News from home

siobhan says:
Feels like everything at home has changed now. It would be weird to go back.
Tim says:
things are changing, but not really that much - we're all the same people, and the place looks the same
Tim says:
except for the fact they've painted all the streets red and introduced half a million koalas to back yards
Tim says:
the incidence of muggings by koalas has gone up 45%
Tim says:
surly little buggers
Tim says:
i saw one driving a cab the other day
Tim says:
passenger looked a bit wigged

It's true that I have been a bit blue for the Pacific Ocean and wide open spaces, but there are so many things I don't miss about home too. Sometimes I have to make a list to remind myself:

I miss the sound of cicadas in summer.
I don't miss the smell of burning chicken in summer pumping from O'Porto's chimneys Newtown.

I miss summer storms.
I don't miss the drought.

I miss the bush fires (in a way. Is that bad?).
I don't miss public transport.

I miss my mates.
I don't miss being the only person who hadn't seen the world (that's all changed).

I miss fresh fruit and vegetables and the weird tang to tap water.
I don't miss the lack of international live music.

I miss drinking out of the hose in summer, wearing a short skirt with freshly cut grass stuck to my brown shins.
I don't miss itchy eyes and hayfever.

I miss the Goths in Newtown, sweltering in black.
I don't miss the Kath and Kim fashion-sense. (Well, I miss it a little bit).

I miss jumping into clean, warm, crisp ocean.
I don't missing being dumped in a swell.

I miss the Aussie laconic humour.
I don't miss homophobia and racism.

I miss having a tan.
I don't miss melonomas.

I miss taking the piss out of John Howard.
I don't miss John Howard.

Yoga makes you stupid

Have to salute another fine writer today - a colleague that has had something published outside of ms.com.

Article by Bleeding Gums (and Toe apparently) Turner can be found here http://www.svrider.com/

Another writer scored free tickets to Glastonbury for writing a few articles for The Guardian - and was paid!

Ignites my ambition again. Time to really start spamming editors about writing something real or cool.

This week has been a bit more peaceful than last week. Had to see the doctor though, and had another famous dizzy spell when I saw the needles in his office. I've been having very bad dizzy spells for the last week every time I move my head on a certain angle. not sure what the problem is, but I think this happens most when I'm stressed. My blood pressure drops. But the good news is I won't have a stroke or heart attack.

Dizziness is particularly bad in yoga when I'm doing all the crazy forward bends. Last night's yoga session was particularly intensive. She folded me into a position I just didn't think was possible, and I was surprised how easy it was. She was stretching meridian points I didn't know I had, and my chakras were expanded to the point they were fraying at the edges. I'd draw you a picture but you wouldn't believe it. Imagine lotus pose inverted and you're almost there. I saw standing on my head, people!














I really do like yoga. But the mindset that goes with it bores me. People are just a little too fervent about their mung beans and hippy tie dye. I have even done a yoga class in India with a guru. But I'm embarrassed telling people that I do yoga because this image of hippy flake immediately forms in their mind. There are quite a few guys in the class too. Most guys you talk to say yoga is a chick thing, yet all classes I have been to are split 60:40, which means that a lot of guys are keeping their asanas very private. I don't blame them.

Often think about Clarissa - the angriest person in the world. Yoga made her livid. She went to one class and was outraged at the things that they put you through. This was the hard-core type (because Clarissa doesn't believe in beginner level) where they use ropes and tie you up to stretch you into poses. (Needless to say this was my favourite yoga class I've ever done).











Once I went to a class in Newtown that read the Bhagavid Gita to us while we were in poses that made it impossible for us to escape. That made me really angry. Sure it was linked with religious practice as a form of meditation. For me, I like the theory that yoga is your own union with yourself. Sure, put me in the pose, but don't expect me to buy into the guru nonsense.

Sometimes I imagine that Catholicism will become a form of exercise. In another 2,000 years people will be gathering to sit, stand and then kneel on wooden pews over and over again, but none of them will read the bible.

OK, I do buy into a bit of yoga, when I'm in the moment. For instance, during relaxation our teacher says: Turn your palms to the sky, let your feet fall open, surrender your body to the earth. I like that. I always think 'let your feet turn open like a well read book'. And it helps me to relax.

Still, yoga looks ridiculous. Half the class end up farting during the more intensive poses (the half that don't know you are supposed to starve yourself before you go). People look stupid. Rather than feeling blissed out and beyond the physical, there's something very humbling about it. It's like I said before: being human means that at our most divine we are always ridiculous.

Confession time: I can actually do both of the poses on this page but should I actually admit to that? Would you want to look like her?

If you gave an infinite number of monkeys...

an infinite number of computers...

Just another day, just another churn exercise. Wish I could write half as well as I think I do.

Either that, or I wish that this blog was parodied for being mega-lame on Something Awful. Its take on neck beards being my recommendation of the day. Take heart nerds, it's only a few more months until the World Championships.

I actually wrote the phrase "increase customer delight" for an MS brochure. God help me.

Pink, the new colour of rock

Got my pink shoes on today. So hot right now.

My bike has quite a few issues with it, so I casually mentioned to a colleague that I may have to take it apart and have a tinker on the weekend. (picture a monkey with a spanner). He sent me a brilliant book extract as a warning. Wish I could write half as well.

"Three Men on the Bummel", by Jerome K. Jerome.

I have had experience of this "overhauling." There was a man at Folkestone; I used to meet him on the Lees. He proposed one evening we should go for a long bicycle ride together on the following day, and I agreed. I got up early, for me; I made an effort, and was pleased with myself. He came half an hour late: I was waiting for him in the garden. It was a lovely day. He said:-

"That's a good-looking machine of yours. How does it run?"

"Oh, like most of them!" I answered; "easily enough in the morning; goes a little stiffly after lunch."

He caught hold of it by the front wheel and the fork and shook it violently.

I said: "Don't do that; you'll hurt it."

I did not see why he should shake it; it had not done anything to him. Besides, if it wanted shaking, I was the proper person to shake it. I felt much as I should had he started whacking my dog.

He said: "This front wheel wobbles."

I said: "It doesn't if you don't wobble it." It didn't wobble, as a matter of fact - nothing worth calling a wobble.

He said: "This is dangerous; have you got a screw-hammer?"

I ought to have been firm, but I thought that perhaps he really did know something about the business. I went to the tool shed to see what I could find. When I came back he was sitting on the ground with the front wheel between his legs. He was playing with it, twiddling it round between his fingers; the remnant of the machine was lying on the gravel path beside him.

He said: "Something has happened to this front wheel of yours."

"It looks like it, doesn't it?" I answered. But he was the sort of man that never understands satire.

He said: "It looks to me as if the bearings were all wrong."

I said: "Don't you trouble about it any more; you will make yourself tired. Let us put it back and get off."

He said: "We may as well see what is the matter with it, now it is out." He talked as though it had dropped out by accident.

Before I could stop him he had unscrewed something somewhere, and out rolled all over the path some dozen or so little balls.

"Catch 'em!" he shouted; "catch 'em! We mustn't lose any of them." He was quite excited about them.

We grovelled round for half an hour, and found sixteen. He said he hoped we had got them all, because, if not, it would make a serious difference to the machine. He said there was nothing you should be more careful about in taking a bicycle to pieces than seeing you did not lose any of the balls. He explained that you ought to count them as you took them out, and see that exactly the same number went back in each place. I promised, if ever I took a bicycle to pieces I would remember his advice.

I put the balls for safety in my hat, and I put my hat upon the doorstep. It was not a sensible thing to do, I admit. As a matter of fact, it was a silly thing to do. I am not as a rule addleheaded; his influence must have affected me.

He then said that while he was about it he would see to the chain for me, and at once began taking off the gear-case. I did try to persuade him from that. I told him what an experienced friend of mine once said to me solemnly:-

"If anything goes wrong with your gear-case, sell the machine and buy a new one; it comes cheaper."

He said: "People talk like that who understand nothing about machines. Nothing is easier than taking off a gear-case."

I had to confess he was right. In less than five minutes he had the gear-case in two pieces, lying on the path, and was grovelling for screws. He said it was always a mystery to him the way screws disappeared.

We were still looking for the screws when Ethelbertha came out. She seemed surprised to find us there; she said she thought we had started hours ago.

He said: "We shan't be long now. I'm just helping your husband to overhaul this machine of his. It's a good machine; but they all want going over occasionally."

Ethelbertha said: "If you want to wash yourselves when you have done you might go into the back kitchen, if you don't mind; the girls have just finished the bedrooms."

She told me that if she met Kate they would probably go for a sail; but that in any case she would be back to lunch. I would have given a sovereign to be going with her. I was getting heartily sick of standing about watching this fool breaking up my bicycle.

Common sense continued to whisper to me: "Stop him, before he does any more mischief. You have a right to protect your own property from the ravages of a lunatic. Take him by the scruff of the neck, and kick him out of the gate!"

But I am weak when it comes to hurting other people's feelings, and I let him muddle on.

He gave up looking for the rest of the screws. He said screws had a knack of turning up when you least expected them; and that now he would see to the chain. He tightened it till it would not move; next he loosened it until it was twice as loose as it was before. Then he said we had better think about getting the front wheel back into its place again.

I held the fork open, and he worried with the wheel. At the end of ten minutes I suggested he should hold the forks, and that I should handle the wheel; and we changed places. At the end of his first minute he dropped the machine, and took a short walk round the croquet lawn, with his hands pressed together between his thighs. He explained as he walked that the thing to be careful about was to avoid getting your fingers pinched between the forks and the spokes of the wheel. I replied I was convinced, from my own experience, that there was much truth in what he said. He wrapped himself up in a couple of dusters, and we commenced again. At length we did get the thing into position; and the moment it was in position he burst out laughing.

I said: "What's the joke?"

He said: "Well, I am an ass!"

It was the first thing he had said that made me respect him. I asked him what had led him to the discovery.

He said: "We've forgotten the balls!"

I looked for my hat; it was lying topsy-turvy in the middle of the path, and Ethelbertha's favourite hound was swallowing the balls as fast as he could pick them up.

"He will kill himself," said Ebbson - I have never met him since that day, thank the Lord; but I think his name was Ebbson - "they are solid steel."

I said: "I am not troubling about the dog. He has had a bootlace and a packet of needles already this week. Nature's the best guide; puppies seem to require this kind of stimulant. What I am thinking about is my bicycle."

He was of a cheerful disposition. He said: "Well, we must put back all we can find, and trust to Providence."

We found eleven. We fixed six on one side and five on the other, and half an hour later the wheel was in its place again. It need hardly be added that it really did wobble now; a child might have noticed it. Ebbson said it would do for the present. He appeared to be getting a bit tired himself. If I had let him, he would, I believe, at this point have gone home. I was determined now, however, that he should stop and finish; I had abandoned all thoughts of a ride. My pride in the machine he had killed. My only interest lay now in seeing him scratch and bump and pinch himself. I revived his drooping spirits with a glass of beer and some judicious praise. I said:

"Watching you do this is of real use to me. It is not only your skill and dexterity that fascinates me, it is your cheery confidence in yourself, your inexplicable hopefulness, that does me good."

Thus encouraged, he set to work to refix the gear-case. He stood the bicycle against the house, and worked from the off side. Then he stood it against a tree, and worked from the near side. Then I held it for him, while he lay on the ground with his head between the wheels, and worked at it from below, and dropped oil upon himself. Then he took it away from me, and doubled himself across it like a pack-saddle, till he lost his balance and slid over on to his head. Three times he said:

"Thank Heaven, that's right at last!"

And twice he said:

"No, I'm damned if it is after all!"

What he said the third time I try to forget.

Then he lost his temper and tried bullying the thing. The bicycle, I was glad to see, showed spirit; and the subsequent proceedings degenerated into little else than a rough-and-tumble fight between him and the machine. One moment the bicycle would be on the gravel path, and he on top of it; the next, the position would be reversed - he on the gravel path, the bicycle on him. Now he would be standing flushed with victory, the bicycle firmly fixed between his legs. But his triumph would be short-lived. By a sudden, quick movement it would free itself, and, turning upon him, hit him sharply over the head with one of its handles.

At a quarter to one, dirty and dishevelled, cut and breeding, he said: "I think that will do;" and rose and wiped his brow.

The bicycle looked as if it also had had enough of it. Which had received most punishment it would have been difficult to say. I took him into the back kitchen, where, so far as was possible without soda and proper tools, he cleaned himself, and sent him home.

The bicycle I put into a cab and took round to the nearest repairing shop. The foreman of the works came up and looked at it.

"What do you want me to do with that?" said he.

"I want you," I said, "so far as is possible, to restore it."

"It's a bit far gone," said he; "but I'll do my best."

He did his best, which came to two pounds ten. But it was never the same machine again; and at the end of the season I left it in an agent's hands to sell. I wished to deceive nobody; I instructed the man to advertise it as a last year's machine. The agent advised me not to mention any date. He said:

"In this business it isn't a question of what is true and what isn't; it's a question of what you can get people to believe. Now, between you and me, it don't look like a last year's machine; so far as looks are concerned, it might be a ten-year old. We'll say nothing about date; we'll just get what we can."

I left the matter to him, and he got me five pounds, which he said was more than he had expected.

There are two ways you can get exercise out of a bicycle: you can "overhaul" it, or you can ride it. On the whole, I am not sure that a man who takes his pleasure overhauling does not have the best of the bargain.

The Little Deer

Just another Kahlo that I like. Something dreamlike about it. She has captured her animal spirit, a vulnerable creature.

Wonder what animal I am?

recycle

I did it. I finally got a bike. It's a little dodgy. It's my first ladies bike and I felt pretty special on my purple, pink and silver bike, riding down Southbank along the Thames. ding ding. Why couldn't it be black wtih pink skulls or something?

The gears are creaky and clunky and the pedals are plastic but it was the only bike my size that was not going to break the bank. It gets around.

Pot to Kettle: You're black

Had a few after work drinks on another Friday night, after another horrendous week of work at my horrible job. Ended up in a crude conversation with 3 girls. English girls are so easy to shock, and I was feeling pretty quick. Once you've made the first admission, the ice melts and those 'butter wouldn't melt' mouths drop some insalubrious pearlers.

Glastonbury has turned into a quagmire festival. Oh dear. All those drugs washing about. Expect friends return carrying double their body weight in mud. Still something appealting about see The Killers or Jack White wearing Wellingtons and a bikini.

Went to see Friday Kahlo exhibition at the Tate Modern. I truly empathise with her, her pain and heart break, her confused sexuality, infertility and especially her monobrow. This picture on the left is after her split from Diego. The image of her on the right is with her heart in tact, as she dressed for him in traditional Mexican clothing. An artery connects to a small photo of Diego she holds in her hand. The image on the left she is in a colonial style dress - refers to her mixed lineage - and her heart is cut open. She has cut the photo of Diego from her artery, and the heart is pumping blood shaped hearts on her dress.

Ring ring, bling bling

I finally bowed down to conformity and got a yuppy phone. It's got the camera, mp3 player, clam shell shape, and makes cute little noises. Unfortunately I couldn't port over my old number so I have a new mobile number. Email update will follow with the phone number, as soon as I find out what it actually is.

Already recieved my first msg - from the guys at Glasto - shrooming off their heads. Again, lucky bahstard.

In other news - Marsha's last day before her Big Day. Her desk is covered in streamers and balloons. A boozy lunch and a boozy after work drinks will follow. What a lucky girl. She is so rapt and happy at the moment - and she deserves it too.

She is, in truth, already married. They eloped last year at Glastonbury. This wedding is just for the fans.

Heh - the Big Boss just asked Marsha whether it's her birthday. It's a little bigger than that.

Drop the pressure

Well, my mind has been like a rat on a running wheel, just turning over the same worries and dramas all week long. Legs and mind are puffed, figuratively and literally.

A great reminder from a friend: People are actually coveting some of what I have.

I think I have SAD (seasonal affective disorder) because the sun is out and I'm beaming like a fool, even though every time I think about stuff I want to be sick. It's like I'm manic depressive. I'm physically happy and my body feels happy, if that makes sense. However I'm also a little sad. I'm not lonely, and kinda like being alone, but I miss everyone.

The world is broken. Modern life is rubbish, and the world is broken. Too many people walk around trying to take stuff from the world to make their life complete. There are only a handful of people that try to put something back. That's what is noble. That's why Li Cunxin is my new hero. A touch of the divine. Even at our most divine we are always ridiculous.

These are my thoughts on this 33 degree London morning. I want to chase the sun around the world and become a leather woman.

Glastonbury and the stock take

Rya, Steph, Anja and George emailed yesterday and called last night just to rub it in that they are all going to Glastonbury. So jealous. They are all going to have such an awesome time. It should be absolutely mad. Bahstards.

Oh well. Next weekend I'm in Claire - Suffolk for a wedding, and then the weekend after I have a festival in Edinburgh. Possibly another in August. A trip planned for September to Turkey. Japan in October, then Sydney for a wedding. And then what... who knows? Life ain't that bad.

Interesting development

After all my efforts to get away from developers, talking about their coding geeky crap, i'm now writing case studies that will actually get published in International Developer magazine. The ex would find this very interesting indeed, to know what stuff goes in the main competitor to his little publication. I always knew that material comes from marketing companies goes into some magazine, but I never thought I'd be on the other end of it. I also didn't realise it was published verbatim. Unscrupulous.

He was 27 years old...

Reading great book by Zadie Smith. Love this extract. The mindset of the 27 year old male in the Western world:

"He was 27 years old. He was emotionally undeveloped, he supposed, like most Western kids. He was probably in denial of death. He was certainly suspicious of enlightenment. Above all, he liked to be entertained."

Slow hands

Boys are weird: Recieved a random email from a boy at work saying that he was sorry I wasn't in on Friday, because he is away this week and won't see me until the week following. It almost sounded like he was going to miss me or something. Can't read too much into this stuff

Not really sure what these lyrics mean, and Interpol have a Joy Division generic sound, but I can't get it out of my head. It conjures images and it makes sense to me on a level:

Yeah but nobody searches
Nobody cares somehow
When the loving that you’ve wasted
Comes raining from a hapless cloud
And I might stop and look upon your face
Disappear in the sweet, sweet gaze
See the living that surrounds me
Dissipate in a violet place

Can’t you see what you’ve done to my heart
And soul?
This is a wasteland now

We spies
We slow hands
Put the weights around yourself
We spies
Oh yeah we slow hands
You put the weights all around yourself now

I submit my incentive is romance
I watched the pole dance of the stars
We rejoice because the hurting is so painless
From the distance of passing cars
But I am married to your charms & grace
I just go crazy like the good old days
You make me want to pick up a guitar
And celebrate the myriad ways that I love you

Can you see what you’ve done to my heart
And soul?
This is a wasteland now

We spies
Yeah we slow hands
You put the weights around yourself
We spies
Oh yeah we slow hands
Killer, for hire you know not yourself

We spies
We slow hands
You put the weights all around yourself
We spies
Oh yeah we slow hands
We retire like nobody else
We spies
Intimate slow hands killer
For hire you know not yourself
We spies
Intimate slow hands
You let the face slap around herself

Internal monoblog

Went bike shopping with George at Brick Lane. Dodgy Brick Lane has definitely become my new favourite market. It was like downtown Delhi, with a smattering of Polish influence, greasy Geezers flogging jellied eels, Russians with pickled octopus, boutiques, antiques, spices, cars endangering pedestrians... and loads of hot bikes. They would wheel them in, and sell them within minutes. Did not want them there for when the police came around. It was definitely a professional operation. Still, being short made it difficult. Only 14"!

Finally found a bike which fitted, but we decided to do a circuit before purchase. When we got back, he had packed up and gone away. Probably got a sniff of bacon. Hate that expression, but it was obviously a circumspect departure.

Not sure what is happening with George. Neither of us seem to be wanting anything serious, but he seems to always want to hold my hands, like he has a fetish. Maybe that's how we exchange long energy strands. I'm happy to leave the contact there.

He leaves for Glasto in a few days, then Paris and Norway. So that is probably the end of that. I don't really miss having a boyfriend to worry about. Certainly don't miss the hurt and confusion. I don't even care about the naughty stuffy. But I do miss affection, not sexual - both giving and recieving. Still, it's an effort when you don't actually care about the person.

Maybe that is what it was like for the ex. Maybe he just got exhaused going through the motions, which included a ticket to London and a road trip through Ireland. Still, sometimes I worry that there was something/someone happened around March for things to get so cold. Maybe there was someone else, someone that made him steam up his glasses. Something that I could blame apart from myself.

Weekend was a scorcher! 33 degree days. I actually got a bit sunburnt, even with sunblock. We also lost the cricket against England - bad, and Bangladesh - SHOCKING!

Sunny London

Chucked a sicky today and caught up with George - also wagging work - for some quality trainer shopping. Ended up with an electric pink pair with lime green stripes. Hello 80's. Found a cool retro store in Covent Garden too, but parting with the pounds for the shoes did not leave money for frivolous tutu purchases.

Then a laze in the park. Weird how there are no beaches to sunbake on. And weird to be laying on the grass just metres from Buckingham Palace. Parks in London are strange too. No dogs. No dog shit. No children. As a matter of fact, I haven't seen any dogs or children in London. Only workers earning sterling commuting in and out of town, and tourists.

Also strange, today was quite hot. Easily in the 30s. Nice to get sweaty, but I didn't expect.

Finally some pints before heading home for dinner with John. Now it's 10pm but easily as light as it would be at 6 at home. Loving the long summer days.

And today was, all in all, far more productive than producing Microsoft case studies.

Tomorrow is bike shopping day. Yay!

Devoted Readers

Decided to switch my introspection into a different outlet. My attempts are real writing need some anonymity. Sorry folks. From now on, it's photos and updates only. I have a different, private journal for all the dodgy 'Sex in the City', 'Bridget Jones' writing.

Maybe I will write something that could turn into a money-spinner. A coffee table book for people too dysfunctional to own a coffee table. Still, all this writing is like snacking between meals, given it's my day job.

Latest news - Saw a fight outside the gym last night. Two big beefcakes going at it after their weights session, all pumped up and raring to go. Second fight I've seen - with the cat fight at the tube. Must be something in the water.

Also - off to boxing tonight. There is something satisfying about being taught by a guy that sounds like he just stepped off the set of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Quality geezer thug speak.

BACON
(voice-over)
Let me tell you about Hatchet Harry. Once there was this geezer called Smithy Robinson who worked for Harry. It was rumoured that he was on the take. Harry invited Smithy round for an explanation. Smithy didn't do a very good job. Within a minute Harry lost his temper and reached for the nearest thing at hand, which happened to be a fifteen-inch black rubber cock. He then proceeded to batter poor Smithy to death with this; that was seen as a pleasant way to go . . . Hence, Hatchet Harry is a man you pay if you owe.

The G Spot

For a complete emotional release, I watched Lost in Translation and Eternal Sunshine of A Spotless Mind back to back. Life is better in the movies. There is some sort of ending.

I should be sad, or angry after the day's revelations. I should feel something, anything but this certain numbness, a raw impotent anger, bruised and beaten.

This discussion via IM, rather than face to face. If we were in the same room, slapping distance, there would be electricity. A jolt to waken these deadened senses, this apathy. Instead, he is as dead inside as monkey shit.

Films and music promise a simulacrum of oblivion. As the images unfold and wrap me up, I let myself drown in the silver screen - I'm a character with a memory wipe, a blank slate, a girl lost in Tokyo, a cynical failed actor escaping a bad marriage, a girl that makes potato people, a stranger in a strange city. In the words of CBG 'There is no emoticon for what I am feeling'.

Lovely Mad Dog Marshall, who is really a big softy, cooked me a birthday feast. Sweet Bleeding Gums Turner softened me up with a few birthday beers. Glad I have friends with cowboy names.

The weight is still just falling away. I feel heavy as a stone, and yet I'm lighter everytime I get on the scales. It's like shedding a skin. I've emerged from some chrysalis, but I'm no butterfly floating on indigo wings. Nope, I'm some sort of singed and cynical punk moth bent on destruction, bang, bang, banging around a bare bulb of pain.

Hmmm... should get back to my goth poetry days.

Destructive distractions

Dirty House - thanks to Steph and Kingo
Kickboxing - voted the most aggressive in the class. Love finding a new bruise on my body.
Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Interpol, Mylo
Cigarettes

Dirty 30s

Older, but not wiser. Perhaps that's why I found myself engaging in circular conversation with ex - mr long distance relationship, long-term bf, mr big love, big heart break - today. Telling me he may travel to UK/Europe after all with his brother, he may be changing jobs, he may have loco genes, he has doubts one minute but he doesn't the next. Defence shield comes down. Words of Dandy Warhol come to mind: "I'm thinking blah de blah blah blah to your trip."

I say a few defensive things about my mother. No idea really. Just angry. He is the only person that can get to me like this.

Birthday highlights

Lovely Roz brought a bottle of pink bubbly. Jeff arrived with long blonde locks and his new wife Anna. It's been a year since I've seen him and he is such a gentle domesticated death rocker person now. Ryan and Adam looked a bit rough. They wanted to be the official party photographer, but just took some silly photos of each other. Sometimes I think they are a little in love with each other.

Mr G turns up. I'm very drunk. He's holding my hand beneath the table, while friends sit around pretending not to notice. I start to realise that my hand is being held as my focus starts to return. I am waiting for a moment alone so I can tell him that I don't want a boyfriend, not ready, just shaking with nerves about the whole thing. Finally the well-prepared speech comes out.

He just laughs and says 'I know. You told me an hour ago'. Three things:

1. I'm senile. How could I not remembered telling him an hour ago. "Well I must have a door in the back of my head."
2. Ex would have laughed at that as he's knows I have the short term memory of a stoned goldfish but when it comes to arguments, the long term memory of an elephant.
3. Why are we still holding hands?

'Why are we still holding hands then?'

'Why not?'

Oooh, good answer. He's defeated my drunken mind with his vulcan logic and extreme good looks. But no. I must have my dignity, which has obviously been spilt all over the carpet months ago. Who's going to get that out? There must be a way to reclaim it before this turns into a scene from The Graduate.

Usual rejection line fails me - He knows I don't have kids. He knows I'm 5 years older. He knows that I could leave the country at any moment. He knows that I don't want anything serious. And he's still here, outsmarting me, and eroding my resolve.

I walk him to the train station, and turn hand hold into a firm hand shake goodbye. He laughs and kisses me lightly on the lips. Very chaste.

'You're lovely. Even when you're squiffy. I'll call you later' with that lilting English accent. Oooooh, being good is hard.

Instant message slows time

This happened a nearly a month ago now. Can only find the words.

A blank period goes by. I can feel his silence through the monitor. I know about these silences of his. I've seen them. He's holding his breath, sitting in front of the computer screen with brows knit in concentration. With my coffee mug between my hands, I hold my breath and stare at the screen. For the first time in months this is the closest we've felt. Bonded by this experience on opposite sides of the world.

He is writing a message.

I don't know.

More circular exchanges and what if's. What if I came back? Is there anyone else? The careful discourse of the modern long distance relationship-time apart, re-evaluation, your needs, my needs.

Guilt and anger rise and fall. I feel trapped. I find myself thinking of sex. And death. Is that wrong?

I type Goodbye.

Still I go on staring at the screen, waiting for something to happen. The cursor blinks like a heartbeat. Maybe he'll change his mind. Maybe he has forgotten something he wanted to say. Maybe he is wrapped up in guilt, remorse and regret. Does he think about those final days together?

What's he doing now? Going to the pub for cans and mindless one night stands? Not feeling a thing inside.

I give up and try to empty my mind. But I can't think of anything else. I'm sorry, but I just can't.
A terrible quiet has descended on everything. It is raining gently. Londoners march the streets with eyes downcast. Cars cut through puddles. The world is grey and flat. It is slowing down.

crap I'm 30 in 2 days

only 1 if I think of Australian time. Crap.

Rather nasty fall

Fell on the escalator at the Tube. Metal edge of the escalator went right into my toe. Lots of blood. Nearly passed out on the train coming home. Not one person asked if I was OK, because it's all about stiff upper lip and survival in the big city. Asked the train guard for a 'plaster' and she looked at my foot, then gripped the wall and dramatically said 'What have you done?'

Limped all the way home in my blood filled Birkenstock.

Now have jagged tooth mark on the underside of my right big toe.

Maybe they will have to amputate the toe. That's the toe that helps you balance. In my case, said toe is obviously defective in providing that service.

My heart is a highway kill

Although the sun is shining my mood has taken a dive today, strangely.

The time is almost upon me to step back and reflect on the past 30 years of my life, take some pride in my achievements, my travel experiences, and the way I have modelled my life. Most of it is pretty good.

But I have this grey spot inside. A grubby, ugly piece of regret. It goes something like this: What would me life be like if I had stayed home and worked the summer?

My soul would be tingling to travel, but my heart would be intact. Actually that is not even something I know. There were cracks even then, and instead of shattering, it just might have crumbled away in 20 years.

Now I'm over here - working for da man, building new friendships, taking advantage of the things at my doorstep. The sun is lovely and warm, I could have a Norwegian toyboy if I wanted, and I'm learning to kick and punch. Actually, I guess things aren't that bad.

I will miss you when you are across the sea

Shot a man in Reno

The afternoon started so well, so how did it end up with a finger slammed in a door, an SMS to a certain boy about porn stars, and a sing-a-long to Johnny Cash's "I shot a man in Reno"? Alcohol may have played a hand in this.


Cash is all I need

Great afternoon with some quality people in the funkiest looking house I've been to since arriving in London. Every object reflected the personality of the housemates, and assured me I was amongst my-people. Coming back to my bland house with it's sprawl of a mess and scattered detritus from antipodeans past was a little depressing. It doesn't seem right to make this place a home when it may only be for a short while. Why accumulate more stuff to leave behind, just like all the others in this dusty house?

Off the point. BBQ was great. A fun day had by all.