Laundry lesson

This is the reason why you should never put a 100% merino wool beanie in the dryer. Especially if the washing instructions say “do not tumble dry”.

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Dedication

Is turning up at the airport at 6am on a Friday dressed as a koala.

Music to my wardrobe

I’ve realised music has a strong influence over my mood. Like, for example, whenever I listen to Angus and Julia Stone or the Idan Raichel Project I want to run to the nearest clothing store, buy a beret, put it on and stroll the streets. Preferably when it’s raining.

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Confused

I’m going to come clean. Yesterday I joined Twitter. It just seems like the sort of thing that someone with a blog should do. So I did. I went online, filled out the form and sent my very first tweet:

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Schmooks!

To me this is the sound that a kiss makes. Maybe I need to refine my kissing technique…

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So much to say

I’m about to explode. I have so many repressed, un-expressed opinions centrifuging in my brain that at any moment they’re bound to start bursting out of my ears, nostrils and hair follicles and screaming at people out of context.

You may scoff, but I’m really afraid that I’ll walk into an interview and before I can introduce myself, my leg hair will shout “wave thank you, damn it!” or “Really? We need to be compassionate with paedophiles?”…and that’s just not professional.

The only way out is to rant:

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Finders Keepers

Yesterday I met my second cousin for the first time. That is – try to keep up – my dad’s cousin’s daughter. Here’s a diagram to help your struggling Friday brains:

Before we move on I should add that my sister Kate is neither a midget nor a five year old. I’m just not very good with Paint and I wanted to express that she’s quite short. Which she is. Kate if you’re reading this; sorry but you are.

Back to my story.

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The art of balancing things on the train

Now that I've worked out how to update my blog from my iPhone let me tell you about my current situation. Because I bet you're dying to know what kind of mischief I'm getting up to on my thrilling train ride.

"Is she balancing monkeys on her nose, I wonder" you might be asking.

Sorry to disappoint. I'm actually balancing my urge to knock out the two, young, over-deodorised girls that have invaded my personal space with the reality that if I did, I'd have to heave them (and their massive food-filled bags) out at the next station by myself. So, instead, I'm holding my breath and hoping that they don't stay on the train for the entire 1.5 hour journey. I'm too young to lose my sense of smell!

Eureka! My companions have gotten off the train and left behind only a slight hint of rotting vanilla to keep me company. I am loving the silence.

Of course those girls were providing me with lots of writing material and now void of their nonsensical chatter I really don't have anything further to add. So I might leave it there and see whether there's anything in my bag that I might be able to balance on my nose...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:On a slow-moving train to the Blue Mountains

Delicious and nutritious

Reasons why I love Apple (the technology produced by the multinational corporation, not the fruit**):

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I love this ad!

You have to admit, this is one smooth cow. And I don't say that about many cows...


Freddie would be proud.

Fixing my technology karma

Yesterday I made fun of a couple who got married by a robot. Then this morning my USB died. Actually first it swore at me, then it flashed me with its arse, then pulverised all of my hard work and then it died. It. Was. Pissed.

So I've decided to make amends and stop the technological torment before it goes any further. I don't ever want to fear my toaster.

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Taking things too far

I’ll share a secret with you: I love my iPhone so much that sometimes I take it into the bathroom with me. Just so I can have a few extra seconds to play a game, surf the web or just stroke it.

Technology, in general, has a very special place in my heart. All technology. I can get excited about anything from the latest fruit juicer to a vacuum, lawnmower, game console or laptop. Especially a laptop. Especially if it’s a Mac laptop.

Sadly I’ve never owned a Mac laptop because Mark continues to ram logic into my head. And I suppose he’s right, I shouldn’t sell my kidneys to pay for a computer.

Anyway, I always thought that if there was ever a piece of technology that felt a little insecure, it could come to me and I would be like, “Look at this! Hey guys look at this! It’s a pen and a scanner, in one! Amazing!” and it would immediately feel better.

But I’ve just been confronted with my bottom line. My limit. Want to know what it is? An i-Fairy acting as a wedding celebrant. I’m not making this up. A couple in Japan got married by a robot. And not a cool or pretty robot like the name might suggest, but a creepy robot cross between Astro Boy, Casper and a fridge…but with less personality and the voice of a lisping five-year-old. I also suspect that it’s had some hip hop lessons from C3PO (the gold robot from Star Wars…yes I am that geeky).

My favourite part of the written coverage is the groom’s expression of disappointment that the i-Fairy isn’t smarter.

“It would be nice if the robot was a bit more clever…” he said

I don’t know how he expected the robot to display extra intelligence – by performing an impromptu lecture on quantum physics mid-ceremony, perhaps? Maybe he hoped it would sound more like an adult and less like a kindergartener on speed? Who knows?

But being a nice person, he compensated:

“…but she is very good at expressing herself.”

And I suppose he’s right…if what she was trying to express was that she wanted to be cast as the next voice of Pikachoo or land on the list of Bert Newton’s “20-1: Most Annoying Robot Voices” somewhere right at the top because there has never, ever been a more annoying robot voice.

But don’t take my word for it, you can watch the wedding here. Just be prepared. It is creepy. The whole time the i-Fairy looks like it might rebel against the flowery onslaught on its head by shooting laser beams – or maybe crayons, rainbows or pacifiers – out of its eyes, all the while learning to count like a good toddler should:

No, ten year olds didn't raid my workspace...

What you are seeing, ladies and gentlemen, is at once the beginning of a feature article on diversification and the reason why today's blog isn't going to be overly thrilling.

Please try to understand. I'm saving all of my humour for the part where I talk about risk insurance.

One way of saying "you really need a haircut"

MARK: She still reminds me of you.

ME: Really?

MARK: I think it's the hair.

I fail to see the resemblance:

A medical mystery

I always knew that one day something about me would make a scientist scratch his head, shrug his shoulders and declare that I’m just a bit weird.

Granted, I thought that it would be my brain, my lack of memory or maybe my sense of humour and not my ACHOO syndrome (no, I’m not making this up), but hey, I won’t be picky. I’ll take what I’m given.

In case you’re wondering, the syndrome (more commonly known as photic sneeze reflex or sun-sneezing) is a condition which causes people to sneeze when they first look at the sun. And I do. As soon as the sunrays hit my eyes, my nostrils go into an excitable frenzy. It’s like they’ve seen daylight for the first time. Every time.

Don’t be concerned though:

1. There are worse things they could get excited about.


2. I love sneezing.


3. It’s not a condition that has any debilitating effects. In fact, it’s not even so much a condition as it is a genetic coding error…or at least as far as scientists are aware.

The truth is that scientists don’t really care. For a time they got vaguely interested and came up with a theory that in some people, the optical and trigeminal nerves get a little bit lost (or in the words of this article “the wires are crossed a little...and so shining a light in the eye "accidentally" activates two different outgoing pathways"). No surprises that I should be one of these people? No, I didn’t think so.

Anyway, since it’s hardly a thrilling subject, scientists soon lost interest. After all they have more important things to think about. So my genetic condition – one I share with some 18-30% of the world – is not really being investigated.

This of course means that at any given time, for no apparent reason, several million noses applaud sunshine without quite knowing why.

But this is one mystery "special gift" that I’ve decided to take advantage of. I’m going to gather other sun-sneezers and stage a protest…or a concert. I’m not sure which, but I’m open to suggestions…

Biased

Okay I’ll admit, I’m a little biased, but I think my goddaughter, Léontine, and her brother Archie are among the world’s cutest kids.

And not only because they smile at me with all of their teeth – which for Archie is quite a few, but for Lili is mostly gums. A little bit of it is because Archie calls me “marraine de Léontine” (Léontine’s godmother) because he finds it easier to pronounce than “Agnes”….which I absolutely adore.

A part of it is because Léontine has a suicidal fearlessness which has bounced into effect with her discovery of “up” and “down” and Archie’s bed which she can climb onto and topple off.

Mostly it’s because they are just so damn cute.

Just look at this picture of them at story time, before bed, with Lili waving hello to Iggle Piggle or one of the other In the Night Garden characters and Archie gripping his feet in intense concentration.

Now repeat after me: “World’s cutest kids”.

Thank you.

Danger!

The turnstiles are pissed this morning.

Why?

I think you would agree when I say there are people with some pretty weird ideas out there. Like those dissolvable mouthwash strips that you put on your tongue to rid yourself of bad breath. I mean, sure, some people have really bad breath. So bad that maybe they don’t mind putting a thin strip of what tastes like minty toilet cleaner on their tongue. Personally, I prefer mints. What’s wrong with mints? All of the freshness, none of the toilet.

The point is there are people who come up with weird products and even weirder people who buy them. Hail to consumerism. Although I think – and correct me if I’m wrong – that there is a point when the glowing popularity of a particular product, like say the snuggie (I don’t get it. I never will get it. Stop trying to convince me that it’s comfortable. I fail to see the problem with pyjamas and a blanket) begins to define society.

Australians are clearly people who are concerned that their breath will reek after hours spent on the couch watching TV….or camping, because you can do that in a snuggie. See? And you know what, lazy people with minty breath? I’m okay with that.

What I find a tad more concerning are the people of Switzerland. And I know you’re thinking “Switzerland? Switzerland?! But that is a clean country of peace, wealth, punctual public transport and Lucerne”. And I know that it’s hard to condemn any nation that has a place like Lucerne. You’d have to be insane to condemn a country with a place like Lucern, right? Well before you block this blog, hunt me down and wallop me over the head, read what I have to say.

My conviction that the Swiss have gone nuts is based on this article, according to which a Swiss person by the name of “Dominic Deville” has set up an Evil Clown service in Switzerland and is terrorising children. Children! And before you're all like "well shouldn't somebody call child services or a psyche ward or grab a taser and do what needs to be done?" I should add that the parents of the children are paying for his services. Now put down the plank of wood with my name written on it and read on...

The idea is that for a week before their birthdays, children are stalked by a terrifying clown. They get notes, texts and phone calls telling them that they’re being watched and will be attacked when they least expect it. Fun! Am I the only one who thinks this is COMPLETELY NUTS?!

And sure, the final attack is an innocent cake-in-the-face. But, Switzerland, take it from someone who was terrified of drains for several years after watching "IT" at the age of nine, you are about to have a whole lot of unbalanced, sleep-deprived angry little people on your hands. Why don’t you get your kids something normal, like a teddy bear, a truck or a snuggie?

Besides, do you know? Do you even know what the creator of Evil Clown names as his inspiration? Watching horror movies. I rest my case.

My mini identity crisis

On Saturday I went to a travel writing workshop at the NSW Writers Centre led by the ultra talented and super inspiring Claire Scobie. And some time after the workshop – roughly between when my writer’s high* had worn off and when I had sufficiently obsessed over some of Claire’s beautifully-written articles – my own inadequacies knocked on the door of my brain and then let themselves in without invitation.

They didn’t even take their shoes off; just came stomping in and throwing dirt all over my confidence. First it was the typical “where is your career going?” I had some answers to that one. I have plans. Big plans. But they persisted “why haven’t you done more with your life until this point?”, “Why don’t you work every waking hour of the day for what you want? Did you really need that five hour sleep the other day?”, “What is your blog even about?”…and then again, for good measure, “What is your blog even about?”

So you can imagine that within three minutes I was rocking back and forth as my brain comforted me with largely uninspiring thoughts: “that last restaurant profile you wrote; that wasn’t bad” and “you can be funny in emails…sometimes”. I rebelled by swallowing three scoops of pistachio ice-cream, because as any writer with crippling lactose intolerance would know, feeling like your esophagus is going to run away with your liver is a lot more pleasant than facing writing insecurities.

For the lucky ones who have never had to brave this experience, let me just explain that writing insecurities speak in the disappointed voice of your grandmother. In my case (and here I am being gentle) my grandmother has the subtlety of a stampede of elephants. This means that my insecurity looks around my brain, picks something out of its nose or its ear…or both…and then tells me in no uncertain terms that I’m crap. And that I should really lose some weight because when it was my age rabbits could leap through the gap between its legs. Large rabbits.

So other than being imparted with the image of an anorexic she-beast with robust, hairy moles and a feeling like I had just accidentally swallowed a balloon filled with both hydrogen and cement (thank you lactose intolerance), for a few terrifying moments I have to consider my career choices. This time around I forced myself to see that while I don’t have any Pulitzer-worthy material, I’m not a complete disaster either. Then my esophagus and liver climbed out of my left ear and I spent the rest of my weekend coaxing them back into place.

* A condition writers get when they get super enthusiastic about their craft. It’s sudden, blinding and all-consuming. The withdrawals are harsh. It’s the heroin of the editorial world.

Traditions

Whenever Mark gets a new haircut he goes through a certain repertoire. This is not unlike the seven steps of grieving:

1. He looks absolutely horrified when the hairdresser picks up a pair of scissors.
2. When the snipping begins, his concentration increases to a surgical level (probably because he tries to imagine his silky tendrils back into place).
3. He comforts himself with the thought that maybe styling products will return his mass of hair.
4. Bitter disappointment ensues when he realises he got a haircut and his hair is shorter.
5. It is against his nature to say anything negative to anyone, ever, so he forces out a smile and tells his beaming stylist that he loves his new hairstyle and he's always wanted to look like a ten year old child impersonating a mushroom. He then leaves the salon flicking his hair in growing panic that he will spend the rest of his life as fungus.
6. The following seven days are spent in a feverish bid to get his new hairstyle to resemble his old one.
7. Finally he decides that he quite likes his hair.

So when he came home earlier today grumbling about champignons and children because of his new haircut:

I decided to dedicate a blog post to it. Just so I can say "I told you so" when he decides to love it in a week. Yes, I am that petty.

If he breaks tradition, I can always show him the pictures we took before the grand snipping:

Mark, are you listening? Good. I win!

License and registration please

Knowing my penchant for strange news stories, Mark sent me this just moments ago. It’s a story about a woman who took 960 attempts to get her driver’s license and is now excitedly planning to brutalise the roads of South Korea.

And even though the first 950 tries were on the written test and she only failed her actual driving test nine times (nine times!), I can’t help but share Mark’s sentiments on this one:

“I think after 20 tries, you should never be allowed to drive. Ever.”

You might think that’s harsh, but how do you fail a written test 950 times, IN A ROW? She took the test daily, daily, since April 2005 and still couldn’t get it right. There is something deeply disturbing about this. I’m willing to bet money that she gets confused about the appropriate behaviour at red lights and what you should do when you see children crossing the road.

So now the people in her area – her daughter and son included – have a legitimate reason to fear for their lives. Watch out for a small second-hand car swirling madly all over the pavement.

Pizza night

Look straight past the clumsily-cut tomatoes that would make George Calombaris (from MasterChef Australia) go into hand-smacking, spitting convulsions. “You’ve got to get those tomatoes thinly sliced or the world will burn up taking restaurants and truffle butter with it,” he’d say. Well, sorry George, Mark and I don’t own sharp knives. We prefer to bruise our vegetables.

Other than that (and a raw potato issue I’d rather not discuss), I think we did quite well. What you are seeing in this picture is the potato, prosciutto, tomato and rocket pizza. We also made a barbecue meatlovers (no mystery who that was for) and a honey-caramelised onion and Swiss cheese pizza. Of course in all of our cooking excitement we only remembered to take a picture of the first one and we ate the rest with reckless abandon. I know what you’re thinking: that’s so typical from people who own blunt knives, like school during summer break: no class. And, of course, you would be right.

World news

You have to hand it to them, the Greeks have really put their heart, soul and chemistry abilities into the latest protests.

Raging against the socialist government that is making them give up their bonuses, civil servant pensions and hiking taxes, several protesters threw Molotov cocktails into banks and bookstores and beat bus shelters.

You can read all about it here.

What really baffles me, though, are the following things:

1) Why take your rage out on a bank, rather than, say, a parliamentary building? After all, the crisis is being caused by a massive, gaping deficit…

2) Why attack a bookstore or a bus shelter? I promise you, people of Greece, neither had much to do with your current situation and both will require some government funds to get back in order…and let’s be honest here, your government doesn’t have money to burn.

3) Why take to the streets in such rage? Sure, nobody likes to see taxes rise, but – let’s try to agree on this – in this case it’s a bit of a necessity. Your country is about to go broke. Your president needs to do this in order to secure the EU/IMF funds. Stop shouting and blowing things up already!

And yes, I agree, it isn’t fair that money is being taken from the poor masses rather than the rich elite. I’m not an economist and I can’t offer insightful commentary on this point because I haven’t put the time in to study the situation in detail. There may be a better system, but this one has been approved and it is better than the alternative (allowing the country to fall into bankruptcy), so stop it already!

In other news, a plane was forced into emergency landing because of “suspicious behaviour” by a woman in a burqa. You can read the story here, but the gist is that a few passengers complained about the woman and her companion. The plane was taken down when the woman wouldn’t defy her beliefs and take off her religious garb..

Note, the report does not say what this suspicious behaviour involved and the woman and her companion were set free after having been detained for questioning. This worries me on two levels.

Firstly it reeks of racism. So much so that I might have to leave the windows open all night so that my entire blog site doesn’t stink up. And it’s pretty cold outside, I’ll have you know.

Secondly I often act quite strangely – suspiciously, even – and I certainly don’t want to a) take my clothes off to prove my innocence or b) be detained for questioning in some random airport.

So I’ve decided to come up with a list of things that could be considered as “suspicious” enough to warrant an emergency landing:

1. Asking for more plane food.*


2. Juggling. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t find a juggling passenger slightly suspicious.


3. Reading a book with a title like “Terrorism; it’s fun!” or “How to make a bomb out of a toothpick and some plane food”


4. Intently staring at people.


5. Doing everything in slow motion. It messes with the mind.


6. Assembling a rifle you sneaked onto the plane in your wooden peg leg.


7. Taking a really long time in the toilet. Like an hour or two.


8. Playing cards and acting like it’s fun**.


9. Looking like you’re from a foreign, marginalised part of society; one which the media have sensationalised to a point of hysteria.

Okay I’m out of creative juices for the day….feel free to add to my list.

P.S.

The image is a screen shot of Google when you type in "Greek protests"... I found it both disturbing and amusing. No other country I tried the keywords with (and I even gave France a go) registered with every year like that.

*Personally I love plane food, but I suppose that justifies my concerns.

** I also do this on a semi-regular basis.

How d’ya like that?

Look! Look how clever I am! I managed to install a Facebook “Like” button on my blog. That blue one just below my rants. And sure, I found the code on this blog post and the instructions were so clear that a trained antelope could master them. And it doesn’t even have opposable thumbs. But say what you will, I still consider it a minor miracle.

I’ll let you know why. I’m not very good with technology. I try. I keep up-to-date. I read. But just when I’m sure that I understand it, BAM! KA-POW! ERROR! ERROR! ERROR! it breaks down on me and I’m left mystified.

Of course now that I’ve attained my technological goal, I’m re-living my primary and secondary education nightmares – what if nobody likes me? But it’s okay. I’ve spent lunchtimes in toilets before, I can do it again. I don’t care if my boss thinks it’s weird. We’ll get through it; my blog and I.

Be afraid

You have been warned.

No, I did not say "earbud"!

I realised something today. It happened when I saw a very well-dressed and composed fellow – the kind of man who probably owns a BMW and flosses his teeth with caviar. Don’t ask me how. It’s not the sort of thing I can afford to do – barking at the phone and looking very self-conscious about it. I think he feared that his tone would somehow spoil his Armani suit. And then I realised what I was witnessing, the automated cab call...

In Sydney, when you dial a cab and hear a polite female voice at once thanking you and boasting about its prestige (You’ve called Sydney’s TOP taxi service, I hope you’ve dressed up today), you know what’s about to happen:

When the voice asks you to say “yes” to make a booking, you’re going to have to bark it down the receiver. You are going to have to do this in a tone that suggests that you might be mentally impaired or the polite voice is going to make you repeat yourself until there is no doubt. So you comply, acutely aware that you sound like a moron.

“Y-E-S”

Then, using that same Neanderthal tone, you tell the voice that there will be “O-N-E” person using the service today, all the while rolling your eyes at every passer-by to alert them that you are not suffering from a debilitating social phone disease, but are in fact booking a cab. But you don’t need to. Really, you shouldn’t worry so much because any Sydneysider who’s ever ordered a cab understands.

“What suburb are we picking you up from?” the voice asks.

You sense the menace behind those words. Of course the voice is perfectly polite, but you know that she’s an evil bitch who was sent from the toilet bowl of hell to misunderstand your every attempt at relaying your location.

“S-T L-E-O-N-A-R-D-S”

“I’m sorry; did you say “Boner”? she asks.

“N-O”

“What suburb are we picking you up from?”

“S-T L-E-O-N-A-R-D-S”

“I’m sorry; did you say “dental floss”?”

“N-O”

You try to avoid it, but you know that success will only come if you temporarily adopt the tone of a walrus. That is if walruses spoke English in low, monotone voices; so maybe more of an English-speaking walrus robot. Whatever, you get my drift. When you do that; when you really dig deep and sound truly idiotic, you get the results.

A few more “Y-E-S”-es and it’s over. And you’re left standing a little humbled and self-conscious hoping that your cab will turn up and you don’t have to call back to check on it.

I saw Armani man go through this process. And at the end I saw the shadow of vulnerability flicker over his features (before he mentally reminded himself that when he gets home he can burn some money to cheer himself up).

And then I realised: no matter if you spend your weekends bathing in French Champagne or drinking goon, we all sound the same when we call for a cab. And that’s a very important thing to know.

P.S.
Yes. I know that cabs in Sydney aren't yellow and pretty like the one in the picture, but there was no subtle way to photograph Armani man, so this is going to have to do.

We’re getting a puppy!

Let’s get one thing out of the way: I’ve always wanted a dog. Always. I don’t know how early it started, but for the sake of arguing, let’s just assume I was born that way. Born wanting a puppy.

Sadly by the time I was old enough to communicate this desire, I was far too ugly to be given attention (no, really, as a child I looked like a cross between a beaver, a sheep and an 80’s explosion) and my family had set its sights on coming to Australia.

For those of you who live in Sydney; enough said. For those of you who don’t, I should explain that the rental policies here are supremely anti-animal. So anti-animal that sometimes you can buy an apartment and still not be allowed to have pets. Except kangaroos. Kangaroos are fine.

Now, some years later, I’ve still never owned a dog. The closest thing was two foundling cats:

Kicia, who at least partly considers herself a dog and spent a fair bit of her life escaping through the front door so she could growl at the neighbour’s dog:




















and Hammie who used to play chase with my friend’s puppy:

And now they live with my parents because I didn’t want to be that crazy homeless cat woman; the one with unruly hair, a crazy name like Agnes and insane cats. So I gave in and finally said yes to a “no pets” apartment. Now my cats spend their days being drenched in my mother’s love and gaining weight. I don’t think they’re ever coming back.

On to my original point: puppies.

I’m not sure how it came about, but Mark and I have decided that we’re going to get a black tri-coloured Border Collie as soon as we can, if not sooner. Before we do that, we have to tackle the more troublesome question of “How many years will we have to work to get enough money for a place with a garden in Sydney?”

So, I’m happy to announce, that we’ll be getting one of these little suckers in about sixty years! Exciting times!

Back at work!

So I bet you’re expecting me to be all like “I’m back at work and every minute I spend in the office brings me closer to taking to my desk with my crutches”. You’re wrong. Not only am I not able to do that – the knee is still a problem – but I’m actually enjoying being in the office.

Yes, you heard right and no I’m not on the sensation-numbing pain killers. After a week of working-from-home bliss, I’d had just about enough! I’ve actually really been missing the way the lights glisten above my work desk and lure me into a false perception of the weather outside. They bring constant surprise. Will it be sunny when I venture out after work? Probably not; daylight savings is over. Will it be cold? Will it be warm? There’s so much magic and mystery involved.

I’ve also been gifted with a new monitor. It claims to be the SyncMaster 2233SW. I don’t know. I’m not up on my monitor models, but it looks trustworthy enough. It is flat, sleek and infinitely more pleasant to work with than my previous monitor, which was showing advanced signs of Parkinson’s.

This new screen makes me feel like a real editor – rather than the outdated, pen-holding-my-hair-together mess that I resemble on most days. I feel very professional. Not to mention Mr SyncMaster 2233SW is about four times bigger than my netbook (rest in peace), which makes it a whole lot easier to work with.

But although it’s pretty great, the main reason why I’m quite happy to be at work is for the company. I work with some pretty great people, you see, and seeing them in the morning and having a whinge about call centre operators at banks and phone companies is something that I’ve missed even more than I thought I would. And I knew that I’d miss it.


Aside from that I’ve always envisioned working from home to be a super-chic, Vogue-photo-collage kind of experience. You know – neat home office with the latest gizmo computer on an impossibly clean desk, rows of organised files and folders, a cup of tea and a very organised, professional-looking person at the centre of it all.


A bit like this picture:



















Combined with this picture:





















And this picture (but maybe without the seductive look. I really don't need to seduce my workspace):

Well, not quite so. I was pyjamas, Panadol, dripping computers and mess all over the place (sorry there are no pictures on the net that do it justice). I think the apartment is going to need a good day worth of folding, sorting, putting-into-the-right-place-ing and good-lord-how-long-has-this-bill-been-buried-under-here-ing.

So I’m back at work. Speaking of which, my lunch is now over and it’s time to do some writing. On my fancy new monitor. I am loving life.