Opening Night of the Writers' Festival

He's talking about unspeak and I do know what he means. Reprehensible, I think. But convenient sometimes. I wonder about wardrobe malfunction. I do feel depressed about global warming, though, and resolve not to drive to work every day.

We put on more make-up and head across the street to the party. The volunteers are very eager. There's a woman who's written a book about expat experiences. Another one. A publicist is whinging about the writer of comics who's brought his goth goddaughter with him. Tim says that the Vanity Fair writers hadn't done their research, wore cardigans and didn't have a mobile phone between them. Get straight on the line to Graydon, I say. Noonie chirps in in support of cardigans. Yes, we know. You just have to know how to wear them. We talk more about Dirty and Denton. Gina spills her red wine over Noonie's old chairs dress. We laugh and talk about work in a frenzied manner. It's not until we get on to Everest that it starts to unravel. I say that beyond base camp it's not the real world, and maybe we can't understand. Noonie disagrees. Vehemently. Obviously the evening ended at Istanbul on King. No tabouli, thanks.

My car is trapped in the underground carpark. As I get in the taxi on the way to work Tony Eastley says, and the was Sir Edmund Hilary.