Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack. I went out for a ride and I never went back. Like a river that don't know where it's flowin, I took a wrong turn and I just kept goin.

There's a different artist from WA. He's in the corner of my eye wearing white shoes with his dark suit. I think: New York'll do that to you.

It's the first birthday of the navy and white striped skirt so I take it out for the day with our new friends the sparkly shoes.

The Lost Echo

I know I should be reading Ulysses but instead I'm laughing at Mark Dapin's mum. It's not even very funny, but I'm weak with fatigue from a whole day and night of theatre.

I'm saying good grief at the rain and Ed says that I sound like Lorraine.

I think back to the blur of The Lost Echo. Those wistful songs. Gaden using his small and poignant voice. Songs of creation. Of destruction. Rape. Feathers. Blood. Shiny hair. Underwear. Tongues cut out. Stories recounted. Telling. Lots of telling. In the background the waiting room of the tyre shop. Then real people with possessions. Sorrow that the gods have gone. The tango. In underwear.

There's such a crowd on stage in their underwear. I imagine that Barrie's about to make us all undress. Secretly I'm happy that the washing status means I have my swimmers on underneath. Less exposed than the rest.

At the drinks I ask a boy if I can reach into the cupboard on which he's leaning. His friend says she thinks I can but am I asking permission? I give a narrow-eyed smile.

Act three was my least favourite I say. He explains why he liked it most. It makes sense but I'm drunk and when I go to pass it on, it's not there any more. All that I can remember today is that the moment when Martin brushes his teeth is, apparently, good theatre.

Steve, the straight married colourist, calls himself the hardest man in hairdressing, and looking at the giant brightly coloured dragon newly tattooed on his arm I'm inclined to agree. Of course, I generally do agree with Steve. He mentions the crocodile guy and I'm consciously silent to give him and his Englishness the benefit of the doubt. I'm with Germaine and I don't want to put myself in a feminist camp in disagreement with him. Personal trainers, gym routines and Amy's dad lead us to Shane Warne. I draw the line and stand firm.

At home I eat cooking chocolate for dinner. The house is perfect except there's no food. Outside it's raining and I'm not about to sacrifice my new hair in the wet in order just to eat dinner.

I know that I should be reading Ulysses but instead I'm watching a sensational 9/11 documentary and wondering, wondering still how it can be real.

The curtains are open. I sense each lightening strike above my head and count the seconds till thunder to track the receding storm.

I write this and in the background Maxine's voice is rising: "gentleman, GENTLEMAN. This time tomorrrow we will know the outcome. I wish you both the best."

This time tomorrow we'll have only just finished Ovid and Peter Beattie will still be the Premier of Queensland. Because you can't go past a good bloke...at least at state level.

In the movie of my life I'm walking across a footbridge. Let's say it's Darling Harbour. It's a sunny morning and there are lots of people around. The soundtrack is Architecture in Helsinki's Wishbone. It's the new beginning scene. All the issues of the night before are resolved. Except that there aren't any issues. The night before has actually been a pleasant dinner of pasta, red wine and birthday party plans at Gina's house. I need to do a bit more work on the movie of my life.

If I just had the right jeans my life would be perfect.

September

I know that I should be reading Ulysses but instead I'm marvelling at Andrew G's A-frame hair.

Then it's Friday night. No time to breathe. I take my green German shoes to meet Chris, and they get some work turning on heel. No room for drinkers at the first bar and a private party at the next. We end up beside the car park-like pylons of the Opera House's new Western Loggia with champagne and cheese from a plastic box.

In Church Street there's a party in the house that is not a fishbowl. At intervals throughout the evening girls talk in the street to other girls and sometimes to boys about their party progress and who they want to take home.

I'm making choc chip biscuits the next morning and there's a woman outside taking photographs of a small white car. Then there's a boy with green hair and a red bucket washing that car.

We miss the ferry and sit on the Wharf reading. Fergus thinks the best cities in the world have an arrogance, and Sydney is one of them. He wonders why we don't do casual, local moments well, though. Then he talks about spending time in Bondi, and I understand. He'll have to try harder than that.

The man on the boat is using his radio voice, and we think it's funny.

On the island there's a kid called Tilly in red pants. There's a ridiculous number of dolphins. They spend a ridiculous amount of time frolicking in the water in our line of sight, and soon we forget to look at them.

I have seven faces. Thought I knew which one to wear. From a song about a different city. Somehow I'm not impressed.

I lie on my belly on a red blanket while they talk of solving the water crisis.

Why don't we remember to do these things? Need to remember to do these things.

Then there's the hint of a storm but it's the morning still. An indigo sky, and in the trees red as well as green. A policeman at the door. No tickets left for the fair weather fans. Sitting in the gutter outside the Dinosaur garage. And the storm again, past the string art of the bridge.