Lucky bastard

Now, Jim, when trying to start a fire it's all about friction...

A small army of scouts lost in the bush armed only with a shitload of condoms and a lot of free time. I love it.

God bless them, every one...

You've got to love racists, sometimes. I mean sure they're horrible bigots with abhorent views who are barely fit to walk the earth but at least they're fucking stupid enough to think that keeping a low profile before taking part in an alleged killing spree means drawing swastikas on their car.... nice one.

Are you there bint face? It's me, your sister.

The day I decided that keeping a diary was for suckers was the day I found out my sister had been reading mine.

The worst part being I couldn't even get too angry, given I'd been reading hers too.

Luckily for both of us I was only about 15 at the time and a shy bookish type, meaning the raciest bit of gossip ol' sis managed to extract from those pages was a list of Boys I Would Like to Kiss. Yes that's right - kiss. Oh for simpler times.

Still the experience put me off committing anything for paper lest it be used against me. The irony being that it was only when I had things worth writing about that I declined to do so.

But in the past week or so three things have happened to make me decide I'm getting getting back on the diary train.

1. I found an old shoebox full of letters from school friends and ex boyfriends.
2. I listened to another friend play a ten-year-old recording of himself singing and playing bass down the phone line.
3. I attended the (awesome) wedding of two delightful friends.

It was the letters that started all of this. I've always suspected my memory has been irrevocably addled from booze and general idiocy but the proof was in realising exactly how much I'd forgotten. The box - a collection, of notes passed in class, awkward flirty banter in paper form and break-up letters - was so full of things I'd forgotten it was a bit like reading my sister's diary all over again. I didn't recognise myself. There were schemes I never remembered hatching, crushes I'd wisely erased from the hard drive and names I couldn't match to faces.

I had remembered, obviously, the high cringe-factor of my ex-ex-boyfriend's post break-up "why you're a bitch in 1000 words or more" letter but did I recall the cruelty of the prose, his WILD allegations about my many emotional problems or his killer PS? No, no I did not.

The phone call exacerbated my concerns. Do I have, for instance (as does my aforementioned musically-talented friend) a record of the short-lived radio show young Anna Sinclair and I performed in her bedroom between the approximate ages of 11 and 13? No and no again.

And so of course the wedding cemented the whole thing because it was lovely but I'm a little afraid that, given time, I may forget entirely exactly why it was lovely if I don't have some sort of written memory of the thing. And when an elderley gentleman leans in to tell you that you look like something out of The Great Gatsby (a shameless lie but given I was feeling slightly self conscious about my ridiculously awesome hat one which I appreciated) you don't want to let it slip the old noggin'.

So I'm back on the wagon with a fancy pen, a delightful new notebook and a weekend full of delights to transcribe. Just, um, don't check under my pillow. That means you, Sis.
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UPDATE: Thanks for your charming comments, dear FRIENDS. But, no, contrary to popular opinion I have no plans to a)get married b)breed c)start finding children charming d)own a copy of The Notebook on DVD. The day that I do you shall be the first to know.

How not to impress literary types #13

On Dostoevksy’s Crime and Punishment: “Yeah you know how there are those two guys whose names both start with R? And the way that their names are a teensy bit similar and sort of ridiculously difficult to pronounce, while both characters are completely key to the storyline? Yeah, I actually thought they were THE SAME PERSON until, like, page 150. True story.”

Semantics

What I said:
I'm sorry I don't believe I have the number.

What I meant:
Not only do I HAVE the number and am choosing not to give it to you but I will never, ever, ever give you any number of any personal contact of mine because you are a bint and I do not care for you. Now get the fuck off my desk.

Meanwhile

I love a good party, even (especially?) one that ends at *ahem* Hip-E club dancing around a pile of books. I had planned a decent write-up to illustrate just how old-as-fuck I'm getting but, screw it, if you can still a)catch a PARTY BUS 100 metres down the road b)dance at Hip-E with minimal shame c)realise you are literally dripping with sweat only as you step out of said club and into the cold street... then how old can you be, really?

Token Smokin' Hottie: Hugh Dancy

You know how you I usually try to make some slightly cleverish commentary with these things to justify putting these photos up? Yeah, um... Yum.

Hair today, giant hairball tomorrow

This is old news but just in case anyone needed some help throwing up in his or her mouth, just a little, check this out.

You just know this photo is on their facebook profile OMFG

Meet Trixie and Tiffani (probably): these two fake tanned slappers enjoy doing that faux lesbian dancing thing in clubs to please the boys, haven't read a book since He's Just Not That Into You and don't believe in date rape. The black hole of charisma on the left practices that pout in the mirror and failed to receive the memorandum that those big glasses she's wearing went from Darjeeling-Limited-dorky-cute to annoying six months ago and from annoying to punch-you-in-your-face-rage-inducing the second after she put them on. They're everything you hate about everything.

Token Smokin' Hottie: Courtney Taylor Taylor

You know that insanely good looking guy who is kind of a dick? He's delicious,yes, but so smarmy, arrogant and self consciously munchable that you suspect he wanks to a photo of himself? The sort of guy who talks about his band a lot and smokes a lot, like a LOT, of pot?

And you know how you sort of hate yourself for it but you're a little but in love with him? Yeah that's THIS guy.

May contain nudity

Don't stare at it, I told myself. Just don't stare. You're 26 now. You are a mature and sensible person. There is no need to stare.

The man in the centre of the room pulled off his sarong and lay it over a chair.

We all stared at his cock. Okay, well at least I did.

Welcome to life drawing, which is actually completely awesome. Once you've not-so-surrepticiously stared at the rude bits for 5 minutes you can forget about the naked man standing five feet away and start to panic about the fact that you can't draw for shit.

Oh at least until said naked man changes his pose and suddenly you're locked in a staring battle with a strange naked man holding, um, a wooden pole. No, I mean an ACTUAL pole.

Highly recommended.

How not to start your day

Wander topless into your living room only to find two builders in your backyard staring straight at you. Flee to the bathroom, wondering if you're imagining the chuckles or not.

Tales from the world's most optimistic veggie garden #3: the final chapter

Un. Believable. My parents told me the neighbours were pulling down the fence to erect a shared wall. I heard the words but I didn't understand. Not only did I not understand that I would wake up half naked one morning to find several burly men in my backyard but I didn't understand what this fence destruction would mean: they've fucked my veggie garden. Where once there was a handful of tomato plants, some promising looking rocket and a few other bits that might be weeds and might be squash now there is a giant mound of SAND and fucking wooden struts. I mean, I always knew the veggie garden was doomed - I just always assumed it would die by my hand.

Snip

I've bloody done it again. I've lost another hairdresser.

I do seem to go through them pretty quickly but this one I'm a bit sad about.

Okay, so, if I think about it she wasn't quite as good as the one who owned a shop right below my old apartment. He was great - I've still yet to have a blow-dry that equalled his. But could he shut the fuck up? He could not. Reading magazines over my shoulder to comment queenily on EVERTHING, long, long stories about events involving people I'd never met, random characters who wandered in and out of these ridiculous plots. Outrageous. Friends know or could guess how I feel about this kind of chit chat: for me half the pleasure of having my hair cut is the pleasure of indulgence, including silence. So he had to go.

This latest one didn't have head massages to touch the dudes at Toni and Guy. Holy shit - what are the feeding those little emo waifs to give them fingers of steel? I don't know, maybe it's something in the water. Anyway I had no complaints with the haircut either - efficient and pretty. And they gave me champagne. But once you've burst into tears two minutes into a haircut and poured out recent awful events there's only one way to go: out of there. So Toni and Guy were out, en masse.

Half the reason the loss of this latest one saddens me so is that she was none of the above: she knew how to cut hair in complete silence, bless her. No questions. No commentary. yes, there was a woman who knew how to ignore and be ignored. Aw shit I'm, getting all sniffly just thinking about it.

Only problem is that she either hates me or she's a really shitty hairdresser.

Those two options are the only solutions to the question of why my hair currently looks like I've spent six months inside in a wind tunnel. Seriously, I appear to have lost a three hour fight with a racoon. The whole thing measures two feet wide.

"I think I'll keep the natural wave in it," I said. "There's no need to straighten it."

"Right," she said. "I can play up the wave a bit if you like."

"Um, sure." That's me.

Fifteen minutes later I have tears in my eyes from having a)been burnt by some kind of curling iron device b)the sight of my reflection in the mirror c)having had my entire head of hair pulled out strand by strand, or so I assume based on my scalp sensations. Either I've misjudged this whole 'we're both happy with silence' thing and she thinks I'm a biatch or she's getting her styling tips from Pretty in Pink. Either way... sorry lady, it's not going to work out. But it's been one hell of a ride.

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Question: How do go from chipper-as-fuck to suicidal in five minutes?

Answer: Notice the GLARING mistake in your page 1 story and then have your boss hand you your arse on a platter as a result.

Simple, really.