I dreamt of playing netball and visiting a house in Canada with Gina and Scott. It had curtains made out of flags from all around the world, and Gina was ironing.

This morning I drank juice from the fridge. It was called Immune. Not apple or orange or even wheatgrass, just Immune.

Then Michael Harrison called. The world's gone mad.

The Sylvia Chan Surfin' Safari

A curious evening spent in a salon in Paddington, a fish and chip shop and the convenience stores and pubs of Surry Hills.

Lent moral support to LT in the face of the whirlwind that is Sylvia Chan, bridal designer, community activist, and all round kooky extraordinaire. Noonie said she has big feet for her size but I didn't notice. LT looked lovely in what was essentially a calico bag pinned in a few choice spots so I figure the real thing's bound to be a knockout.

Over a barramundi burger at Johnnies we explore the politics of the new book club boy deriding the experience of his first meeting. Thinking of changing the book club manifesto to prevent criticism. Not of the books. Just of book club itself. Is that wrong?

Afterwards, the inaugural gig for Ben Thatcher and The Hussies at the Hopetoun. My favourite lyrics:

We're going on a surfin safari and we're gonna take off your pants,
We're going on a surfin safari
We're gonna think about our actions because we've treated you bad
(inexplicably) Where is the love?

It's a long way from the weekend's eloquent post teenage pain but I guess that's what you get when you grow up in Caprera Road, Northmead rather than Council Estate, London. They did seem like nice boys, though, who enjoy drinking beer, wearing suits ironically, involving their girlfriends (so long as they can sing), and (as Noonie said) generally channeling Beck. And the lead singer is kind of handsome with one of those smokes-too-much voices. The drummer's handsome too and does great falsetto, but I hear he's engaged.

Chris and Ray sent me a tote bag that has as each side the album cover of Born in the USA. It seems like there is literally an album slipped in between two plastic sheets on each side of the bag, so that the front of the bag is the front cover and the back is the back - but they're both Bruce Springsteen's bum. Each morning I want to take it with me but then I think of my meetings.

Last night: The Go Team at the Metro. Muddy sound. What I love about them is the percussion and I couldn't hear it. The singer looked like Salt - or Pepper - and danced as though she was about to leap between double dutch ropes. In the end they got me, though. For Ladyflash.

When we arrived The Grates were playing. They were a bit lost in the space but the sound feels so right for now. Use your bed like a trampoline. That little singer with her perfect rock hair and moves that sometimes take her sideways across the stage like a cabaret kangaroo and sometimes make her twist again. She's ace.

Afterwards Avi and I walked ahead and skip-bounced up the slope in front of the flouro lights of the convenience stores to the car. We yelled back to Noonie but she didn't look at us. She was listening to Helen's stories about her old studio in the city.

Splendid

I sit among the debris of our two days at the music festival. Water bottles, half empty beer bottles, ash tray, cigarettes, left over beer tokens, card form the local taxi company and an empty Twisties packet all on the balcony table. It’s my recovery day off but I can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. The tunes in my head are Bloc Party’s, but the words are the Finns’, still. “It means that I won’t give in, won’t give in, won’t give in.” Not very rock, i.e. the waistcoat gets another outing, but sweet.

Mick says it was the festival of the drummer. I say name your top 5 drummers of Splendour and then let’s open it up to all time. He says Bloc Party (As LT rightly pointed out by text: dig the drummer), Queens of the Stone Age, Moby’s…and then kind of trails off.

I agree. Although for me it’s been about the pauses, the non beats, opposite of beats, really. Missed a beat when Gab told me she was having a baby. Not Gab. Imagine Gab. Recovered and picked up the rhythm. Lowy coined “Brisbaned”: to describe the excommunication that happens to my friends when they move away from me, geographically, and I punish them by not speaking, emailing, calling or visiting. It’s a total state but it seems to be for a finite period of about a year. I wanted to shout in protest but knew it was true. I’m glad he gave it a name before a time when that name could justifiably be “babied”.

But for now, for this weekend, nothing has changed. We stand in the tent, and set ourselves a “spot”, pretty much always the same no matter what the festival or location, just left of the sound desk. It later becomes “spot where I fainted” when Gab crumples from the knees. As chance meetings in other locations throughout the day muddy the clarity of the term “spot”, the faint becomes a strangely convenient incident. “spot where I fainted”, or even better, “faint spot” is much easier than texting “original spot left of sound desk” in response to that relentless SMS: “where are you now?”

After the faint we sit outside for a bit on the woodchips, to get some air. Boys stagger in to the stand of trees next to us to piss, and one of them, when he’s finished, comes over and pretends to be some kind of marsupial, a wallaby type thing I think. We smile dismissively.

I remember the second day as the best but that’s because the first is already fading. I do remember this, though:

- finding a formula for conversation with Johnny
- watching Sarah Blasko be all gamine and sweet in her purple vintage dress and thinking that Annie and I must have flogged her CD more than I realise because I somehow know every song and every word
- the tent dripping on me during Ryan Adams, big drops of condensation falling from the seam way above my head, right before he says: “don’t worry, it’ll be over in about half an hour”, and we flee to…
- Har Mar Superstar with his shirt off and rolls of fat mushrooming over the top of his pants – did he really date Kate Moss? - perhaps she was auditioning rock stars
- giving in to Year 9 rebellion with The Living End. “Cos I’m a brat, and I know everything, and I talk back, and I’m not listening to anything you say.”
- offering to go home early with Gab but not really wanting to.
- mulling over T’s words to Gab in my head: “Grow up, haven’t you had enough fun?” My instinctive reply: NO.
- the six year old girl with long, long hair on her mum’s, and then dad’s shoulders during Queens of the Stone Age. Gina helping to brush the girl’s hair out of her eyes and make sure that she’s OK.
- sitting on white plastic chairs at the campground kiosk with Lowy and Mick checking cricket scores on their phones and Jimmy scoffing a pie in the background
- the Blair Witch walk home watching the clouds stained in a ring around the moon

Day Two was about the music, the beats, and non-beats, and the constant internal conversation: “but I can see them any night of the week in Sydney, how often will I get to see Moby?” Doves sounding like the most optimistic band in the world (besides The Go-Team), and Bloc Party. They’re kids. When they sing: “I figured it out”. I want to shout, “Good for you, because I’m 33 and still trying.” Still, I do believe that they have.

Then down the front for Interpol, so New York. How many couches? So many couches. Great suits and tight, no mucking around rock.

Jimmy wants me to mention that we sang into a Chupa Chup. Not just sang, belted out Crowded House and Split Enz. Six Months in a Leaky Boat: Tim’s voice has changed so much since the 80s that he can barely sing it. I had forgotten about the sad, wafty bit at the end. Kiwis are a funny lot, strangely ahead of and behind the times.

I don’t like vegans as a rule, but Moby turned out to be alright. Actually, he was better than alright. He was pretty fuckin’ rockin. So now, Gina and Scott, I believe you.

Overiding theme for the whole weekend: wishing that I had rubber boots.

Again I Am a Nailbiter

I thought I was recovered. Had forgotten the pain of fingernails bitten too far, of having to arrange your hands when you are sleeping to avoid any part of your body pressing on them, but again I am a nailbiter. Again I am a nailbiter and my jaw aches from grinding, and Michael Winter hasn't blogged since June 30.

Pickle's Chop

Indian dinner at Noonie and Avis: Pickle is sick but perks up enough to show off his plastic chop when I arrive. After dinner we watch Harvey Krumpet – me for the first time. Who knew that it was so black? Chops have feelings too.

LT calls. I try to convince her to go to the Townie for a beer. She says going to the gym has made her realise that she’s still hungover from last night. She has done some reconnaissance, though. Amanda Hooton confirms that Mark Dapin is a lovely guy. Phew. Imagine if I had to rethink Mark Dapin. I couldn’t cope. Off to buy Gore-tex jacket.

Tim and Neil

Last night: the Finn brothers at the Sydney Opera House. And the kitchen blackboard thought for the day has been changed to: “Everywhere you go; you always take the weather with you.”

Neil wears a red waistcoat, and I forgive him. After all he’s the man who wrote: “I don’t pretend to know what you want, but I offer love.”

The wind across the harbour makes my lips, nose and ears numb as I wait for Caroline to come from the ferry, and then we loiter by the tourist shops while I explain just why my hair is orange.

Mercury Rev is the support and we emerge a bit mesmerised. It felt kind of evangelical until I realised that he was singing about rain getting into your head making you think that God is a bit fucked.

The quotes projected over nature scenes made me feel most uneasy, but I liked this one: “If everything is under control, you’re not going fast enough.” - Mario Andretti

Eventually, the projection screen was replaced by a large arch covered in pieces of white tulle and we all stood chanting the words to I Got You. I remembered that black and red and green and white cassette cover purchased from Woolworths Maitland. It was if not the first, then certainly one of the first, bits of music I ever owned, probably advanced only by bootleg tapes of Abba Arrival provided by cousin Di. By Shark Attack I was wondering whether True Colours is still available on CD.

Caroline lost her hat somewhere during the evening. We rounded off with a glass of red at Opera Bar and before I knew it I was in front of the tele and the Tour de France.

My favourite Neil Finn lyric: “I wrote that, some eskimo gave me the line.”

Friday Night with Ruby

Ruby's Last Dollar at the Opera House: My favourite line and the current kitchen blackboard thought for the day: "wherever you go, well, there you are". It brings to mind my family's favourite filler lines: "well, there you go" and "well, here we are" uttered in frequent conversation gaps over the years, mainly in chinese restaurants in rural and regional centres across New South Wales, and occasionally in Victoria. I'm thinking specifically of the Echuca/Moama roadtrip there.

The story is a sad, poignant one - Ruby's Last Dollar, not our Echuca/Moama roadtrip - about a starry-eyed orphan who comes from nothing to the pinnacle of Tivoli diva in the 50s (I guess). Later when she's RSL Ruby, pleading not be removed from her stool at the Dancing Girl machine, she's mutton dressed as lamb, and that's the point. She's clinging to the memory of herself as she was in her wide-eyed prime, to the idea of the Rubiest Ruby - one with more possibilities than responsibilities.

The second half mostly works because it doesn't shy away from the pathos of her position. The first half is peppered by slapstick reminiscent of university Theatre/Media productions, and I just don't know why it's necessary, except that the seniors in the row in front were in stitches. Perhaps I've grown unaware of the increasingly limited radius of the track I tread across this city from day to day but Reg Cribb's idea of Sydney, not just in the past (for which we might more easily forgive him) but right now, is of extreme cause and even more extreme effect. In my my mind even Sydney has more subtlety than that.

Still, despite the fact that she doesn't at any stage appear in the gold lurex pants she wears in the marketing shot, Jacki Weaver, her apple cheeks and (as LT rightly commented) her decolletage are national treasures.

Not much artistic good comes of happiness. The sooner Chris Martin breaks up with that Gwyneth, the better for us all.

Te "h" key on my laptop as stopped working. Clearly some crumb as lodged underneath it in transit. If I really slam it it does work.

It's not only the animals, Caryl

Ha. Hu-ha. Ha. Ha. The umbrella's not trying to escape. It's offering its services as an arm extension to reach the fuse box when the switch invariably flicks because we're using too many electrical appliances. I found this out through direct experience. I blame the dishwasher, and I appreciate the help of the umbrella. Did you hear that the kettle has crossed over and is now against the toaster?

The last blog I was prompted to write was about yoga making me furious on Thursday morning. By the time I got to write it it was Thursday night and bombs were going off in London. It seemed too frivolous to set down.


To the weekend...

As I came in the door on Friday night, oranges were splayed down the hall like polka dots, or pool balls. I closed my eyes and shook my head but when I opened them the oranges were still there. Lorraine had brought them from her tree two weeks ago and I was supposed to give them to Noonie. They were in a bag near the front door, to remind me. Finally, on Saturday afternoon I acknowledged that getting oranges to their intended is harder than it seems. I put them in our fruit bowl. Then yesterday to ground me, I made an orange and almond cake and Noonie got to eat some at dinner.

In what was to become a theme of the weekend, Steve, the single straight colourist dyed my hair orange - and I kind of didn't care. We had jokes about the cricket and secret shared glances when the trashy woman having her roots done and drinking wine at 11am asked the junior to buy her some cigarettes.

Lisa Torrance's text: "do you mean carrot coloured or more marmalade?"

Mark Dapin wrote a funny piece about BOGOFs, and I wanted to hug him for finding the humour in value add promotions. I'm going to send him an email and suggest we hang out at IGA. We've got a lot to cover: GWPs, cover mounts, and the red flashing light in the fruit and veg section. If I was on the Walkley Awards judging panel...

There's a black umbrella trapped in the no-man's land demarcated by the door mat. It's between the front door and the screen door. Avi says it's trying to escape. I think it was afraid of the oranges out of control on the other side.

CD Launch

Basil v's Mint Boy's CD launch is at the Hopetoun tomorrow tonight. He's the one who's not Abbie Dobson. Enough about herbs and general vegetables now. Perhaps we will move on to a discussion of auditors and other office visitors, or even characters in Julius Caesar who are dressed in running outfits.

We've decided that:
- the restaurant should probably just buy more crockery
- Hillsong is probably not a front for anything (what you see is what you get and sadly it's still attractive to quite a lot of people)
- auditors are generally young - although probably older than (increasingly) they look - and they're designed that way
- Terry Wallace, who tipped Adelaide to win the flag, doesn't work in the shallow end.
- the magic vegetarian noodles from the Opera House are fine but could do with a bit of chicken
- and Tom is funny, perhaps too funny, and needs to be reigned in a bit

Gangsters and Thugs

Prediction for indie sleeper track of the year is Gangsters and Thugs: "some of my friends sell records, some of my friends sell drugs/guns".

Fruit and Veg Update

In an update on the herb and general vegetable debacle that's happening right now in supermarkets and fruit and veg shops across the country, Noonie says that she bought turnips but was charged for parsnips which are much more expensive.

Sunday Night

I’m on my way home from Sunday night roast at Gina and Scott’s. We leave when Roddick is two sets down with sweat dripping from the peak of his cap. Federer’s hair is barely damp, Gina’s already gone to bed and we sense the match is probably over. Tomorrow, though, I anticipate disappointment. He won? Well, at least he won.

Kurt doesn’t know who Roddick is, and earlier we had to describe him in less than ten single words: young, frat boy-ish, skater-ish, Playstation, gutsy, Mandy Moore, dude. We forgive Kurt because he’s been in Timor.

As I turn into my street the street lights are out and the soundtrack is the late night electronic music show, soothing and repetitive. A cat darts from beneath a parked car and I see its white feet first before the rest of its black coat is formed in the headlights. I get out of the car and a small white flashing light comes silently down the street towards me. Cyclist. The city feels clear and still and silent.

I know the smell of the smoke from their Singleton wood fire will still be on these clothes and in my hair tomorrow morning.

I am Happy

C called to say that they are coming back to live in Australia. I am happy. I drive to work singing/yelling to Jeff Buckley and steering mostly with my knees so that I can clap. And then the nice boy in Dance Caf gives me a free coffee. It is sunny. I am happy.

I arrive at my desk and Andrew calls from London. I can't talk, I say. I'm working. He sends text: I was so looking forward to slagging Pete Doherty with you. Btw Soulwax rule. X.

I feel 33 going on 15.

Have heard on the radio that Faker are marooned in the middle of floods somewhere between Grafton and Moolooloobah (sp?). Not helpful for achieving the role I have decided for them.

This One's for Lisa Torrance

If I had time to blog this week I would have written:

Monday: Our work netball team won their first ever game. It was only later we realized that the other team was two players short. Resolved to work late, but had two glasses of wine sitting in the downstairs office, then pretended to do work but really just checked out airfares on the net. Bought Kway Teow and the Faker and Architecture in Helsinki CDs on the way home.

Tuesday: Went to a meeting at SPACE where they explained that they’re increasing their accessories range so that younger people who are into design but can’t afford the furniture can have a piece of the action too. Afterwards Zo and I browsed around the store. Realised that I wanted to buy everything but could only afford the accessories, and even then really only the (well designed) plastic shoes. Made mental note to try to avoid being a victim of marketing and headed back to office. Decided that Faker are the future of Australian pop.

Received post card from Georga-slash-Wendy from Florence. On the front: an image of MIchaelangelo’s David but only from waist to knee. On the back: “Sweetie! remember this big guy! he wasn’t looking so smug when we saw him hey! i.e. surrounded by frocks!!” (can’t really remember but I think David was being restored when we visited Florence together years ago) “so am here for the w/e – would you believe my friend married into Royalty!” (actually, I would) “she’s now lost her princess title” (?) “but the party @ the palace!!!! was amazing!! love, G x p.s. you know wot they say – small hands = small gloves.”

Wednesday: Completely off kilter. Started the day at the clinic, and almost lost my new scarf – twice. Got pulled over by the police on the way to work and breath tested because I went down a one-way lane the wrong way. As I was turning out of it, they happened to be turning in. I smiled, shrugged and kept on going. They did a u-turn, caught up, flashed their lights, got stern, breath tested me and did a licence check. I tried to concentrate on turning the radio down and seeming normal. After they explained their benevolence in not issuing a fine, I continued on my way but they followed me, so I had to put on my seat belt.

Funny lunch at Dance Caf: Allie said that deaf people clap by waving their hands beside their head Al Jolson (?) style to show that they’re happy. Why can’t they just clap? If they clapped like Jo Dyer, high and expressively, everyone, even other deaf people, would get the message.

When she was growing up Allie’s mum wouldn’t let her eat foods that had more than one lot of packaging, like those excellent large packs of chips with mini packets of all different kinds of chips inside them. Two layers = no go. She wouldn’t let her watch television shows with people dressed up as animals either. Fat Cat, Humphrey = no go. One day Allie’s mum put her outside to paint pictures on paper on an easel. Allie used the paints to cover her whole body black.

Annie has written “Hope Springs Eternal” as the thought for the day on our kitchen blackboard. It’s been there for weeks. I want to write “I don’t fuckin’ think so” Vernon God Little style underneath it. My wet washing has been in the machine exactly a week. It can wait until the weekend now. Perhaps I have too many clothes.

My image of the end of the day is of me walking up Oxford Street, Bondi Junction in a post Country Road Sale change room state of dishevelment trying desperately to find the arm of the raincoat billowing behind me. I’m juggling my bag, RTA umbrella and shopping all the while aiming for grace when a British backpacker walks up from behind me, looks me meaningfully in the eye, says “excuse me, there you go” and hands back the belt of my rain coat. So many ways to be off kilter in one day.

Thursday: it’s been raining and raining. This morning I realized that our bathroom ceiling is leaking. The main part of the leak is quite conveniently over the bidet which we use to hold a pot plant. Planned to send an email to the real estate. Forgot. Tonight it’s worse and bigger. It’s now leaking in two spots, along cracks positioned so that you can imagine them joining up and the whole corner of the ceiling eventually sagging down to release the swimming pool that’s forming up there. And I forgot to email the real estate. I wish I had rubber boots like Noonie. By tomorrow morning I’m going to need them to avoid electrocution when blow drying my hair. The plant's doing well, though.

Called into the theatre on my way home and ran into James Mathieson on the footpath outside. Me (caught off guard): Hello, you’re an Idol person (groan inside my head). Him: Hmmm…and I’m currently idle.

Next week might be better. Hope Springs Eternal. Going to sleep now to will the rain to stop and the ceiling to not cave in.