next level. He seems happy enough with just chatting via the keyboard, which I can see will get old fast. I've dropped all sorts of subtle hints, from the usual what's going on this weekend, to asking questions about cooking, where he goes, what he gets up to. Nothing shakes him loose. But without fail, every time I log on, he's there with a hello, however much he makes me work for anything more than that.

Then there is the guy who seems to have dropped me since I wouldn't add him as a Facebook friend. We've chatted a couple of times, and he seems nice enough, but I don't want to friend him, and have to explain to Dad, my aunt, my sister-in-law, my cousins, and various others, who it is that I've just added. It gets awkward. And that's without considering howmuch of my life he would have had access to. But he hasn't messaged me since I told him I hardly use Facebook. A little lie, but nothing too serious. His loss.

But I've saved the best for last, because he's such a cliche. The guy who opens with the line "I think you're hot" and doesn't appreciate it when the "compliment" is brushed aside with a flip comment. Apparently, I'm supposed to reply "Thanks, I think you are too". Catch is, I don't think he's hot. He might be interesting, he might be intelligent, but usually, guys like this, they aren't hot. If they were, I doubt they'd be scouring the internet looking for a girlfriend. Luckily, I have a handy blocking button I can push, and he has now been consigned to the interweb dating scrapheap.

Men. Honestly. Even through a keyboard, they still seem to have no clues. Of course, I'm so much better, given that I'm sitting on the other end of the keyboard, just waiting for a message. Because a girl can't be forward, she can't initiate anything. Lord, the hypocrisy.

The curse of suburbia

I live in the burbs, always have and probably always will, truth to tell. For the most part, it's not as bad a place to live as the intelligentsia would have us believe, provided it's approached with right attitude and a good set of neighbours. Growing up, I was pretty lucky. We only ever had one bad lot, the ones who would call the police to get our games of street cricket moved on, the ones we used to collect dog poo to leave on their doorstep, that sort of relationship. My new flat, well, things are a little different.

For the more part, I put up with my noisy immediate neighbour. I don't think he has any idea of just how loud he is, to be honest, and the elderly downstairs neighbours are probably too deaf to notice. As long as he keeps to a dull roar, I can usually deal with him. And his music. And his excessively loud-talking friends. And his stomping up and down the stairs at all hours. It's fine. You get that when you live in flats. I don't like it, but I deal with it. The problem neighbour here, I've never actually seen them; they're not an immediate neighbour, there's a house between them and me. But oh my god have I heard them.

They have a dog. I think it must be a puppy. Again, never seen, only heard. Because they don't tell it to shut up when it sets up with continuous barking at night. All night. It sets off all the yappy neighbourhood dogs. I'm guessing that they're telling it to shut up and let them get some sleep. I know one day I will be out on my balcony telling it that, if this keeps up. That was last night. Today, worse, if anything. It seems that the return of good weather has brought out the lawn mowers. Fair enough, I have no objection to mowing the lawn. It has to be done, and I'd rather they did that and kept the seeds under control so they don't make me sneeze. They did it this morning. Then, based on the sound of things, they did it again this afternoon. Then they had some sort of motorised thing going that I can only assume was doing the edges. Except they must have really sucked at using it, because they did it again. And then again. And once more. Then just once more, because they'd obviously missed a bit. In all, I think they fired it up about 6 times. And each time they did, I couldn't hear anything that I had going on in my flat. No music, no TV, no thinking. And I need to think. Because I'm still writing a thesis here.

In fact, they're out there again. I think they must have moved to the front of their house, because it's a bit fainter. It's not drowning out the sound of trams or traffic, birds, my stereo, my brain. It's just sounding a little like a dentist's drill now.

They clearly don't realise the risk they're taking. I've been studying for days straight, only moving away from the laptop to get on the wii fit and work out some of the kinks - I swear, if it wasn't for all the crap I eat while studying, I'd be fit as by the time this is done. But crap I am eating, drinking, inhaling. It's so bad, I actually craved vegetables last night. I'm hopped up on a combination of sugar and caffeine that I'm sure could trigger a heart attack in a lesser mortal. And now there's people messing with me. I'm hoping that either I get the thesis finished (pfft, like that's going to happen this side of 3am) or they turn off the bloody whipper snipper. Otherwise, I've got a fairly good idea that a local medical team will be performing a gardening tool extraction procedure later today, and it won't be from me. It's taken all my self-restraint not to litter this post with swear words. Don't think I've got enough left to deal with much more.

The Whooshing of a Deadline

Douglas Adams once said that he loved deadlines. More specifically, he loved the "whooshing" sound they made as they flew by. I'm getting a closer acquaintance with the whoosh today. My thesis draft is due on Monday, yet here I am, writing another blog entry. Interesting fact; the number of blog entries I make correlates pretty closely with the number of things on my to-do list. There's an inverse relationship between blogging and the number of days left on a deadline, as well. But somehow, on a glorious sunny spring day in Melbourne, it seems especially harsh that I have to be cooped up inside and writing about Marxism. I know, it's self inflicted. I'm not asking for sympathy. I have a feeling I wouldn't get much anyway. I'm just having a moan. Anything to keep me from examining the question of women as consumers/consumables. Yes, sounds entertaining, doesn't it.

It never ceases to amaze me just how many ways there are to procrastinate, if you really put your mind to it. I read somewhere that many perfectionists procrastinated, because they were afraid that nothing they could do would be up to standards, so it's better not to try. I must be the ultimate perfectionist, because I'm notorious for putting things off to the last second. At least this time I won't have someone nearby telling me I look dead when I surface after a weekend of no sleep. L is still safely in London, and nobody else here would tell me so bluntly except my Nana. Sorry Nana, no visits until my sleep pattern returns to normal.

All of which adds up to the fact that I should be doing something else. Anything to do with my thesis, actually, as long as it has a direct relationship. So what am I doing instead? Blogging. Playing online solitaire. Wandering through dating websites. Hell, I'm even considering housework right now, so desperate am I to avoid putting pen to paper - or hands to keyboard, at least. Maybe make a cake. Pathetic, isn't it. Meanwhile, the whoosh is getting louder...

Clarity

Thinking about it, I need to add a little clarity to the miserable post I've just put up. I know it was miserable. I'm kind of wallowing in it for the night. What can I say? Sometimes you just need to curl up on the couch with a vat of chocolate ice cream (or in this case a jar of Nutella). I think a few explanations are also in order.

First up, I am not moving back to the UK. I am not thinking of moving back to the UK. Not in any serious fashion at any rate. I'm back here in Australia, and I'm generally happy enough being here. There are many advantages to it.

So now that's out of the way, I should probably explain a few things. There may be someone reading this who has read my blog for a while, so they will remember that I had what I can only call a dark period for a while there. The bit where a friend who reads this observed that I sounded like I wanted to slit my wrists. Another friend became very concerned for me and attempted a kind of intervention. I'm not in that place. A large part of my completely wet blanket mood comes from two things; I haven't been getting much sleep lately, for one reason or another (mostly stress related, actually; did I mention that thesis deadline in the last paragraph or so?) and on top of that, I've started cutting back on my sugar and caffeine intake, attempting to get it to ordinary levels, which was one of the contributing factors last time I slid into the blackest of black holes. It's Spring, too, which in Melbourne means pollen clogging the nose, and, in my particular case, the type of headaches that can make you forget to breath, let alone to anything else. Add to that an epic collection of stupid people to deal with at work today (clue: if I'm asking you if you've sent me the latest version of the drawings, because I can't see the difference between this lot and the last lot, you're not getting your plans approved. Just a hint), and you have a vat of misery sitting waiting for me. And there was no Hellcats on TV tonight to jolly me out of it (Pretty cast? Check. Cheerleaders doing the physically impossible? Check. Implausible story lines? Check. poorly acted vehicle for a "triple threat" a la Lindsey Lohan/ Olsen twins movies? Check. God I love that show). And I'm having both a fat day and, given the sudden warmer weather and my need to have actual work clothes, wardrobe shortage issues. I'm not without reasons for being down in the dumps. I've decided to retreat into gloom and doom for the night. I live along, I have that choice and nobody is here to complain if I decide to listen to the Waifs sing about being in London Still on repeat. Or if I chose to blog about it. So sue me, because that's the only way anybody outside this room is going to have any impact on this mood, and by then I'll have moved on.

Oh good. Looks like I've made the transition into nasty piece of work. Tomorrow I shallbe all smiles, even if they're sarcastic, with service returned to normal. No need to confiscate pointy things just yet.

Irony has a name

This week has been a teensy bit surreal. Not sure where it came from, why it came, or how, but I wish it would go away. Because out of the blue, for no real reason, I'm suddenly missing London.

Yep, that's right. The weather in Melbourne turns nice, I get myself set up in a great flat, I pick up my new car tomorrow and I'm in a job that I actually quite like, with the prospect of some financial security looming, and suddenly I'm missing the grey, grim life that I led for the past 2 years. Go figure.

I first noticed it last Friday, after a night out with work people. Maybe it was because it was the first night out with them that I'd had, a night where nobody I knew was driving, where I stumbled home in the wee sma's, not having to sneak around fearful of waking anyone, or hoping that there was nobody deciding that I'd slept enough. Maybe it's down to the looming thesis deadline that's evoking memories of late nights in London, or perhaps it was the arrival of some London-related mail. I know I triggered it properly by downloading the latest episodes of Spooks, and reminiscing about all the times that I've run through the Bakerloo platforms at Charing Cross Station, just like Lucas et al were doing in the most recent, trying to pick where they were filming, and getting excited when I recognised it, just like I used to do with Australian films when homesickness started to bite back in London.

Or perhaps it's really all down to L's announcement that she is definitely coming back to Melbourne at the end of this year. It's truly the end of an era once she gets back. Sure, I've still got friends there, there are still people who I would visit if I was to go back. But she is the only one that I knew over there that I also knew here before I left. And when she comes back, it is almost certain to mean that I am here for good as well. And much as I'm loving being back in Melbourne - and don't get me wrong, I love this city like no other - I'm missing some of the freedom of being over there.

Over there I didn't get nightly phone calls from my mother. I didn't feel sit around doing nothing, because it's next to impossible to pin anyone down without booking them months in advance. I was out and about, doing things on whims without having to justify it to anybody. There is a freedom to living on the other side of the world to what you consider your real life, and I miss that. I miss the adventure of wandering a city that is older than my country, older than I can contemplate, where you turn the corner and suddenly you're looking at something that pre-dates not only your own country, but the one you're standing in as well. The twists and turns, the people.

I never thought I would come back here and wax lyrical about London. Maybe it's the realisation that I really can't move back there that has set me off. I don't think I would move back. But I would pick up huge chunks of it and move them here if I could. I think I understand what it was that made the colonialists attempt to reconstruct England in Australia, at least to a certain extent. I'm glad they did.

Actually, I think I know what has set me off. It's the realisation that both of my brothers are deserting the family Christmas, leaving me defenceless on Annual Family Fight Day. I can see their point; it's the first time I've been home for the festive season since 2008, so it's about time I shouldered some of the burden. It feels strange and slightly wrong to be once again contemplating a hot Christmas, let alone one at home but without half my family around.

It's frustrating to think of just how homesick I was before I made the decision to move back here, only to find that I'm missing London now. I had thought I was settled, but it seems I've been kidding myself, at least a little. I'm not really. It's nice to have a home, it's nice to be home, but damn I love to travel. Guess I'll just have to get down to planning another little adventure...

There's the rub

Today felt like summer. It probably helped that daylight saving kicked off overnight, meaning that even though it's almost 8 it's still a little light outside. It took me a while to work that out this morning. I have a phone and laptop that are programmed to set their own time, but my watch and all my other clocks hadn't changed. I actually had to get online to double check the time (thanks very much timeanddate.com, by the way. Lifesaver)

But that's all beside the point. I spent today with the windows of the flat open, basking in the glorious sunshine as I moved around, puttering (i.e. procrastinating) in my linen shirt and cut off jeans. For someone who feels that she has gone without a summer since early 2006, it was like a slice of heaven. Or it was, until a mosquito found its way into the flat. See, only two of my windows have insect screens. And, as fate would have it, they aren't the windows that stay open without props. So I take my chances, or I have until today. I shut the windows a little before sundown - prime mozzie time, in my experience - but it was too late.

And now, I have a problem. Two, actually, one on my wrist, one on my elbow. Which leads me to the question, how the hell did I not notice that there was a bloodsucker taking a nip of me on my right wrist while I was cooking dinner? It's not like my hand was still for long, either. Now I've got to keep reminding myself not to scratch, so it doesn't get infected. Because I'm allergic to mosquitoes. Of course I am. Sometimes, I'm even allergic to oxygen. Why would I not be allergic to mozzies? Bloody bugs.

And speaking of bugs, it turns out that my nearest neighbour here is a Collingwood supporter. He was home with a friend yesterday to watch the Grand Final replay. Personally, I wish that they could have just kept on repeating the draw until everybody gave up and moved onto next season. I wasn't actually watching the game. I didn't have to. I could hear the cheers from next door. One or other of them footy fans was outside smoking at regular intervals, polluting the air with smoke as well as sound. Turns out, mosquitoes aren't the only kind of bugs around here. Bloody Collingwood supporters.

So now I'm left with a dilemma. I know where the Collingwood supporter is, but there is nothing I can do about it. Whereas I can't find the mozzie, no matter how I search. A brief glimpse here, a flitting shadow there. But make no mistake. Once I find the little bugger, it won't be taking any more of my hemoglobin, that's for sure. If only I could do the same to the Collingwood supporter.

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

So, it's been a while since I blogged. Many months, in fact. Long enough for me to have re-established myself in Melbourne and thrown myself back into working, studying, and all from the comfort of my own couch. Long enough for me to realise just how unhealthy study can be.

It's all very well when you're young and have an active metabolism to live the student lifestyle. But I'm not sure whether it's down to juggling full-time work and full-time thesis writing, but something is missing this semester. I think it's called a waistline. Sitting around while I research and write several thousand words*, mainlining coke straight from the bottle to keep my energy levels up, with a jar of Nutella and a spoon beside me for "solid fuel" breaks, I have come to realise that my study habits will kill me if I keep it up. I'm back to being sleep deprived and somewhat grumpy. I have 2 days worth of dishes piled up on the kitchen bench - I have no flatmates here to pester me into cleaning them, which is good and bad; I also have another 4 days worth in the cupboard to use before I am forced to do something about it, so I think it's mostly bad, from that front.

And what do I have to show for it? A deeper understanding of the relationship between chick lit and what went before it? Perhaps. The realisation that feminism can go round and round in circles without achieving anything other than an increasingly dense collection of theory that has little or no application in a real world still riddled with inequality? Of course. A caffeine/sugar habit and will see me getting withdrawal once again when I cut back to a regular person's intake? Undoubtedly. A new high score in Spider Solitaire. A steadily increasing BMI and a lowered ability to actually move my arse off the couch. A sudden inclination to blog once again. Beyond that, I'm not sure. Then again, I'm staring down the barrel of missing a deadline, so I'm bound to have some second thoughts about the whole process, given that I can see a month ahead with little or no sleep. Seems I have taken something away from this process. My poor time management in London was not down to the number of invitations to do interesting things. It was actually because I suck at organisation. Huh. Who woulda thunk it?

*Researching and writing of thesis may not have actually been taking place during the time spent on couch. Or, in fact, at all in any time over the past 2 weeks, with the exception of last night.