Languidity

This entry, the last for 2006, caps off a pleasant Christmas holiday, a languid three-day week at work and a suitably busy weekend. Christmas was like a short holiday - no cooking or cleaning and a different bed to sleep in for two nights. Despite a lack of Christmas gifts for her, my dog was spoilt rotten with love and food (about the same thing, really, when you see it from a canine perspective). I also came home with a massive haul, despite only outlaying gifts for my parents and sister. All the ring-ins for Christmas dinner brought gifts so I raked it in without needing to return the favour.

Chi'na, my spoilt pup, having a snooze

Work was a breeze with only half the staff in the office. We ended up playing soccer against Pro' on Thursday, a heated game (in more ways than one) that resulted in a 8-6 victory to us. Hot: the midday sun. Hot: a shirtless Toro working up a sweat. Hot: the competitive streak enhanced by the searing climate. I took on Fat Tony (a particularly reviled Pro' player with a penchant for aggression and keeping a constant offside position) and won, fighting for the ball up the right wing and clearing it for the forwards to play into goal. So proud of that.

The Ent was in charge on Friday. He forced us to retire at 4pm and shepherded the staff to the Chelsea for an undeserved drink. I distinctly recall everyone going "for one" and somehow ending up with five jugs between the six of us. I didn't even pay for any of it. I seriously have to curb my alcoholic intake after spending the last four Fridays practically blotto. Curb... after tonight, that is. Still, interesting information gleaned while perched on a bar stool; some of it touched on the future of our company, some of it was about past decisions. Alias even mentioned Stalkie in relation to her obsession with Toro and then brought up a past incident involving Chief. (Chief was practically "la la la I can't hear you" at this, which was hilarious). Also shared news on Christmas, which turned into plans for NYE and the inevitable groan about coming back to work on the 2nd.

Everyone then skedaddled at around 6:30pm for other appointments. I didn't have anything planned except sleep but ended up catching the bus home (due to trackwork) then staying up half the night dancing to the George Michael DVD that my flatmate bought me for Christmas. Woo!

Yesterday was spent entertaining my brother's friend Eve, who is visiting from KL. She's a former fashion journalist turned freelancer working as an image consultant, so you can guess that, with my bohemian laissez-faire, I didn't really take to her. My cousin, Aunty M, met her separately in Malaysian publishing circles and didn't like her attitude about networking and all that fashionista superficiality. After what I experienced yesterday, I second the motion.

I met her in Paddington - late, I might add, because I'd accidentally taken the bus to Bondi Junction via the back streets of Woollahra and had to take one back down Oxford Street - then we went for a late lunch (it was 3pm by then) but not before I kept losing her to the high fashion boutiques along the strip. Yawn. Eventually we made it into the city and over to Paddy's. I was going to leave her there to meet with an acquaintance but then I found out that this guy was a freelancer established in Sydney so I thought he'd be interesting to talk to (and he was - we got on like a house on fire) but then Eve started getting bored with Market City so he left and I took her on a short tour of Newtown, which she didn't like as much as Paddington. But at last the day grew old and I excused myself with a 'hope you enjoy yourself in Sydney' and 'have a happy new year' before gratefully boarding a bus home.

I got to thinking, then, how I would categorise myself in terms of my Sydneysider-ness. I've lived here all my life and although I've been travelling and have seen far greater, more exciting places, I can't help feeling that I am a product of Sydney. I'm certainly not a Hills girl, even though that's where I spent most of my upbringing, and I barely recognise the south, west and east. I think I am a northerner with an inner west attitude, which I basically translate as someone who had all the opportunities of a certain kind of affluence, but also her feet on the ground, Newtown-before-gentrification-style. Make of that what you will.

Anyway, it's almost time for the 9 o'clock fireworks, time to head to the backyard. Have a happy new year, however you choose to celebrate it!

Home

I'm writing this entry from 'home', which is to say my parents' place in The Hills. They've gone to a barbecue at their friends' place and my sister isn't due to arrive from Canberra until tomorrow morning. My brother has gone to Japan with his girlfriend this Christmas, and won't be back in Sydney until Chinese New Year. It is the first time in a very long time that I've had this house to myself - it feels strange and familiar all at once.

I managed to remember the code to turn off the security system. I stacked presents underneath the Christmas tree, lit up with flashing bulbs. The string of lights is now too long compared to the tiny tree, but seeing the spark-shaped casings connected to the ancient timer reminds me of the old days, when we had a six foot Christmas tree and lived in Kings Langley. That was twenty years ago - and I still want to know the contents of the boxes stacked beneath the baubled, plastic foliage with the same curiosity as then.

I hadn't eaten dinner, so I hunted around for a frozen pie and defrosted some peas and corn. I laughed at the overstuffed fridge, ready to disgorge its contents in the festive frenzy planned for tomorrow. Mum had replaced the microwave. The new one confused me and I couldn't defrost the pie properly. This, I discovered after I'd burnt the top in the snack oven but still found frozen morsels of chicken within. Another two minutes in the microwave and I burnt the top of my mouth. Unbelievable. I'd forgotten how to defrost and eat a pie.

I couldn't find the key to get out to the backyard so I went out through the front door and went through the side gate. My dog was confused and happy to see me. I'd forgotten her smell - somewhere between animal and the damp grass after rain. She didn't like that I'd brought the newspaper with me because it meant that she wasn't going to have my full attention, but she sat placidly enough at my feet and licked my ankles.

It began to rain again, the sharp pitter patter on the corrugated plastic roof bringing back a wave of nostalgia that rode summer rains of the past. I went back indoors and fixed myself a cup of tea, sat down at the old PC with the crazy ergonomic keyboard and began to type.

Queen Alice

(an entry about poker)

I'm trying to get Alias the Jester to approve my poker nickname 'Alice'. As in Alice in Wonderland "curiouser and curiouser" "you're nothing but a pack of cards" etc etc. Why? Because I always want to see the community cards before I confirm a bet. Anyway, Alias hasn't even approved of my nickname for him but this is my blog so I get to call him Alias. So Old Man River, Alias, Soccer Chief (not a poker nickname, duh), Mr Origami and I scheduled a game after work...

Big boss came in, though, and ran a sales meeting in the boardroom, which is our usual den. We were even going to use the projector to screen the cricket, which is being played in Perth. We ended up moving furniture to the sound room and setting up there and had to contend with the radio broadcast of the match.

I had a bloody lucky run of cards - a lot of triples - which wiped out Alias and Old Man (he had taken down Origami in the meantime, if my memory serves me correctly) reasonably early. So I went heads up with the Chief, who I find impossible to look at because he's just too beautiful (I mean, really, it's just not fair for one person to be so good looking...).

I started off with the larger chip stack in the one-on-one but we see-sawed for about ooh, a good hour. The blinds started hitting 40/80 with a minimum bet of 80 so there was quite a many chips in the pot at each hand. In the end I can't quite remember how I steamrolled him, but he had bet all-in and I, having the slightly upper hand at the time, acquiesced. I think I might have had a pair of fives and he might have had a king or ace high. Origami later said that he fully thought the Chief had me covered and conceded that I'd played well.

Bowed out within a couple of hands in the second round, though (Chief had to go - I felt bad that he was so tired and the play exhausted him further). Alias actually took me out (rather than the other way around, which is what usually happens). I had pocket Queens and a Queen on the river... and he had a flush. Bastard.

That reminds me of an earlier game where Origami lost to the Maverick (who doesn't actually work with us - he is the husband of Melways, who does work with us). They were both all-in. Origami had pocket Queens and the Maverick had pocket 2s. Melways dealt a 2 and it was all over Mr Origami. So those pocket Queens are cursed.

Next time I'll scream "you're nothing but a pack of cards" and see if that gets me the nickname I want.



P.S: Interim news about Stalkie, who'd told Alias and a bunch of other people (at a lunch the other day) that I had said that Alias and Origami didn't want her to play poker any more. This is a blatant lie. Either she's mixing up the fact that Alias and Origami think she's a loose cannon at poker with the fact that Dutchie and our CEO didn't want her to come into the office or she is trying to discredit me. Alias also mentioned that his manager, Toro, keeps getting emails from her and is too nice to shake her off. Lying to her just makes it worse for himself. I guess nice people aren't always completely honest.

the way it is

A couple of months ago I mentioned my tendency to dream about trains when I am troubled. In that entry I also mentioned a situation involving a (formerly good) friend of mine with regard to a lack of notification re: her wedding. Look, with everything compounding itself at the moment I hardly have time for people who don't have time for me. That's just the way it is.

But my subconscious believes otherwise, for without warning I've begun to dream about her. I've dreamt about her explaining the wherefores to me and everything being okay, even though the dream never ends with us reconciling as friends. I have dreamt about her explanation so many times that sometimes, in a moment of confusion just after I wake up, I believe the issue to be resolved and acceptable, even though I haven't touched it since I learnt of the snub. All this tells me is that I should say something or write something to her - but I cannot seem to identify this as my initiative. And the timing is all wrong, it's busy, it's festive - the last thing I want is to let my social problem ambush someone else's mailbox.

I've mellowed, methinks. Where's the fire, doc? And yet I'm strong enough now to let it eat at me for another month. Just another month. And then I'll tell her.

Electronic goalposts

A perpetual problem when playing casual soccer is knowing whether or not the ball went through the goalposts. In fact, I estimate that we spend about 10% of the match disputing whether the ball went through the goalposts. Of course some goals are clearcut, but when you have no goalie, and the ball comes in at an angle, how do you know? And then there are disputes about height...

So, with the advent of those projector pens that project a sensitive laser keyboard, surely they can make electronic goalposts. I mean, have a little device that projects a rectangular area that you can set to whatever size (like 2m wide and 1m high or whatever). When the ball passes through this field, it records a goal. It should also be one way to prevent accidental goal recordings when the ball is rolling out of the goal.

Now somebody make this damn thing and give it to us!

In the morning

Here are some things that I don't like interrupting my morning: lawn mowers. Construction work. Car alarms. Stalkers.

And so it began, and so it ended. I descended the stairs to the train platform cautiously, not quite awake to the task that I had already spent my night alleviating; 'how to extract oneself from the kind of relationship you didn't even know you were in'. Stalkie sat on a bench at the bottom of the stairs. I wondered, not for the first time, whether I should have started going to work earlier. I waved, but it was a hesitant sweep of the hand rather than a friendly gesture.

I'd told her that I had some "bad" news. I had asked her whether she wanted it in person or via email. She settled on email. Then she changed her mind and turned up at my station, demanding I speak. Why did I spend my night constructing a well-worded email? I had emptied myself into the words already, I had nothing to say for a few moments as I grasped at a hazy memory of typed reasons.

Have you ever tried talking to someone who doesn't listen? They hear you, but something in them just doesn't trigger. Have you ever tried talking to someone who thinks they know what you are going to say and has already made up their mind about the things you have not said? There's nothing you can do to change their mind because it has already closed on the pre-emptive conversation that they have already had with you in their head.

Stalkie began the conversation by putting words in my mouth, weaving her own platitudes and excuses into the mix. Suddenly, I remembered why I was there and halted her stream. I told her I was in self-preservation mode. I searched in vain for her eyes but all I found was an uppity nose and pursed lips. Gone. Selfish, I remember calling her, and conceded 'with reason'. I can't take it any more. Where was the goddamn train???

She said she'd warned me that she was difficult and wielded the statement as if it was some kind of caveat amicus that I had failed to notice. How does that work, exactly? Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Well I'm damned, then. The train pulled in and we forked to mount different carriages. She folded her arms and huffed that I had not given her a reason for my departure. I had, but she hadn't listened. A perpetual problem. So close to escape - the doors opened. Email, I told her, check your email.

But it was not over yet. Log in, sit down. She writes that she wishes that she had told me she didn't want to be friends before I had. The petulance spread itself to the outer reaches of my immediate vicinity and then collapsed, exhausted, at the finish line. It was over. I was finally free.

Horoscope

My stars for this week according to the Sydney Morning Herald:
This week is full of long-winded citizens intent on telling you more than you need to know about things you don't have time for. Everyone's an expert and doesn't all that talking make you feel like walking? Knowledge speaks and wisdom listens, so the saying goes, but when you are busy and others rabbit on, strategies for extracting yourself seem wiser.

I wish I had read this sooner. To be honest I am tired. Really tired. I need November to end. There are a myriad problems floating around my sociosphere at the moment and only one of them is mine, and that is the fact that everyone's problems seem to wind up in the Lost Property box of my ears (or eyes, in the case of email). What's more, I still haven't dealt with some of the big issues I was suppose to tackle oh, say, a month ago.

Letters that I haven't written. Sole trader tax doodads that I haven't reapplied for. Books that remain unread. Emails unanswered. (Though I swear I will attend to every single email currently in my inbox by 3rd December). Christmas thingies unplanned. Where will I find the time to attend to myself?

The Original

I had a go at Soccer Chief earlier this week for his attempt at a Tropfest script. If you know that Douglas Adams story about the packet of biscuits, that was basically the same plot he had but it was a girl on a train. Actually, I think there is also a Jeffrey Archer story that was rather similar ('Broken Routine' in his collection of short stories 'A Quiver Full of Arrows'). Basically I told him flat out that it was unoriginal.

Then I felt really mean so I conceded that he writes well (which he does, not just lip service on my part), but it was just that the punchline was obvious for half of us who knew the story and it follows that if we made a film of it, it would feel unoriginal to some of the audience. Then I felt like I was patronising him, like I was the authority on good writing and he was there to soak up whatever praise he could get from me (which is NOT the case at all - I don't think he really rates my opinion either way).

*Sigh* I can't seem to get it right with him. I either inadvertently insult him and feel the need to apologise afterwards, which further insults him because it seems like I see him as not being able to take a joke or I tiptoe around him trying not to tip the apple cart. At the same time I don't want to come across as treating him any differently from anyone else.

It seems that a lot of people reckon I have a crush on him, too, which is also not the case. When I first met him I didn't even notice what he looked like, I just knew him as a little bit quiet. It wasn't until about a month later, when a bunch of us caught the train together after a few drinks at the pub after work, that I realised he was gorgeous. He's also very nice, intelligent and cool. Unfortunately I also saw him pashing his girlfriend in front of the coffee kiosk outside work one morning and since she was almost completely opposite to me (long blonde hair, petite, fashionably dressed) it killed all romance for me. But it doesn't stop me from admiring his pinchable, bedimpled cheeks and gorgeous green eyes.

Anyway, this entry is not about Soccer Chief, it's about originality. My flatmate and I went to see 'The Prestige' on Tuesday (excellent film, by the way) and there was a concept in the film that ruined any thought that my current novel is 100% original.

*** here be spoilers ***

Okay, so 'The Prestige' is about a pair of rival magicians in 19th century London and their sacrifice for their art. Christian Bale's character, The Professor, is the better magician but not much of a showman, whereas Hugh Jackman's The Great Danton has panache but not the nous to invent. The Professor invents a magic trick called The Transported Man whereby he bounces a ball across the room gets into a cupboard on one end of the stage, then comes out of another cupboard at the other end of the stage and catches the ball. Danton can't figure out how he does it, which obsesses him for the rest of his life (several years - until he gets killed, anyway).

ANYWAY, it turns out that all along The Professor is two people, a pair of twins, who share one life - one family, a mistress and a profession. The Professor's assistant is also The Professor sometimes etc etc. SO I'M ANNOYED because I'm currently writing a novel about a pair of 16 year old twins who, because their parents are in a cult that is paranoid about the erosion of freedom, have been brought up as one person so that if one of them got caught, the other would still be able to live freely. It's hard to explain, but the point is that I came up with the 'twins brought up as one person' concept independently and now everyone is going to think that I stole it off 'The Prestige' seeing as in film format it is more accessible than the book (which my flatmate has read but I have not - she thought the film was excellent too, by the way). Gaah!

*** here ends spoilers ***

Apart from that, I've had a few weird days, let me tell you. I don't even think I could point exactly what was weird about it but there has been an atmosphere of oddity over my daily activities this whole week. I also had a strange flash fantasy (maybe fantasy isn't the right word because that implies purposefulness, let's call it flash daydream) about pashing a guy at work, better known as Punk Pirate. He smokes, so no way. But there it is. Strange days.

The Cat's Empire

Interesting article linking The Cat Empire's Felix Riebl with Al Gore. We need more environmental warriors out there and if someone like Felix (who in declared "our weapons are our instruments" in the song 'The Chariot' from their debut album) can inspire the crowds, the Empire may, in fact, strike back. And that is a good thing.

Carnage on Level Eleven

On Thursday afternoon, the penny dropped. For all the blood that followed, it may as well have been a guillotine. Level Eleven shed one-third of all staff and the writing department, being the largest in the company, lost six people from the team of 18. It may be remembered as the Great November Redundancy of 2006. Who thought it would come to this so early?

The fallout is this: anger, disappointment, contemplative depression and a stark recognition of betrayal. For some people, the whole gamut, for others just a concentrated form of one thing or another. Ironically, the sombre mood from this has led to lower productivity from the kept ones, perhaps putting them in danger of the same fate.

And yet, there is this: I am five months into a six-month contract. Many others were at the same stage of their contract also. Can one really expect the contract to be renewed? You would hope for a a renewal, but you could not expect it. Many of the shafted were merely asked to work out the rest of their contract. At this point, they should have been looking for another job anyway.

However, there is also this: a girl at work accepted a demotion in return for a guarantee of another six months work, the reason being that she wanted to move out of home and then later next year go travelling. Management knew that these decisions rested on their action and they agreed to keep her for another six months. An agreement they broke on Thursday, which occurred because they had not yet forged a new contract.

Further to everything is this: the official line was that the board of directors told management to cut costs by a third. The directive came about ten days ago, according to reports. This means that for ten days they knew about this AND DIDN'T WARN US. You know, a little transparency goes a long way. They thought they were preventing a breakout of anxiety whereas all along their methods have caused more anxiety than they could have created if they had been frank with us to begin with.

There is a theory, also, that they may have known about this longer than they let on. If this is true, then maybe they should have scaled back the $1000, 7-person managers lunch they had the other week. Maybe they should stop expensing coffee to the company when we have a coffee machine and everyone else who doesn't like Nescafe buys their own. Maybe they should all take a $10K pay cut and keep one more person on.

And I am angry about this: at the company meeting on Friday afternoon, our managing director stood up to express regret about the losses. In the next sentence he mentioned that the focus groups have responded well to our product and that they are in talks with a big telco, which will consolidate our product and will probably generate more revenue than anticipated. Further to that, he added that he will be fielding suggestions for the Christmas party. Beyond insensitive. He also said the words "moving forward" about six times, which is an unfortunate indicator of managerspeak entering our work system.

A question about loyalty was deflected to our CEO, full of bullshit at best, devoid of compassion at worst. He basically used the refrain "the losses we've had to suffer were no reflection on the level of work put in by the people we had to let go. Our next goal is to get to the February deadline and we'll see where we go from there." THEN WHAT? HUH?

I am going to have a serious talk to this man and I will find out whether he has a heart under his pile-of-shit exterior. Either I'm going to get myself fired or I am going to see some change. Or maybe nothing. If nothing, then what can I do but seek my own path?

In My Head

I woke up this morning after a dream about fairy lights in series (I am currently writing about electricity at work). I had the word 'inveigle' in my head (it means 'persuade someone to do something by deception or flattery') and the song 'Nothing' by The Cat Empire (I am going to see them next week!).

I also forgot that I'd put a large picture of Soccer Chief as my desktop background when I was drunk and I got so scared when I started up just then that I changed it back to Apocalyptica. A terrible beauty is born.

Melbourne Cup

Completely pissed. Lost $27 all up. Better result than some. All hail the Soccer Chief, for he is gorgeous.

Spookesque

A couple of strange clairvoyant-y observations made cameos yesterday. At writers' group last night, one of the members said that every time she reads my work she could imagine it as the pages of a book. I asked her if she was in any way psychic and we laughed.

My sister came by and stayed over last night. She had had a meeting with her new flatmates (she is looking for a place in Canberra with them). She reminded me that I had said to her (some time ago now, maybe 7 or 8 years) that the clairvoyant reading I had done at the time mentioned that I would meet someone through her. She said that she had a feeling that that person was one of her new flatmates. She said when she met him, she could instantly see me with him. No pressure at all...

The funny thing was that I had forgotten that part of the reading. I think her memory of it was correct. At the moment I'm so focused on the prediction that I will be a writer that I am trying my darndest to fulfil that part rather than pursuing the other unachievable happinesses. I mean, not that you can't have a good relationship, but it is not something that you can work hard at if you don't have anything to begin with.

Trains

When I am troubled, I dream of trains. I know this because I keep a dream diary for vivid dreams and a personal diary to write out all my thoughts. There's a correlation between the times I dream of trains with the times when I'm troubled. For the most part, I am turning over a problem in my brain. Dreaming of a train - being on a train, waiting for a train, seeing a train - means that I have come to the climax of that thought. A solution may not come from the dream - in fact I don't think it ever has - but the train dream means a decision has been cemented in my mind and that there will soon be closure.

The last time I dreamt of a train (5th October), I was trying to figure out what I should do with an unsavoury snippet of knowledge about a colleague of mine. Just after that dream the problem pretty much resolved itself and in the meantime I had decided not to do anything about the knowledge I had acquired.

Last night I had a train dream. My boss and a couple of people from work were at an outdoor shooting range shooting totem poles of world leaders and we had to catch the train, but we missed it. The train station was down a grassy embankment and the train was already moving away from the station by the time we started running down the embankment. My boss was philosophical about it. He sat down with his bags and said "there'll be another one". We decided to stay the night in a nearby village. My sister was there and the hostel was in Mexico. The toilet flushed into the indoor swimming pool.

The next day we headed out to the train station again, but we were on the wrong side of the tracks to where people were boarding so we just jumped into a semi-open carriage that already contained a few people in it. The passengers had to move their luggage so we could fit. A ticket inspector came past and I asked him whether we needed a ticket to Hornsby and he said we needed to buy them at the station, but he passed us by. Soon after, a lady entered the carriage (from the outside...) and sold us tickets in the form of stamps. The stamps cost $3 and could be used all the way to Melbourne. Then I woke up.

I've been turning a problem over and over in my mind since Friday. The problem is this: a friend from high school, one of my best friends from high school, recently got married. Previously she hinted that I may be asked to be one of her bridesmaids, however, cut to the year 2006 and I'm not even on the guest list. Hmm. I haven't seen her for 18 months, but not through want of trying. I invited her to two birthday parties, a farewell party, a welcome home party and made several attempts to arrange a catch-up, to which her constant refrain was always "I'm really busy at the moment...". I also sent her a postcard while I was overseas and bought her a small gift, which I ended up posting to her instead of handing it to her in person as I'd imagined, sent her a Christmas card, a birthday card and offered her a job at my current work place because she is an expert at chemistry and we need chemistry people.

Two questions have been troubling me, 'why wasn't I invited?' and alternatively, 'why didn't she just tell me she didn't want to invite me?' I can accept not being invited but it takes just two minutes to type up an email that says "hey, I know we've been really good friends in the past but we've drifted apart these past few years and I just don't find room for you in my life any more". And I would understand.

This morning I had a train dream. I know what I must do to close this matter.

Dogpile

Oh look, it's another mess I'm in.

Does it really surprise me to know that some people are incompetent but manipulative? Nice on the outside, rotten in the middle? Well-paid and nasty? I thought I knew that that was the way things worked in this world.

The guard has changed, the executor has wielded the axe, beheading the smart ones who were not smart enough to get out of the way. I must keep my head down to avoid the aim. I will be good, I will work hard and I will smile at the new ruler although the blood shed is still bright on the blade. This is an obstacle course of the mind and I will survive to the end - intact.

Haw Flakes

When I was a kid my mum used to buy haw flakes for recess. I had no idea what they were, I just ate them. They were somewhere between a snack and candy, sweet with a crumbly kind of melt-in-mouth texture. Anyway, today when I went to see The Devil Wears Prada (okay movie, not as good as it could have been but not bad either) we did our ritual of eating sushi at Blue Fin and then killed some time in Jusco. I found Double Coin Haw Flakes - the packaging has not changed in over 15 years.

Anyway, so the internet is a wonderful thing and I found out that haw flakes are made out of Chinese hawthorn and sugar. Cool. And I also found out that you can buy them online for US$5.99 for a packet of ten. Like, WHAT? I bought a packet of ten just this evening for $AU0.55. That's right, less than 10% of the price, even if you don't convert. Who would actually buy them for $US5.99? As far as I can tell there's nothing all that special about them. Also, if you have a Chinatown, you will find cheap haw flakes. I think that was 55c well spent just to find out, after all these years, what I was eating in my childhood.

Blue versus Red

I'd just started thinking about cricket season. I'd just started thinking 'hey, wouldn't it be cool if some of the state games were played at North Sydney Oval?' (which is conveniently 15 minutes walk from my house). I'd just started going glassy-eyed over the prospect of going to matches and to meet dashing young cricketers on the boundary fence when I spotted a massive advert in yesterday's Sydney Morning Herald's sport section on a NSW vs SA game at North Sydney Oval. The only one at the ground this season, in fact (the rest are all at the Sydney Cricket Ground - not walking distance from my house - or, oddly, in Canberra).

So I went. It sprinkled a bit. The second innings got cut by 7 overs and the target reduced to 267 (the NSW Blues made 5-291, an excellent score in any weather and particularly scintillating on an inclement day). The Redbacks (SA) needed 105 off 10 overs (difficult) but managed to do okay and needed 18 off the last over. A six, a single, a wide, a six and a six later and they had it in the bag. We wuz robbed!

However, I did have a great day out despite the fact that it was 35C yesterday and about 20C less than that today. I was shivering as the cold breeze swept across the ground, wishing I'd gone back for my jacket having paused just outside my building this morning. Some sixes hit the roof or went over (North Sydney is a pretty small oval) so they had to bring replacement balls out. I was amazed that, out of the dozen or so sixes (some sort of record, surely?) in the game, no one in the crowd caught one. It's $100 a catch!

Anyway. No more games there so thus ends my cricket season (seeing as the Ashes tickets have sold out). I entered a comp to win some so I'll see how that goes...

Dia Cookies

An empirical recipe for delicious disaster

Ingredients:
180g butter
1 1/4 cups raw sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
1 egg
3 cups plain flour, sifted
1 1/2 teaspoons sodium bicarbonate, sifted
packet of hundreds & thousands
some milk

(Makes 60 small cookies or 30 cookies that are twice as big as the small ones)

• Beat butter and sugar in a bowl with a rotary beater until you wish you’d bought an electric mixer.
  
• Give up and proceed to the next step by adding the vanilla and egg. Mix well.
  
• Add the flour and the sodium bicarbonate.
  
• Divide the dough into three and roll each portion into a sausage shape about 3cm diameter. Wrap in cling wrap and refrigerate until firm (about 30 minutes).
  
• Come back about an hour later, having read the paper, and curse at the rock hard dough in the fridge. The rolls will have flattened at the bottom, giving it its natural ‘Dia’ shape.
  
• Preheat the oven to 180C.
  
• Unwrap the rock hard dough and cut it into 7mm slices. Arrange them neatly on a tray or trays (preferably non-stick) and allow for spreading.
  
• Pour a thin layer of milk into a jar lid. Use your finger to paint the milk onto the surface of the dough slices.
  
• Sprinkle the hundreds & thousands onto the dough slices and hope that they stick to the milk. Don’t bother chasing the ones that escape onto the tray. It isn’t worth it. Trust me.
  
• Place tray/s in oven. Bake for 10-15 mins. Remove before they get brown. Or even golden brown. Discover that they haven’t spread quite as far as you thought they would.
  
• Bemoan a lack of wire racks. Allow cookies to cool on the trays. Prise them off before the trays are cooled down and flash burn your fingertips. Eat some and get your flatmate to taste one. Take a photo of nicely arranged cookies. Transfer into an airtight container.

This Dia cookie recipe is a bastardisation of a basic Family Circle cookie dough recipe and a recipe for Hundred & Thousands biscuits that I found in an English textbook. Apparently you can keep the cookie dough in the fridge for up to a week or frozen for up to a month. Presumably you will need to let the frozen cookie dough defrost a little before you can safely cut it into slices.

They are called Dia cookies because the individual cookies resemble half moons*.
(* only people used to my warped sense of humour will understand this explanation).

P.S: Obviously I did not superglue my fingers together.

This time it will be different

If I never blog again you'll know it is because I have superglued my fingers together.

Sounds Like Thunder

Woo! I finished my tax return! Okay, so it's a total mess, but I figure I didn't earn enough to matter to them. I earned around $12K last financial year, $8K from freelancing, $2K from one month of current job and $2K from interest. Of that, I gave about $2K away to various charitable organisations. So Oxfam is NOT allowed to send me letters asking for more money, methinks more than 15% is quite a substantial amount given that I didn't earn a lot at all.

The only thing that is worrying me now is whatever's outside that sounds like thunder. I bet it's train-related. They are opening the new track at Chatswood soon, which is rather exciting.

Today I ate a large bag of hot chips for afternoon tea. The pizza for lunch wasn't enough. I had (processed) noodles for dinner followed by a large bowl of chocolate pudding (instant). Gotta get back on the good food diet - am giving blood on Thursday so will need red meat at some stage.

I have a full week, too. Tomorrow am going to see 'Macbeth', on Wednesday it's writers' group, on Thursday donate blood and lay out the staff newsletter (as I do every second Thursday night). Somehow I have to find time to do my own thing.

Like Drawing Blood

I can't finish my tax return. Filled with determination, I went out to get the supplement for sole traders. It turns out, however, that I'm now missing the second supplement for sole traders. I may as well give up, I am drowning in paper. Tomorrow I'll need to visit the tax office and get that goddamn second supplement and finish this once and for all.

Needless to say, I am rather tetchy today. I know I won't get any tax back, or very little, so all this paper-shuffling is essentially for nothing. Speaking of shuffling, for some malign reason my iTunes Party Shuffle is not automatically playing the next song on the list, which is very annoying as I have to keep going back to it and pressing 'play'. The Help section isn't helping. Any suggestions? All other playlists are acting normal.

Instead of tax action, I'm going to eat some chocolate pudding and have a cup of tea. All I want to do is have a normal Sunday afternoon, dammit!

More

Dream: trying not to defaecate at a train station adjoining a creepy forest museum.

Reading: Westside Angst #10, Ianto Ware
Previous: Dear Writer, Carmel Bird

Listening: the winds through Waverton
Previous: Days Like These, The Cat Empire

Browsing: Neil Gaiman's Journal
Previous: Compassion Australia (donation as a wedding gift)

Thinking: I should probably do my tax return THIS WEEKEND.
Previous: Little Miss Sunshine was one of the best films I've seen this year

To do: write more

Cyclops

FRIDAY:
It begins with a one-eyed tail-light struggling along the freeway, our white 2-door chasing its cycloptic red glow northwards. To Newcastle. We are indebted to Mel, goddess of hostels, who checks us into my favourite room and lets us all have member's rates on the flash of a card. We pace the aisles of a jumbled Bi-Lo until closing time, then mix words in a bag of Scrabble. My score doubles hers.

SATURDAY:
Misplaced steps around the streets of Newcastle to find WEA. High-ceilinged classrooms and a soporific mix of boys who lounge in plastic chairs as if waiting for us to answer the question 'what is experimental writing?' We don't know, who does?

Lunching with the masses at the Juicy Beans Cafe. An internet relationship plays for its 15 minutes of relative fame, as we munch on pide and sip sweet mocha from white china cups. Applause and exeunt to TAFE, to TAFE, to find a first-time author. There's nothing new in the room, just old acquaintances and an uninspiring exchange. She cannot place the willowy young writer in her memory.

Cheap chocolate freckles, in handfuls, then stop. The nasty sweetness subsides like etchings under a palimpsest, overwritten by a triumvirate of readers who project words to the back of the gallery. Buy, buy, buy. $10 gone, and the zine fair to go.

He's Nick and he's nice but he disappears in a flutter of a flier thrust in my hand. We use the media without communicating. We act without activism. What has the world come to? Baby boomers who care, wearing Crocs and enunciating their opinion to a pre-converted room. I have my say too, so we get back to business - how to harvest interest without selling our soul..?

Quick quality food with a capital K, no chicken too tasty for this little miss. As Solo streams down over salty lips, I pause at the thought of a teenage memory, eating the same meal all those months ago. I was different then, and so was he.

He chants a little ditty about Darren Costello, a cute hippie rhyme that solicits a laugh. There are warblers and dreamers and drummers and a window that frames the world walking by. Who is watching who?

A cup of green tea and another victory on the Scrabble board as the Scrabble queen blames her tiles.

SUNDAY:
Breakfast on the beach: toasted but soggy bagels and a latte to go. My pink-lashed shoulders shrug into town hall where a crisis takes place: biodiversity comes off the agenda as the activists form and reform in a political dance meant for one. The panel is propped up by a handsome young man called James. He speaks for wildlife, not for politics. I want to walk with him to the Wild Country.

Call of the zines, but all is not fair - a budget in my pocket and so much to buy. Crumpled numbers swapp'd for words crumpled into shape by faceless authors. Smile into the sunlight as the day turns into a dark and seedy night. Sex, violence, depravity - and that's just between the covers of a book. The hangover is The Poets Breakfast, furious and witty in a beer-soaked blur. We make love to the sofa in the corner and listen to the wordsmiths speak in tongues. Sublime.

Bi-Lo, burritos and beer. Enough said.

The edge of the world is lit by a beacon, a flashy tall thing with a hill up its arse. We meander out to a point beyond the light, where white water eats away at the concrete blocks that have tumbled into the sea. The Stockton Bridge smiles a smile of even lights and the glow to the north is a mystery.

Five voices debate 'Love, Actually', New Zealand and reality television. A block of Cadbury Crunchie goes missing in the meantime. I drink another cup of tea.

MONDAY:
A one-armed tan manifests itself at Hornsby station. My backpack is full of zines and I still own a block of Cadbury, though I've lost my bottle of water. I eat fake arrowroots instead and pay for two months' worth of train travel. There is a load of laundry waiting for me when I get home.

Kebab

A book that I will never be qualified to write:
"How to eat a kebab in a gentile manner"

Cheers

There should be a crime against the misuse of the sign-off "cheers". Evil librarian, currently the black hole of my previously unabated optimism, signs her emails "Cheers -------" (name removed to prevent plants wilting and children crying). Trust me, there is NO cheer when you receive an email from this woman. It is like all the joy is sucked out of the atmosphere in one inhalation.

Thus I believe that signing off with "cheers", when the opposite is the case, is a societal felony. The punishment for this should be the offender's immediate removal from existence and, if possible, from history and the universe in general. That is all.

Her

One cannot live in constant fear of a librarian.

Missing

I had a dream that a guy from work went missing.
I found this out via a sales assistant at a travelgoods store.

Must fix dress from Saturday night. Straps literally snapped off the dress. And only one strap from bra remains. Out of four straps, three came off/undone of their own accord. Is that a record? Love the dress, not so much me in it, but tolerable.

A productive day. A treatise on odes and epic poems followed by fun poems. Got stuck at the end trying to compose a limerick with the syllabic pattern 9/9/6/6/9 but couldn't think of a last line. The first four lines go:

There once was a girl named Alina
You could not find anyone cleaner
She would wash once an hour
In a chemical shower
BLAH x 9 (help? anyone?)

Weighing up the rhyme 'sheen her', 'greener' and 'screen her'.

There are some pretty rude ones out there. The traditional opening line for a limerick is actually 'There once was a man from Nantucket' which opens all sorts of cans of worms. On Wikipedia:

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Whose dick was so long he could suck it,
While wiping his chin,
He said with a grin,
"If my ear were a cunt, I could fuck it."

Listening: Beethoven's Symphony No. 9, 2nd movement played by the Sydney Symphony Orchestra of 1944, conducted by Eugene Ormandy.

Have tax pack. Too late to start the bureaucracy.

Full week. *Sigh* Very full week. When will I eat? When will I sleep?

The Australia Test

The Australian government wants to introduce a test for potential migrants. The test will contain questions about the history and culture of Australia and also gauge the English skills and 'value system' of the applicant. Sense or xenophobia? Let's examine this idea from a few angles:

The idea itself is not a bad one. I mean, we can't expect that anyone who wants to emigrate can just waltz over here, wait around and then fill out a form without first displaying that their value system is akin to that of the people who already live here. It would also be handy, just to get around, to know a bit about the country you've moved to and be able to speak a bit of the language.

However, there are a number of problems surrounding the idea. The first question I would like to pose is: what is the motivation for introducing this test? Migrants already need to pass a 'points' test to determine whether they will be a valuable member of society. The points test includes, for example, their skills, their age, family connections and a history of criminal convictions. Obviously migrants who have a skill of which Australia has a shortage would be considered more valuable than one who has a skill that is in oversupply. Migrants who will contribute to society via employment are better than the elderly (who would be considered a burden to the health system) and you can kind of guess the value in the other attributes. Also, if you are very wealthy and not a criminal we reckon we'd be better off with you than without you.

So... the motivation for introducing this test seems rather political to me. Keep the 'riff-raff' out of the country via legal means, in a way. A former version of an 'Australia' test could be set in any European language that the tester chose. According to Mike Carlton's SMH column, former PM and federal attorney-general at the time, Robert Menzies once set a test for a known communist in Scottish Highland Gaelic in order to keep him out of the country. Which brings me to my next question -

Would most Australians pass the Australia test? If you randomly gave a test (in 'any European language' or otherwise) to an Australian citizen, even narrowing it down to a citizen who was born in Australia, would they be able to complete it? I don't think so. Full marks would be rare. I think maybe 40% of the population could answer questions on the name of our first PM, the rules of AFL or the number of Australian troops who died in WW2. Hell, I only know the answer to the first one. Besides, many Australians can't even spell and don't know where to place apostrophes (see Spelling 101), so they'd probably fail the English test anyway.

Speaking of which, isn't there just a tiny weeny bit of hypocrisy in British colonialism? Indigenous Australians never asked colonising Brits whether they could complete a test in 'any Koori language'. Those Brits just claimed the land and massacred the locals. Sure, we live in different times now ('civilised' or not) but the idea that this Australia test will allow people with knowledge of our history and culture and those with the same 'value system' and English skills in and keep those who fail out means that we'll be getting people that the government agenda deems desirable. Same old, same old. Where's the diversity?

Howard wants migrants to conform in as many ways as possible and yet pays lip service to keeping the essence of their former culture. What he means is for migrants to bring only the good things from their former culture, with the definition of 'good' determined by the government agenda. No wonder there are a bunch of alarmed people out there. For example, there are a number of Muslims who believe that this policy is designed to prevent any more Muslims entering the country. The barrier is not just religious, it favours migrants from an English-speaking background of a similar culture to Australia. Migrants from the UK, Europe and USA, in particular.

My conclusion on this matter is that you cannot tell anyone's suitability to citizenship by an Australia test any more than you can tell someone's intelligence by an IQ test. Sure, it might give a reasonably good idea of an applicant's suitability, but it misses out on some of the intangible things that cannot be expressed in the results of a test, things like passion for a nation, a willingness to become part of a community and to contribute to society. All I ask in return is: isn't there a better way to do this?

Power

I finished reading George Orwell's '1984' for the the first time a few days ago. I found it to be quite well-written and I liked a lot of the descriptions he used throughout the narrative ('beautiful rubbish' being my favourite). I also understood a lot of political undercurrents strewn from beginning to end and I recognise why the book was so important and groundbreaking - even now. Especially now.

On a personal note, however, I just do not understand the concept of power as an end. Having power means that you can do things, absolute power means that you can do anything you want. Having power and not using it defeats the purpose. It's like having a car and not using it - what's the point? It sits in a garage and gathers dust. Even if it looks pretty, if you never use it there is no point.

Dystopic novels tend to emphasise many things that, to me, seem pointless. Is the power there in case one would like to use it? Does having the power bring pleasure to some? If so, then there is a point. But in '1984', no one in power ever alludes to the possibility that they would like to use the power for anything other than to maintain power. Furthermore, no one seems to derive pleasure from having it. In fact, the opposite occurs - power is a grim reality and those in power relish the dourness of their possession. Pleasure is forbidden and those perpetuating the power do it out of duty. To me it's like drinking your own urine in order to urinate and then drink it again. Over and over.

Is Orwell commenting on the machination of society, that it exists only for a perpetual nothing? In my world, even the 'evil' people have a reason for doing the things they do. It may be stupidity, or a belief, or a pursuit of what they believe to be happiness. They wield their power in their 'evil' deeds as means to an end but power is never the end itself. Power is a vehicle, not a reason. Perhaps I am searching for reason where there may be none, which is why I do not understand the ultimate theme in '1984'.

Eatability

Why don't they have a classy restaurant at Sydney Airport? It would be a reprieve from aeroplane food, a good place to stop for people in transit or a hearty last meal before a loved one flew off. It would be popular with exec types who don't want to line up with the plebs in the food court or choose from the plethora of same-same cafes. The food would need to have a quick turnaround time and diners could save money off airport parking (if they drove in). I think a classy restaurant could earn heaps of money. And it would be a nice place to take someone and be assured that they won't miss their flight.

It's Saturday

Dream: Sharing a single bed with my lesbian lover.

Reading: Sydney Morning Herald
Previous: 1984, George Orwell

Listening: If I'm Choking, Make a Scene, The Scare
Previous: Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, WHAM!

Browsing: n/a
Previous: www.witmol.com

Thinking: about the nature of popularity. Would I consider myself popular? Do I want to be popular?
Previous: I hope my bra strap doesn't snap at tonight's prenuptial gathering of female persons.

To do: update 'witmol.com'. Do tax return. Sort photos for Northern Exposure travel journal.

Varekai (live show)

Cirque du Soleil
Le Grand Chapiteau, Moore Park (18th August, 2006)

A word of warning about possible bias - ever since Cirque du Soleil toured with 'Saltimbanco' in 1999 I have been fascinated with this troupe but have never managed to scrape together enough money to see a live show. Fortunately, I have a wonderful friend who bought tickets for my birthday, but due to unforeseen circumstances could not attend with me. I took my flatmate Sireesha and we both tiptoed into the tent...

Le Grand Chapiteau (Big Top) is a different world to the evening dark outside. An aura of palpable suspense hangs definitively from the rafters, much like the ropes for the various swings used in the show. From where we sat, a forest of silver-coloured poles populated our left field of vision, while the surprisingly small stage formed most of our right periphery. Unfortunately, there was a balustrade that divided them, unavoidably obstructive, even punctured, as it was, with diamond windows.

The pre-show entertainment ended up being part of the show itself. A comedian and his assistant spent several minutes acting as amusing ushers, using silent, slapstick humour to the laughter of the thickening crowd. Their double act recurred throughout the show to relieve some of the bated breath moments with chuckles, after tension had built during some of the more gasp-worthy scenes (most scenes, actually, but I'll get to that). One of the funniest scenes had the comedian being suave while mouthing the words to 'Ne Me Quitte Pas'. The spotlight moved him around the stage, made him cross the tent, enter the audience, run across the tent, climb a pole and finally, exit the Chapiteau at the end of the song.

The story of Varekai, meaning 'whatever' in gypsy language, is about a winged boy who falls into a forest near the mouth of a volcano, where many strange creatures live. The creatures help the boy recover and scene by scene he explores the community of these colourful characters until he is well enough to return to his homeland. There's isn't so much a plot as a loose story arc around which the scenes and costumes are designed, so I'm not even sure whether I presented that synopsis accurately. Whatever. As they say.

The imagery, however, is stunning. The set, virtually bare to allow the free movement of equipment and performers in and out of the space, flourishes with the teeming acrobats in vivid costumes. Some are comical and expressive, while others are elegant and dynamic. All, impressively, allow the performers to move fluidly side-to-side, around-and-around, upside-down and writhing-on-the-floor, according to their speciality.

The more gasp-worthy acts were airborne, using swings, drapes and ropes in various combinations. My favourite was a pair of acrobats with one rope each that circled and intertwined as they came together in formations that only experienced choreography could ever imagine. The human body is an amazing tool and Cirque du Soleil is a place where the body is expressed as art with the skill of the performer as the artist. The beauty is the dignity and dedication of each individual performer to their art and the manifestation of those traits in front of an appreciative audience.

Another to note was the youth act where three boys, aged about six to eight, each twirled a rope holding a bowl at each end. The instrument was twirled in various ways, thrown up and caught across the stage after each boy had executed a series of somersaults and flips across the floor. The impressive thing was not that each boy could do this, but they could do this simultaneously and not bump into each other.

The only act that made me feel weird rather than amazed was the contortionist, who didn't come on until quite late in the show. Her feats were pretty impressive (e.g. balancing, contorted, on a pole with a surface about the size of a hand) but I couldn't help feeling that it was a little bit wrong and couldn't quite shake the feeling.

Luckily, the final act was also the most exhilarating. The performers wheeled in two grounded swings with canoe-shaped pendulums facing the back of the performance space where they'd placed a stage, about 2.5m off the ground with rigged a canvas sail behind it. The acrobats started doing really cool things like swinging and somersaulting onto the platform and tumbling into the canvas sails. Then, when they got tired of that they started doing even cooler things like making a human pyramid on the stage and somersaulting onto that. As if that wasn't enough, they moved the pendulums so they were facing each other and started moving both of them such that an acrobat could somersault off one and land on the other. For the sit-tight-they're-not-really-going-to-do-it-oh-my-god-they-are moment one acrobat on each swing launched himself into the air and landed on the other swinging pendulum. Simultaneously. Without a mid-air collision. I almost bit my nails. You had to be there to believe it.

Needless to say, the troupe received rip-roaring applause that continued for several minutes. It was only then that I realised that the music that had accompanied the scenes had been playing LIVE at the back of the stage (to our far left, in the pole forest), which brings me to the only gripe about the evening. Price. We were sitting in B-reserve, partially obstructed by a balustrade and with a side view. If you wanted to pay $250 for a Tapis Rouge seat (front view), then the show would have given a depth of field that would have enhanced the acts, with the added stimulation of the backdrop. Unfortunately, most of the show played to the front view, which I found rather unfair. Next time, when I'm rich (or lucky enough to win tickets), I'll be sure to sit where there's a front view to get the most out of the experience. For now I think I'm lucky enough to see a Cirque du Soleil production. Too bad I couldn't afford anything in the gift shop either...

Theory on Social Energy

Because I'm only a self-identified social philosopher and also not very quick with concepts that may or may not already be apparent to my brainier counterparts, I apologise in advance that it has taken me so damn long to catch onto this. 'This' being an extension of the extravert-introvert philosophy.

The really extroverted people release social energy, no matter where they are or who they meet. My friend Beq is one such person who simply radiates friendly, approachable vibes - whether she's sitting at a bus stop or out at a party. It never seems to matter to her that she doesn't know anyone, she will readily be the glue that holds conversations, however brief, together. That's why she makes such an awesome nurse.

On the other hand, the really introverted people absorb that energy without giving anything back - they are like social energy black holes. No matter how interesting the company, all the vibes are deadened by this type of introvert. They are often vague and distant, even in lively situations. They seem to pass through the world without absorbing any of its flavour.

Most people can control whether they give or take social energy - like sometimes you meet shy people and you think they're introverted but then you get to know them and they are actually quite extroverted. I have plenty of raucous friends who believe they are 'shy', which they mostly are when they meet new people.

In my own experience, depending on the situation, I can be quite aloof, which is my coping mechanism for when I feel out of my depth (e.g. fashion show). Lately I've been practising outward confidence, taking the initiative in meeting people and never mind the small stuff (i.e. cheek-kissing). This works because it allays my discomfort and it provides a new opening for social contact. At the moment the only thing I have real difficulty with is meeting people when they're all already in conversation with someone else. Because I feel rude.

Anyway, most of us can control the level of energy we give or take from a situation. It varies with the setting - on a train, for example, I've conditioned myself to 'switch off' those vibes because train freaks are attracted to me whereas at the pub I might emit more energy.

But the extremes have a problem with turning on or off their energy levels. Beq gets people coming up to her all the time - in supermarkets, at internet cafes etc - to dump their brain all over her personality. She once complained that she must have a neon sign above her head saying 'tell me all your problems'. That lack of privacy and personal space can be exhausting for the radiating extrovert.

At the other extreme, dull people are introverts who can't control their absorption of social energy because they can't seem to return the same level of energy back to the initiator. It's like playing handball - the energy-giver serves and the energy-taker just stands there. If the energy-giver is lucky, the ball will rebound off the energy-taker and giver can keep going. Eventually, though, the giver gets tired of being the only active player and leaves the taker alone. After all, what's the point of investing time and effort on someone who's inert?

A secondary theory, extrapolated from this, is the theory of silence. Silence is comfortable when both parties understand that there is nothing more to say on a subject at that point in time and that another shareable thought will come along soon. The social energy level in a comfortable silence is neutral.

An uncomfortable silence is one where at least one party feels obliged to devote social energy into the moment, even if there is no guarantee of return. It is this 'obligation' of energy that makes the silence uncomfortable. Their decision to break or continue the silence gives or takes social energy to/from the moment, which until that point is neutral.

Comments welcome.

Smoking is Fine

Yay to Sydney Council Rangers who now have the power to fine smokers who discard their butts on the street. Butt littering is a serious environmental problem that has been the focus of numerous educational programs to no avail. Now the council is getting serious by hitting smokers where it hurts most - their hip pocket.

Say all you like about litter in general, butts are the worst of a bad lot, simply because of their size, which can swim through gross litter filters, and their toxicity.

It is not difficult to dispose of used butts - most rubbish bins have ashtrays or you can devise your own portable ashtrays. Back in 2002 I was a volunteer for the Manly Environment Centre and spent a Saturday giving out portable ashtrays (little click top containers) to hundreds of people along the Manly Corso. I believe you can still get them for free at selected businesses. Otherwise, film containers work well, or even those Eclipse mint tins, which are airtight.

Now, if only they can start fining people who smoke while they walk, leaving a trail of non-smokers choking in their wake. Hire me!

The Book Thief (book)

The Book Thief (2005)
By Markus Zusak (Picador)

A hefty tome, at 584 pages, 'The Book Thief' is nonetheless a swift read. As I was heading home in a taxi after the Sydney Writers' Festival (where, earlier in the week, I'd briefly met Mr Zusak) I struck up a conversation with the driver, who had incidentally heard a radio interview with "a guy whose name started with Z". He continued to say that his wife had read the book in two days. While I had no such luxury with time, it took me about a week of commuting and a little extra before bed and this morning to finish it.

Plot outline: On the cusp of World War II, a young girl, Liesel, and her brother Werner are travelling with their mother to Munich where they are to be handed over to foster parents. Werner does not survive the train ride and in the aftermath of his burial, Liesel steals her first book, 'The Gravedigger's Handbook'. Liesel arrives alone in a new town, stirs up some trouble and learns to read. As the scars of war deepen, Liesel learns many more things like how to steal and how to hide a Jew in the basement.

First of all I'd like to mention that the plot outline doesn't do all that much justice to the novel. The novel is built on narrative and character relationships, rather than plot and it is the reader's understanding of these that give much more flesh to the plot than the bones I have provided.

The second thing of importance is that the narrator of the book is Death, not Liesel or an unseen third person.

Using the grubby backdrop of war, Zusak's deceptively simple language is poetic but never strays towards being burdened with flowery language, nor cluttered with unnecessary description. His masterstroke is Death's voice, which swaps the stereotype 'doom and gloom' tone for the genial, almost resigned, words of one whose job is simply to collect souls as they die. Death's description of each moment is conducted with clarity and more than a hint of deeper knowledge - who knew that the moment you expire could indicate so much about you as a person?

Liesel's adolescence is a series of big and small changes that steadily builds on the reader's perception of the characters involved. Death is not always present, in fact, his narration is aided by Liesel's own autobiographical written account, from which he borrows to colour the periods between his sightings of her.

As I mentioned, the core of Liesel's story is not so much about events but the relationships that characterise them. Her brother's death leads to nightmares which leads to the strong relationship she builds with her foster father, Hans Hubermann, which then leads to comparisons of her relationship with her foster mother, Rosa, painted as externally maniacal but essentially kind-hearted.

Liesel's friendship with Rudy Steiner, the boy next door, is the gateway to understanding her position at school and in the neighbourhood, as well as providing a healthy dose of fun into their adventures around town - from Rudy's retelling of the Jesse Owens incident, their collusion with a gang of thieves and football games in the park.

Then, with the arrival of Max (a Jew whose father saved Hans' life in WWI), Liesel's love affair with words deepens. In sharing stories, the unlikely pair form a friendship that counters the cruelty of Hitler's war and foregrounds the kindness of the Hubermanns. The Hubermanns, in effect, represent the real Germans whose humanity was drowned out by Hitler's manifesto.

It is here, with Liesel and Max, that Zusak clearly presents the reflexive device on which the novel is perched. 'The Book Thief' is thus seen as Death's narration about Liesel's adolescence containing Max's life and Max's stories. Max's stories further contain references to his friendship with Liesel, to Hitler and also to the power of words.

All this - plot, language, characters, device - is woven seamlessly into a book and it is the simplicity of everything that makes the novel more powerful. I laughed at Liesel's childhood innocence and I cried when her world, at different points scattered throughout the book, crumbled. And cried some more for the last fifty pages. The mark of Zusak's genius.

***** - a new perspective of WWII based on friendship and the power of words using pared back sentimentality

Judge not lest ye...

At the moment I'm volunteering at Fairfax where a bunch of us are judging the WriteNow! competition for the Sydney Writers' Festival. WriteNow! is a high school writing comp for Year 7-9 specifically designed to fill a gap between primary school writing comps and the prestigious Sydney Morning Herald Young Writer of the Year Award, which caters to Year 10-12 students (apt opportunity for a rare brag that I was once a finalist of this Young Writer comp).

WriteNow! is run slightly differently in that the submissions are not open theme. Instead, SWF gets three authors to provide a 'story starter' and participants must continue the story in 1000 words or less. Prizes are awarded in six categories, a boy and girl from each Year 7, 8 and 9.

This is the second year that I've been a judge so I feel qualified to give some advice to budding writers, entered in not just this comp but similar ones around the world. Here are some tips...

• Follow the instructions. This includes presentation requirements e.g. typed on A4 paper, double-spaced, personal details provided, and adherence to the comp. This comp was based on a story starter but there were a few renegades who either wanted to write their own story or didn't adequately follow on from their chosen opener.



• Legibility is important. In addition to double-spacing, I would suggest a clear-faced font like Times New Roman (not my favourite, but standard) in 12pt BLACK (have you ever tried to read tiny single-spaced fancy yellow font on a white piece of paper?). No fancy/coloured fonts, no coloured paper, no illustrations, no decorations.



• Edit your work. Or get someone to help you. This means checking spelling and grammar. There are always well written works with spelling and grammar errors but when it comes down to deciding the winner, correct spelling and grammar has the edge. And don't just rely on your computer's spellcheck, really read your work.



• Make sense. We want you to be creative but your story still has to follow a logical sequence of events. Particularly in short stories, each character you introduce needs to have a function. Your ending must resolve all the situations that you (or the starter author) have mentioned.



• Be original. Easier said than done when you don't know what everyone else is writing. However, the general rule when responding to stimulus is usually to reject the first couple of ideas that come to mind. Don't assume anything about the stimulus, think of what it could be and brainstorm off that. Also, we have automatic rejections for bad endings such as "it was just a dream", "and then I died" as well as weak endings "and then I went home and mum cooked me breakfast".



• Choose your words wisely. Sometimes when you don't have a great idea, a sophisticated vocabulary can set your work apart from others. Don't use big words indiscriminately, know what they mean and use them effectively. And big words aren't everything - original descriptions and your own personal style count for a lot as well. Cultivate unusual similes and metaphors and use them sparingly. Be careful with detail - we really don't want to know the specifications of the car you were driving or what your mum cooked you for breakfast unless it is relevant to the story.



• Don't be afraid of your creativity. We're not going to think any less of you if your chracters go on some outlandish adventure (as long as it is logical and well-written). You don't need to qualify your writing with a moral or an "it was just a dream" ending. Characters do bad things, you can switch genders, people die. What's fabulous about fiction is that no one actually gets hurt.



• Adopt a style and/or genre. The stimulus will generally give you an idea of the kind of story that would suit. 'Wider' stimuli have the capacity to go anywhere - crime, romance, drama, fantasy, comedy etc. However, especially with WriteNow!, it is important to follow the style already provided by the starter author, including tenses and first/second/third person narratives. Choose the starter you are most comfortable with and follow the author's 'voice'.



• Avoid plagiarism and cliches. I know we live in a highly interactive world, but if you can avoid repeating the plot of your favourite movie or book you have a better chance of being original. Judges watch movies and read books too. Yes, even texts for younger audiences. Cliches are annoying and indicate that you can't think of your own way to say something.

At the end of the day, after a judge has read hundreds of stories, they're just going to chuck yours on the reject pile if they can't read it properly. It takes very little to annoy a judge when they've waded through hundreds of badly-written, unoriginal stories and it is very easy to throw out anything that doesn't immediately capture.

However, that being said, it is conversely also very easy to please a judge with an entry that has been well-written and is driven by a strong narrative, characters and a logical plot. Be commended and spin us a good yarn, eh?

P.S: And don't worry, we comb through the shortlist to ensure that everyone there deserves to be there. Then we have a massive debate about who we think should win, so rest assured that you really do have to be a good writer and please as many readers as possible to be a winner, therefore validating the award.

Abby Dobson (gig)

Abby Dobson supported by Melanie Horsnell
The Vanguard, Newtown (6th May, 2006)

The radiant Ms Dobson is always at the top of my list to see live, mostly because she only plays a handful of times a year and hasn't yet put out a solo album. However, word is that she's signed up with a label and is quite a way towards recording her songs, which accounts for this more dynamic set.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Support act Melanie Horsnell has been around on Sydney's live scene for years now with her innocuous blend of folk rock balladry. It's easy to let your ears gloss over her sound but more rewarding if you pay attention to plaintive lyrics delivered with a tinge of melancholy, some of which were inspired by "listening to the Boyz II Men Best of album". She's a quirky one.

After coming up to the mezzanine to say hello to the folks sitting in front of Stuart and I, Abby brightened the stage with a swish of her angelic white dress. It's hard to say what was different. She's certainly had guests playing with her before, such as last year's Christmas shows when there was a mini Leonardo's Bride reunion, even Naomi from CODA is now a regular fixture. But a cello, a violin, a xylophone and Paul Mac on piano combined with Abby's earthy, dulcet tones and guitar made the songs more than what they've been before.

For starters, it was the usual set list shuffled a bit plus Paul Mac's 'Gonna Miss You' and 'Fall' from Angel Blood (one of my favourite tunes from that album) but there was an indescribable synergy that seemed to lift the performance beyond the usual, comfortable state. The effect, as I mentioned before, was dynamic.

Even with just piano accompaniment, the songs seemed richer and more focused, perhaps layered with something more than music. The strings suit her style and I do hope that she keeps favouring them over drum and bass. It's hard to label her style, just as it was always difficult to label Leonardo's Bride. Abby Dobson has turned a different corner, lyrically and emotionally, but she's still cut from the acoustic pop cloth. And that's far from a bad thing when she comes up with this type of gig.

P.S: I'm still annoyed about the timing - support comes on at 9pm, plays for 30 mins, followed by a 30 min interval before the main act. It's just so hard to get a decent seat on the mezzanine at 10pm so usually whoever I'm with and I have to eat first and then kill 90 mins (from 8:30pm) warming the seats with a decent view. No money, no drinks.

**** - more here than there has been before; a polished performance

Bay Six *

* Copyright pending

A fashion gripe for you, to coincide with the end of Sydney Fashion Week:
I hate shopping for clothes. I never loved it but there was a time when I'd willingly commit a special part of my brain to analysing what would be a good fashion investment. Not that I was buying Chanel hoping that it would go up in value after 30 years, but I was thinking in terms of future wearability. Everyone knows that fashion is fickle, so I wasn't about to commit to trends that I couldn't afford, only to be discarded two weeks later. Which brings me to my latest idea...

Someone should invest in setting up a fashion brand selling basics. Called Bay Six. Because that's the kind of pun I'm prone to use. The brand should be reknown for their range of well-fitted basic clothing - unembellished pants, skirts, tops, shirts, shoes, jackets, suits etc which all come in neutral, easily matched colours (eg black, white, grey, taupe, beige). I'm talking basic clothing such as classic cut suits that will never go out of style. And a decent pair of jeans.

Sounds pretty boring, but it's the kind of range that every woman (and probably every man) needs. Have you tried looking for basic clothing lately? It took me about three months to find a pair of plain black pants that didn't have some kind of sequinned pattern or diamante belt loop on it. The best thing is that Bay Six will complement any other fashion item. Fashion nowadays seems to focus on either individual pieces which don't go together or look too embellished worn together (ie embroidered shirt and embroidered pants in the same range) or ensembles that only look good together. Bay Six solves the matching problem. So you've just bought a brand new sparkly top? Pair it with a Bay Six skirt.

From a marketing point of view you'll be aiming for repeat business. When your shirt has worn thin you can go back and buy the exact same shirt that you won't even have to try on because you already know your size. Bay Six could also pair up with other fashion brands who have campaigns around feature pieces for exposure. Or, every season they could have a 'disposable' range in a trendy colour or a special style (eg ultra low waist) that they won't keep in their ongoing range.

For every item of clothing there should be a wide range of sizing options and then maybe a couple of the most popular basic styles always in production. Just say the item is a long-sleeved shirt, the range would be black or white in a fitted or loose style with a hemline just below the waist or a long tail - that's 8 permutations for each size for one long-sleeved shirt. Then there's 3/4-sleeved shirts, short-sleeved shirts etc.

Someone in the clothing business do this, please! I want to know where I can get a decent black 3/4-sleeved shirt without frills, pleats or embroidery!

Die Weisse Massai / The White Masai (film)

I came to watch this film through a friend's sister who, interested in German language texts, has read the book and saw that this was being shown as part of the German Film Festival. Based on a true account of a Swiss woman falling in love and pursuing a Masai warrior (Lemalian) after a holiday in Kenya, the film follows Carola as she packs up her life in Switzerland to live with the Masai tribe.

There are interesting cultural elements at play, contrasting Carola's initial interactions with Lemalian as a tourist with their courtship and finally marriage. Along the way she learns about - but does not always apply her knowledge to - the customs of the Masai people and we soak up what we see as an audience.

Essentially the movie sets out to be a love story and, for the most part, it is about how her love for Lemalian gives her the strength to drastically alter her lifestyle. Their daughter is the fruit of this love. But eventually it is her strength and Western idealism that tears the marriage apart as she stubbornly refuses to accept some of the customs of the tribe she has joined, including protesting against female circumcision and aiding a 'bewitched' pregnant woman.

The insurmountable problem is the communication barrier; both linguistic and relationship-wise. Both speak English as their second language, therefore English and body language is the only interactive communication that both understand. Lemalian's Swahili is not translated so the German (translation) only exists to further our understanding of Carola's mindset. A difficulty, but problematic also because there is also no attempt to really understand each other's actions and motivations.

For example, when Carola decides to open a shop Lemalian is shamed by his wife's ambitions and is further cut down by her anger when she finds out he is giving credit to all their friends, relatives and neighbours (ie everyone). He accuses her of cheating on him because she is too friendly with her customers. They are never shown discussing, or even attempting to discuss, their respective feelings about each situation - they merely have the heat of the argument and the cold shoulder that follows.

On her part, Carola refuses to submit to the male dominance of the Masai culture, which is her most major mistake. I mean, if one packs up one's comfy Swiss existence for life with this tribe, one would know and necessarily agree to one's place in their culture. She is so determined to do things her way that she fails to see how her cultural bulldozing is also razing her marriage, such as when she is advised not to make direct eye contact with men as this sends out the wrong signal but she carries on looking them in the eye anyway, exacerbating Lemalian's jealousy.

The film has a lot of unfulfilled potential, especially with regard to lacking feedback about how Carola is being accepted into the Masai community. Based on an autobiography, of course it is fairly one dimensional, but I would have liked to have seen a departure from the book. Carola is the only fully developed character; even Lemalian is a bit of a sketch at times, perhaps indicating that the real 'Carola' (Corinne Hofmann) also failed to understand much about her husband and her adopted community.

The performances are brilliant, though. Jacky Ido's Lemalian is as beautiful and ominous as a thundercloud and Nina Hoss' Carola flickers between the 'can-do' independent Swiss Miss to the bewildered 'what the hell am I doing here?' white woman lost. The scenery is expansive, forbidding and achingly gorgeous - well done to the cinematography team - and the small insights that we glimpse of the Masai way of life are valuable.

The last thing I want to criticise is the lack of storytelling. Although this is a film about the story of this woman's marriage, it is presented in such a way that we feel we have merely cut out a chunk of her life instead of having real tension to the action. Where the film begins and where it ends makes sense (her holiday in Kenya with her soon-to-be former boyfriend / the break up of her marriage) but the scenes in between are strung together rather than pull their own weight such that the plot flits from experience to incident instead of building something.

I must say the film must have been disappointing for those who were there to extend their German skills. Although I wasn't disappointed as such, I do think much could have been improved with regard to the editing and the portrayal of other characters' reaction to Carola.

P.S: There is also a wholly unnecessary, reasonably graphic sex scene where Carola 'teaches' Lemalian how to have sex that pleasures them both. The beginning two minutes of the scene says enough (ie she changes his view on sex) but then there's about another 6 minutes of action, which I found rather gratuitous.

** - interesting, but not enough story in the film

Car Talker

We need a car talker device where you can talk to other cars on the road so when someone cuts in front of you, you can go "is you indicator broken or something?" etc etc. I was thinking this could probably be abused so maybe if we restrict 'conversation' to "thanks!" and "danger!" it would cover (though not adequately) most situations where you wish you could speak to that other driver.

Tristan & Isolde (film)

James Franco, as Tristan, has three expressions. One is a kind of doe-eyed longing, then there's the rage and the surly resignation. He also has an accent that is neither here nor there ('here' being British and 'there' being British). This is a problem.

Sophia Myles, as Isolde, on the other hand, portrays the princess in a much more complex way with just a turn of her eyebrows. So when you get one title character whose eyebrows out-act the other title character, you have a problem with balance.

Based on a Celtic legend that entwines feuding tribes, England vs Ireland (and for once Ireland is on top!) and the love triangle of a princess, her husband and his right hand man (literally), this film adaptation firmly irons out some of the loose threads that legends usually create through variations. As a child, Tristan is saved from death by Lord Marke, who loses his right hand in the rescue. Orphaned Tristan, ever grateful, returns to Cornwall with Marke and becomes his most trusted er, knight, and is treated like a son - and in many ways treated much better than Marke's nephew. Blah, blah, blah, battle, blah, blah, blah. Tristan is thought dead but then his wounds are healed by a mysterious Irish girl (who we know is a princess) and is then sent home. In short, Tristan wins a tournament for Isolde's hand in marriage on behalf of Lord Marke. Blah, blah, blah, trysts and lies.

The tragedy of love is evident throughout the film, from the moment Tristan meets Isolde and learns he is in Ireland (after all, when your countries are at war it's a bit hard to convince dad to accept the guy who just killed your best warrior) and then in their forbidden love throughout Marke and Isolde's marriage. Love unravels the couple and unravels the weak unity that Marke has rustled up behind him to resist the Irish.

However, there is much to be said about the love that Tristan owes and delivers to Marke and vice versa, which makes the betrayal a lot deeper than the usual triangle. Love and duty ricochet between all three corners to all other corners - Tristan loves, and owes his life to, both Marke and Isolde, Isolde projects a certain liberty through her love for Tristan but cannot hate the kindly Marke and Marke honours Tristan as a son and without Tristan's loyalty, could not have won Isolde's hand in marriage. Oh dear.

Although love is at the foreground, it is echoed in the war around it. At times it indicates loyalty, such as between Marke and Tristan, which, when fractured with betrayal at the introduction of Isolde, mirrors the fractured betrayal of the uneasy alliance between the tribes. Isolde's initial love for Tristan gives him strength, but when it is taken away at her marriage to Marke, it becomes his weakness (and presumably that's why he made a load of bad decisions). Similarly, Isolde's reluctance to be betrothed to the brutish commander her father has chosen (pre-Tristan) reverberates with his death while her enamoured hope for Tristan brings him through the tournament a victor.

Rufus Sewell is perfect as the gracious Lord Marke; his good nature is not doormat territory and yet Sewell plays Marke with a certain vulnerability that Franco's Tristan cannot seem to reflect. Franco oscillates between sullen and fightey while Myles is positively radiant in her appearances. The lush scenery is the winner, though, and the portrayal of Dark Ages England/Ireland seems authentic right from the very start. Combine grubby castles with sweeping bleak seascapes and firelit interiors and the mythic quality is delivered in the right way.

*** - cinematography steals the show in this legendary tale

V for Vendetta (film)

Natalie Portman's shaved head, eh?
Hugo Weaving in a mask, eh?
Terrorism against a totalitarian society, eh?

Evoking the comic book noir we've come to know and expect of recent graphic novel adaptations (think 'Sin City' and 'Batman Begins'), 'V for Vendetta' uses gritty London streets as the backdrop for its anti-hero's antics. At the centre of the action is the mysterious 'V' (also referencing the number 5 in Roman numerals). All we learn of his past is that he was experimented upon at an institution and is now knocking off those who were in charge at the facility, one by one. The big picture is the fascist regime put in place by Chancellor Sutler; no one is comfortable but everyone seems powerless to resist him. Until V promises to blow up Parliament House on Guy Fawkes Day (November 5). Caught in his swing is Evey, rescued, then captured by the masked maniac.

V's capers are deliciously clever and poetic, from broadcasting his 'revolution' to the roses that he leaves as his nemeses die, in remembrance of a lesbian who once wrote to him about her unjust incarceration. Evey is more or less a wide-eyed damsel in distress though Portman does cultivate a sense of awareness about V's plight as the story moves along.

'V for Vendetta' is about strength, conviction and strength of conviction as the masses rise up against the oppressive government. Weaving is excellent as the masked crusader - his silky, deep voice fits perfectly behind the mask, which is never removed. Even though we never see his face he cuts a fine, even debonair, figure in his swordplay and uniform of black. Kudos to the costume department, methinks. Stephen Rea is also great as police officer Finch who, uncomfortable about his party's policies, nevertheless uncovers more and more about V's past under their orders then finds himself sympathetic to the cause. The weakest link is Portman's Evey. She isn't completely hopeless but she has a strange British accent and exudes passivity for most of what is essentially an active film, tempering the pace. Her greatest moment is when she is improsoned and her anxiety about her future turns to resolve.

The main problem is that she is Natalie Portman playing Evey, not Evey who happens to be played by Natalie Portman. Because Weaving is masked, the Evey character may have been better off being played by an unknown actress (not Scarlett Johansson!) so that a famous face did not take away from the main character. You know, like how whenever Julia Roberts is in a movie, no matter how great her acting, you think of her as Julia Roberts not the character?

Apart from all the darkness then fireworks, the film has many humorous punctuations with observations about masks ("I'm merely remarking on the paradox of asking a masked man who he is"), an odd scene with a bishop, a Benny Hill tribute and some coincidences involving the cooking of toad-in-the-hole (toast with egg in the middle). The token 'love story' was rubbish (the Wachowskis ruin 'The Matrix' in the same way) and unfortunately that brings down the excitement of a revolution down a notch for its selfishness. Still, it's a great looking movie and the strength of its themes in these troubled times cannot be denied.

**** - dark themes and fantastical elements combine beautifully

Easy Mac (convenience food)

I don't usually review food. Largely because even though I'm quite picky I'll generally eat anything. Palate and ambience don't really come into it as long as there's nutrition to be had. This review, however, is a cautionary tale about what happens when you eat to procrastinate and see a sample pack of Kraft Easy Mac sitting on the kitchen bench.

Pour the macaroni into a bowl, add 2/3 cup of cold water and microwave (uncovered) for 3-4 mins on high. Open cheese sauce, mix well with macaroni and there you go, Easy Mac.

I can cook anything that involves boiling water. Rice, pasta, couscous, it has all happened. Cooking food in a microwave is a little disconcerting - it's the kind of thing I used to do when I was 12 and ate soggy pies, cooked from frozen, for dinner when I didn't want to accompany my parents to their friend's dinner party.

Easy Mac is a little disconcerting. Microwaving the pasta is not a good start. The deliberate watery nature of the pasta after it has been cooked is not a good sign. The fact that the cheese sauce is a strange orange powder (made from Kraft cheese - as if that will allay my fears) is also a bit frightening. The cheese powder mixes in with the hot microwaved water to make the sauce in which the macaroni drowns. Souper. Processed city. Convenient, but of dubious origin. I cut up some fresh tomato and green olives, then added some of the baby spinach and rocket mix we had in the fridge as vegie penance. Edible.

Note to self: do not eat food that has come in the mail.

* - a recipe for disaster

30 books

Luckily for you, this is not a combined review of 30 books. This is a list from the UK that has been wandering around for a while about the 30 books you should read as ordained by the Museums, Libraries and Archives Council. As usual, it's mostly populated by modern classics and international releases but I thought I'd have a go at commenting on the ones I've read. I've also put an asterisk next to the ones I haven't read but own and/or want to read. The rest can do as they please. I may touch them if they come across my path but I won't seek them out.

• To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee - easy to read but not simplistic, Lee illustrates prejudice in an innocent manner, which belies the power of the novel.
  
• The Bible by The Twelve Apostles - have read parts thereof, mostly New Testament. Not particularly engaging.
  
• The Lord of the Rings trilogy by JRR Tolkien - this vivid adventure is a difficult read, but rewarding if you can appreciate its depth of language or wade past the language and get stuck into the fantastic plot.
  
• 1984 by George Orwell - * long overdue to read this one
  
• A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens - at turns bleak and enlightening, this Dickens tale paints a grubby picture of London but redeems it with a message of hope for the people.
  
• Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte - * has been sitting on my shelf for years, recommended by friends. Interestingly, I've read 'Wide Sargasso Sea' by Jean Rhys, the 'prequel' but haven't gotten around to reading this classic.
  
• Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen - the best of Austen. If you're only going to read one, read P&P. I'm not a big Austen fan but her depiction of society is entertaining and insightful.
  
• All Quiet on the Western Front by E M Remarque - * not a priority
  
• His Dark Materials trilogy by Phillip Pullman - * have heard much about Pullman and will endeavour to hunt these down
  
• Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks - * sorry, never heard of it
  
• The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck - * wouldn't mind having a go at this. Although I don't know what it's about, so many other pieces of literature make references to it so it would be helpful to know what they're saying.
  
• The Lord of the Flies by William Golding - interesting, almost experimental book about how to set your characters free, even if they do run wild. Perhaps a cautionary tale.
  
• The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon - delightful book populated by a likeable, if incomprehensible main character. Says much about the fine balance between understanding and misunderstanding.
  
• Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy - like Austen, Hardy's depiction of society is insightful but unlike Miss A's novels, not at all entertaining. His view is of a cruel world which comes to bear on poor Tess.
  
• Winnie the Pooh by AA Milne - this was read to me so it's a bit of a stretch remembering what it was like. After reading The Tao of Pooh, however, I wouldn't mind revisiting Milne's best known work.
  
• Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte - a hopeless romance set on a backdrop of desolation does not a happy book make. Well-written but not for the faint-hearted.
  
• The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham - I remember more of the TV series than I do of the written work but I did buy a hardback picture book for my (yet to be conceived) children.
  
• Gone With the Wind by Margaret Mitchell - * recommended to me almost annually by a friend but I just can't bring myself to tackle the hefty tome knowing that it's about the US civil war and a romance.
  
• Great Expectations by Charles Dickens - * sitting on my shelf waiting for a favourable inclination.
  
• The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger - superb book, excellent pace and depth. An unconventional love story, yes, about a time traveller. Niffenegger deals with the time travel extremely competently and the emotional arc carries it through.
  
• The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold - compelling read that deals with the afterlife in an interesting manner; the murder mystery is narrated by the victim. Sebold uses the first person to exploit third person privileges.
  
• The Prophet by Khalil Gibran - * not ready for it yet
  
• David Copperfield by Charles Dickens - * I have no real reason to hunt this down
  
• The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho - * I've not heard of it
  
• The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov - * another novel that has been referenced a few times. Curiosity will drive me to read it one day.
  
• Life of Pi by Yann Martel - part adventure, part magical realism. If you want great storytelling, it's worth your while to suspend your disbelief for this journey on the high seas. Its occasionally amusing remarks ride above the tension.
  
• Middlemarch by George Eliot - * have heard much about George's writing and her sojourn in Paris but it's not a book I'd embrace enthusiastically.
  
• The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver - * I believed the accolades about this book to be hype and don't necessarily care to read about missionaries but I might try it if I happen upon it.
  
• A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess - tried to read this one but I was juggling uni and work at the time so I might give it another go if I can find it.
  
• A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzenhitsyn - * first time I've heard of it

I think I did pretty well. Let's see how I fare when I get my hands on '1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die' - a lot more difficult than the movie or music version in the 1001 series but worth a look when I get there.