This Space Intentionally Left Blank

.

Dream Poetry

I dreamt some poetry this morning. That's a first. The first line was the clearest, and the last line seemed to stick in my head, as well. I actually saw several stanzas, but couldn't work out what they were.

Coleridge, famously, dreamt up the poem Kublai Khan, but was unable to write it all down before some unnamed person from Porlock came on business and made him forget it all.

Here's the poem:

Time is all in an hour glass fall
Life is a breath of wind
Love is feather touch on your skin
Death is a state of mind.

How soppy can you get? If only the Person from Porlock had come and screamed into my ear 'WAKE UP' a few minutes earlier, none of this would have happened.

The City of Lost Vowels

Got a postcard from mum today. She's busy doing a tour of obscure Eastern European countries. You'd think she'd be able to choose a country where they spoke a language of Indo-European (or at least Ural-Altaic) derivation, but no. She just has to be different.
The city she's writing from is called 'Ljubljana'. Far too many consonants in that name for my liking. Never trust a city that has fewer vowels than it has consonants; you just don't know who you'll run into.

Of course, last time Mum went overseas, she was going to Russia. I asked her, very specifically, to get photographs of Soviet triumphalist architecture. I have quite a thing for gigantic cubes made out of crumbling concrete. She ignored me. All I ever got was pictures of the Hermitage, St Peters, and the Hotel Kosmos. Then again, she did get a picture of some Russian bums begging in the park, so her trip wasn't entirely wasted.

She ends her postcard:

Have been trying to buy a brolley but am assured rain will disappear tomorrow.

While she's about it, she'd probably better get some vowels. Where she's going, they'll be in pretty short supply.

Fruit Free State

Damn government, it just can't get anything right.

Plans to implement random roadblocks in a bid to intercept motorists carrying fruit into the Sunraysia area have been delayed.

The roadblocks will not be in place for the current school holidays, despite the Mildura Country Music Festival attracting thousands of visitors moving into the area from fruit fly hot-spots.

So please, interstaters - when you're travelling interstate and need some refreshment, stick to chocolate, beer, or hallucinogenics. Keep the fruit in your own damn state.

UPDATE:
On second thoughts, stay away from the hallucinogenics. You'll start dreaming about bugs, which are just as bad as fruit flys. Stick to the safer alternatives, like snorting crack.

On the Naming of Cyclones

Talbo makes an excellent point:

I'd hate to be named either 'Rita' or 'Katrina' right now. It just wouldn't be good.

In the future, I move that all cyclones or natural disasters be named after dictators like 'Hurricane Hitler' or 'Cyclone Stalin' or 'Whirlwind Whitlam'. That would be much more sensible.

The Grammatical Structure of Non-Existent Words

AN ESSAY BY A PERSON WHO HAS USED TOO MANY OF THEM

The study of the syntax and grammar of non-existent words is a fascinating one, mainly because you are able to make it up as you go along. But you're never quite sure where you are with non-existent words, either ...

For instance, take the words:

'flubble'
'mollybashery'
'angandering'
'jallapapery'
'gampleundery'
'quasaniance'
'bollofickations'
and 'zenbusiance'.

A quick search on Dictionary demonstrates that they do not exist. What do they mean? We don't know. Are they really spelled that way? We can't say for sure. Where did they come from? Nobody knows.

You see, the trouble with non-existent words is that, not only are there an infinite amount of them out there to choose from, but there are an infinite amount of possible meanings out there to choose from as well. How can you choose? How is it possible to choose between them?

And these aren't the only non-existent words that we have to worry about. There are also those non-existent words that already exist, words that have already been made up by others or that are spelled in exactly the same way as currently existing words, but yet mean something completely different.
Into this category fall such words as:

'Panjandrum'
'grumpers'
'grojags'
'ruth'
'flolloped'
and 'lissomed'.

The student of non-existent words, upon realising this, will often through up his or her hands in despair, and go back to writing miserable iambics on the back of his toilet paper. So much safer, you see. As well they might, because things just keep on getting more complicated.
What happens, for instance, when you put a whole load of non-existent words into a sentence? The grammatical problems encountered with the individual words are multiplied tenfold. And then, there are the problems you encounter when you write whole books consisting of made up words, phrases, and places. No writer has ever quite achieved this vertiginous feat, although many have tried. *

But then again, maybe we should leave the whole question of grammar to the experts, and get along with the altogether more amusing task of using the made up words.

One flubble day, I was angandering along the ustokula, when I was vlabled by a rather dambulous examiter. Needless to say, I was rather blustered, and the only word that I could think of was "Hasapopolous!"
It was a most champuling thing to have happen. And that, my dear astumate, is only the trongalop. Stranger things were soon to graspulade ...

Or maybe not.

UPDATE:
Fibliography
Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths
Lewis Carroll, Collected Works
Douglas Adams, The Meaning of Liff
Mervyn Peake, Nonsense

* And let's not even begin on the subject of non-existent items of punctuation, such as the glinph, the reverted comma, the lyphen, the half-stop, the umpursand, the bloaph, the upper-lower-case heugh, and the repentage sign.

Judging a Blog by its Blogger

Grogblogging last night was hell fun, but I can't really say anything about it at the moment. Darlene has more for those who want to read about it. Here are some of the blogs that were present:

http://observationdeck.org/lip - A piss funny blog that knows weird people with names like Slavenka Drakulic, and a taste for evil jokes.

http://darlene_sees_stars.typepad.com - A lovely warm-hearted blog that knows everybody.

http://aftergrogblog.blogs.com/agb - A chatty and amiable blog, good company.

http://sternezine.blogspot.com - A blog that can tell you what the difference between a geek and a nerd is.

http://melbourneintransit.blogspot.com - A blog that wears glasses and moisturises.

Woohoo!

This is the number one blog for the google search "cormorant of futility". I couldn't be prouder!

The Miracle of Birth

Why bother filming yourself giving birth when you can blog about it?

THE MIRACLE OF BIRTH - LIVE BLOGGING

10.00 AM
I am overflowing with joy! I feel like jumping up and down and dancing in the street! I am about to commune with the Mother Goddess and give birth to my first child! And I shall share it with all of you, my lovely blog readers!

10.15 AM
Ooh.

10.30 AM
Owch.

11.00 AM
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

11.45 AM
Whew.

12.30 AM
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEUU
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWUUUUU
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

12.45 AM
Phew.

1.45 AM
GNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPPPPPPP
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHA!!!!

WUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

2.20 AM
A beautiful boy has been borne into this world! I have joined the sisterhood of Gaia, and I am brimming with maternal feelings of love and pride! Frabjuous day!

END LIVE BLOGGING
Next post: My husband is an evil fucker and he must die.

Suggested Notices For Connex

Suggested Notices for Connex Trams, Trains and Buses:

- No spanking in the aisles.

- You are not authorised to receive fellatio unless you are the holder of a valid concession card.

- If you are receiving fellatio while not being in concession of a valid concession card, the ticketing inspector will receive it on your behalf.

- Please vomit courteously.

- All claustrophics receive a free ride on our trams today.

- Please remember to make room for the schizophrenic and his multiple personalities.

- For safety reasons, oxygen on our trains is banned. If you find yourself becoming asphyxiated, please notify the driver and he'll see what he can do.

- It is illegal not to follow Connex regulations.

- It is illegal not to read Connex regulations. If you are illiterate and are unable to read these instructions, please notify the ticketing inspector and you will receive a fine.

- Have an efficient trip.

- Please do not have sex on the tram. Have it in the tram instead.

- The bus is no longer travelling on this route. Please wait patiently until the bus does not arrive. Thankyou for your consideration.

- The tram on which you are travelling no longer stops near your house. It travels now to an arbitrary location in the outer suburbs. If you are currently travelling home, please alter your destination accordingly.

- Please die quietly.

- When using public transport, it is compulsory to be travelling with a drunk dwarf. If you do not have a drunk dwarf, you may purchase one at the nearest newsagency or chemist.

- If you are in possession of a valid concession card, you may receive fellatio off the drunk dwarf.

- Do not talk. Close your eyes and think of England.

- If another person on the tram is talking, please notify the tram driver or ticketing inspector silently. They will be dealt with.

- Ignore the dead body at the other end of the tram. It's none of your business.

- Nothing is your business.

- Have a nice day.

Grogblogging Reminder

Just ignore that last "post". I don't know what got into me. Not a word of truth in it.

Grogblogging, Friday night. Be there!

Grogblogging Communique

To: "Rachel Croucher"
From: "Tim Train"
Subject: "Grogblogging"

Greetings, "Rachel". I am pleased to hear that the "preparations" for the "grogblogging" are going "well". Come Friday night, much of the "blog population" of "Mel Bourne" will be at The Clyde Hotel on Elgin Street in Carlton to "drink" and "converse with one another". This is excellent news!

I have been informed that you have secured the Emeters from the nearby Church of Scientology on Russell Street, and that the Thetans have been kept up-to-date with the latest news about this "blog meet-up". Oh, how it makes me laugh, to think of all those innocent, naive souls ripe for the harvest that will turn up at the "blogging meet up" on Friday night! Oh, how I lust for the feast of flesh that will follow! Yes, the MIGHTY ZARQUON will indeed look kindly upon us following this coming sacrifice BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Oh, sorry, got a little carried away there.

Nevertheless, I must once again impart upon you the need for absolute secrecy and discretion prior to this coming event. The interplanetary conjunction that shall occur this Friday night is indeed a rare event, and if one thing should go wrong - just ONE LITTLE THING - then the WRATH of the mighty Zarquon shall be great indeed, for, as you know, Zarquon is a Vengeful and Malicious Lord!
The Infinite and Cosmic Council of the Shadow Realm have been informed about the coming interplanetary conjunction, and they shall be present at the grogblogging in large numbers. I am pleased, also, to hear that you have secured the mind rays, and that they are in perfect working order prior to this coming "grogblogging".
Brother Axoz informs me that the Judges are impressed with your zeal and thrift in doing work for the MIGHTY ZARQUON, and that there is a coming seat in the Cosmic Council which they have earmarked for you. I don't mind saying, I am just a little bit jealous. Nevertheless! We all have work to do!

So. Until Friday night, then. Let us trust to the Mighty and Malicious Zarquon. THE HARVEST OF SOULS IS SOON TO BEGIN! SOON THE STREETS OF CARLTON SHALL RUN WITH BLOOD! BWABHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

In the name of the Hive, the Swarm, and the Mighty Zarquon
"Tim"

END COMMUNIQUE

UPDATE:
Hey, this is my email, isn't it?

UPDATE:
Oops.

Hi Class Litraycha

Over the past couple of days, I've been playing a storytelling game on the Vibewire website with some of the other readers. The rules are: 1) Keep it simple 2) Post as many times as you like, but wait for another person to post something before you post again.

Here are the results so far. See if you can guess which additions are mine; I've posted four times. The different posts have been separated out in bold and italics so it's easier to make out, and I'll give the answer later in comments.

Walking down the street last Tuesday, I was stopped dead in my tracks. It was not the fact that I had left the iron on at home - although I certainly had; indeed, I could smell my ironing board burning from here - it was the fact that I had run into my ex-boyfriend, Shaun. Shaun, as blunt as usual, sniffed the air and said, "You've left the bloody iron on the ironing board again, haven't you."
"No I haven't Shaun, you great patronising twat," I said, pretending not to notice the drop-dead-gorgeous hussy holding his hand.
Shaun, however, knew me too well, and could see my eyes flitting (I thought subtly) between him and the blonde. "It's not what you think," he said. "We've accidentally super-glued our hands together."
He was wearing the shirt I bought him for Christmas. It still had that brown crumpled stain next to the arm pit where I'd left the iron too long one morning when he distracted me by dragging me back to bed.
I screamed, "Well why were your hands touching in the first place?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then left it open like a man who had seen a herd of wild elephants stampeding in his direction - and lucky for him, he actually had. Or unlucky for him, as the case may be, since his blonde companion was too busy gazing at her own reflection in a puddle of water to heed Shaun's panicked screams of "Stampede!!"
The hussy flicked the bangs out of her eyes and evened up the lipstick on the left side of her mouth with an ostentatious poke of a gigantic, scarlet little fingernail. Shaun heaved, but the hussy's narcissism knew know bounds and the elephants hit before she even had time to look up. With a spittering and a spattering, a pittering and a pattering, a dithering and a dathering (and other such self-indulgent descriptors), the hussy's limbs went flying through the air to the shock of everybody, not the least of whom was Shaun and myself. By the time the stampede had passed, I calmly surveyed the scene of carnage; legs at one end of the street, head rolling down the other; and her left hand lay languidly at my feet, with Shaun still firmly attached on to it, glaring angrily up at me.
"You're in big trouble now," Shaun said to me. "You've just witnessed the death of somebody extremely important. So important that importance is not sufficient to describe her. That's how important she was. Boy was she important."
"Are you implying that I had something to do with the sudden proliferation of African wildlife in this inner suburban Australian street?" I asked incredulously, putting my hands in my pockets and nervously fingering my elephant whistle.
Shaun glared at me. He was well aware that instigating random stampedes was a passionate hobby of mine. While trekking in Thailand in the summer of '69, Shaun had slipped a crab into my back pocket. I squeaked, startling a herd of elephants nearby who turned and charged at us. It was so exhilarating I can't help but carry a whistle with me everywhere I go just in case the chance arises again.
Shaun grabbed my fidgeting left hand and pressed it frimly against my thigh. "If I find you have that bloody whistle in your pocket, my dear, you know what I'll do.' And I knew all too well what Shaun would do. The same thing he did every time I caused an elephant stampede. The same thing he did all those years ago in Thailand. The same thing he would always do when I incited to riot huge herds of African wild-life. He would burst into a spontaneous rendition of "Hakuna Matata".

In conclusion, there are several morals to be drawn from this story:

1) Communism is so very, very wrong;

I stopped myself. I was using an outmoded literary device. Morals? Who was I trying to be - fucking Aesop? I held my poststructuralist head high. I would let the reader decide what to draw from his/her/its own reading of the work. And so I went right on back to contmeplating Shaun and his unfortunate habit of singing 'Hakuna Matata' after stampedes. It was a supremely unfortunate habit, not only due to the god-awful song itself, but also because rather than pacifying the elephants, Shaun's rendition of "Hakuna Matata" seemed to further inflame their ire. Knowing what was coming, I scaled the closest tree, which, in another stroke of bad luck, was already occupied by a gaggle of National Party politicians holding a conference.
"We didn't descend from these, Goddammit!" said the one in the tuxedo and the gas mask. "Intelligent design for president twenty-ought-seven!."
I shook my head. Where, oh where, had everything gone so wrong today? I looked at Shaun. He looked at me. I could control myself no longer: I threw my arms around him and said the only thing I could. "Communism is so very, very wrong."
He cried. I cried. We laughed! It was so beautiful, in this crazy, whacky modern world to find something we agreed upon.

And then the dam burst.

So ... which are mine?

From Ogblog to Wogblog - a History of Blogging

Hey, look at the funny person! Ha ha! You're reading a blog! What a geek!

There. Now we've got rid of everyone else, it's just you and me, dear reader, and I can get to the point of this post. Did you know that blogging has a long and fascinating history that goes right back to the stone age? That's right! And you can read all about it here in:

AN AUTHENTIC, WILDLY INACCURATE AND UNDOUBTEDLY TRUE HISTORY OF BLOGGING

---

20,000 BC
The first recorded blog of history is carved on to a cave wall by a guy named Og one afternoon after hunting Woolly Mammoths. Although it is extremely slow (have you ever tried using a hyperlink made out of stone?) a post he does linking to the Lascaux cave paintings proves to be wildly popular.

10,000 BC
Writing is invented, which proves to be very useful for bloggers. Previously to this, they have expressed themselves in the occasional monosyllabic grunt and/or crude pictographic representations.

7,000 BC
Instapundit begins blogging. Ancient Sumerian blogger Akh-Ngakh calls him a 'fresh new face' on the blogging scene.

6.400 BC
An anonymous Egyptian blogger writes the first ever post comparing George Bush, the President of America, to Adolf Hitler. Since none of the nouns in this sentence made any sense at the time - even when written in hieroglyphic notation - the Pharaoh at the time decides to have his head cut off.

4.300 BC
Some crazy dude called Moses escapes into the desert and starts a blog, later to be published in scroll form. It features the occasional guest post by another crazy dude who lives in a burning bush and calls himself God. Moses later admits that it was all a joke, and that God didn't really write all those posts, in fact, he could hardly read, let alone write. But no one believes him.

2.500 BC
Slowly, the secrets of tagging leak out of the HTML mines in Eastern Europe. Bloggers learn how to use bold <b> tags, italic tags <i> and underline tags <u> for the first time. (It's not until much later that the dreaded secret of the strike tag <strike> is made known to the general public.)

1,200 BC
A little known group of warbloggers calling themselves the 'Ancient Geeks' manage to infiltrate the computer systems of a group of opposing bloggers using the first ever Trojan Horse. This gives rise to the popular saying, 'Beware of Geeks bearing Gifts.'

50 AD
Ancient Roman Emperor Nerdo holds regular blogging festivals where left-wing subversives are put in the arena with right-wing death beasts. They prove to be wildly popular.

1000 AD
The arts of tapestry and embroidery continue to be developed, and in this format the first pioneering experiments in flash animation are undertaken. The Bayeaux tapestry proves to be a particularly popular animation - much more so than the lesser known tapestry, The Simpsons.

1500 AD
The renaissance happens and everyone forgets to notice it because of some cute kitten pictures being circulated at the time by a photoshopping blogger known as Michaelangelo.

1590AD
Shakespeare uses the phrases LOL, OMG, ROTF, LMFAO, and BBQ in a play. Half of his audience don't know WTF he's talking about. The other half a puritans who don't know WTF he's talking about, but want to ban it anyway.

1750 AD
Charles Babbage invents the first ever computer - or 'difference engine' - and bloggers wonder what took him all this time. The difference engine, which is powered by 20 wild horses, doesn't work, so Babbage goes off and tries to invent a cheese slicer powered by otters. It fails, and he becomes a broken and destitute man.

1790 AD
America institutes a nation-wide communication system known as 'the pony express' which means that bloggers are able to post with unprecedented speed. (The pony express proves to be much more popular than the previous postal system, the 'ocelot express', which failed, primarily due to a lack of ocelots.

1820 AD
Some other guy tries to invent a computer, this time, powered by steam. It doesn't work. Bloggers tap their fingers and think, this is just getting ridiculous.

1940 AD
Yet another guy called Alan Turing tries to invent the computer and actually succeeds. He is so surprised by this that he kills himself.
Bloggers just shrug their shoulders and go on as they've always done.

Splutter

Well, I've had a chat with Dr Symantec and he's given me some pretty good advice about my computer. Unfortunately, I can't take him to Symantec's surgery, since it's very expensive, but there's a very good clinician around the corner called Dr AVG, and he's just had a session with my computer last night. It's early days yet, but I think the patient will make a recovery.

I'm very worried, I must admit - it's only been a few months since I found this computer slaving away in a sweatshop - but we get along so well. It would be terrible to think of him in the grotty paws of some RMIT hippy or TAFE student.

A Post About Marmosets

Marmosets are small monkeys that live in trees and use their scent glands for communications. There are several species of marmoset, ranging from the Common Marmoset to Wiedd's black tufted ear marmoset.

Here is a recording of the common marmosets cry.


The Pygmy Marmoset.

Once I knew a guy who thought he was a marmoset. He set up house in the rose bush outside and everytime his wife came out to speak to him he would fart in her face. Eventually they took him to see the psychiatrist, who eventually convinced the guy by means of hypnotic suggestion to work his way up. One week the guy would believe he was an African Anteater, the next week he would be an Alsatian, and the week after that he would be a fully grown male Gibbon. Eventually, he reached the stage where he believed he was a human again, and things might have stayed that way, too. But he just couldn't help himself, and he kept on working himself up through the species, becoming an Arabian Stallion, a rhinoceros, and then a giraffe.

Don't you believe this story? Frankly, I don't either. It sounds like a load of old hogwash. But this guy did believe it, which is why nowadays he spends his days roaming the backyard chewing the leaves of the tops of his shrubberies.

If you are curious - and let's face it, who isn't - here is a website about marmosets.

Cough Cough

My computer has a virus. It just lies around in bed all day, spluttering, sneezing, and complaining. I've tried feeding it cough syrup, drinks of lemon and honey, and I've even rubbed its chest with Vics Vaporub, but though it makes the keys rather slippery, it doesn't seem to be getting any better. I must admit, I'm a little worried about it.

Do you think I should take it to see the doctor, or is there anything I can do to make it better?

Lay Off the Laudanum, Old Son

Have you read anything by Captain Marryat lately? Of course you haven't. Oh, when it comes to post-enlightenment English literature, it's all "Wordsworth this" and "Dickens that", but when it comes to the REALLY important people, like Marryat or Fielding, everyone goes silent. I blame Coleridge. That laudanum swilling swine got all the publicity.

The book I'm reading at the moment is Frank Mildmay by Marryat. It was his first book, and it doesn't look too promising. Every chapter begins with a quotation from puritans like Milton (a guy who wrote essays justifying divorce in order to be able to sleep around). Normally, Marryat is excellent at introductions. Take his introduction to Mr Midshipman Easy.

"Mr Nicodemus Easy was a gentleman, and in very easy circumstances."

He carries on for a whole chapter in this way. Well, it amused me.
But Marryat can be serious as well. Later in the book, Mr Easy and a doctor contract a wet nurse for Mr Easy's son, the hero of the novel, Jack Easy. Her name is Sarah, and she has given birth to an illegitimate baby who died soon afterwards. When the doctor asks her about this, she replies,

"Yes I did, sir. But it was such a little one."

Has anything simpler or sadder ever been written?

Marryat's heroes tend to be young men born into well-off families who go to sea and learn some of the realities off life, and mix with different classes of people, before returning to the shore and reclaiming their property. The book usually ends with a gunfight or fisticuffs between the hero and some presumptuous servants. Basic slapstick humour, really.

Odd characters appear. In Peter Simple, the hero becomes friends with a cunning Irishman called Frank, and the pair have to escape from France during a time of war and return to their vessel. In Mr Midshipman Easy, Jack Easy becomes friends with an escaped slave called Mephistopheles, or Mesty, for short.

Mesty, who was once an African prince, likes Jack because he is full of the doctrine of "equality" and "rights". In the end, Mesty accepts his position as Jack's servant a little too easily. The reasons he gives are a mixture of pragmatism and standard Tory doctrine about "accepting ones place in society".
But at least Marryat was able to talk about slaves, something the romantic poets never did. James Hogg* once even wrote a few words in support of slavery.

Anyway, here's a passage from the third chapter of Frank Mildmay, where the young hero needs to get to the ship, and two women agree to take him there:

"She LAYS under the OBELISK," said the elder woman, who appeared to be about forty years of age; "and we will take your honour off for a shilling." I agreed to this, both for the novelty of the thing, as well as on account of my natural gallantry and love of female society. The elder woman was mistress of her profession, handling her scull (oar) with great dexterity; but Sally, the younger one, who was her daughter, was still in her noviciate. She was pretty, cleanly dressed, had on white stockings, and sported a neat foot and ankle.
"Take care, Sally," said her mother; "keep stroke, or you will catch a crab."
"Never fear, mother," said the confident Sally; and at the same momnt, as if the very caution against the accident was the cause of it, the blade of her scull did not dip into the water. The oar meeting no resistance, its loom, or handle, came back upon the bosom of the unfortunate Sally, tipped her backwards - up went her heels in the air, and down fell her head into the bottom of the boat.
As she was pulling the stroke oar, her feet almost came in contact with the rosette of my cocked hat. "There now, Sally," said the wary mother; "I told you how it would be - I knew you would catch a crab!"
Sally quickly recovered herself, blushed a little, and resumed her occupation.
"That's what we calls catching a crab in our country," said the woman. I replied that I thought it was a very pretty amusement; and I asked Sally to try and catch another; but she declined; and, by this time, we had reached the side of the ship. Having paid my naiads, I took hold of the man-rope, as I was instructed by them, and mounted the side.

Yes - I think I will enjoy this, after all.

*You haven't heard of James Hogg? You haven't heard of THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD? Shame on you!

Today Is The Third-and-a-halfth Day for the Rest Of Your Week

Well, it's my birthday today. My mother is going to be surprised, let me tell you that. I hope she's alright. It must have been hard enough for her to give birth to me as a baby, but now I'm 28 years old ... I think I'd better give her a call to make sure.
I wasn't even going to tell anybody about it, but several people have already let the secret out.

Now, I'm not sure what to think because, on the one hand, I am older today than I have ever been before, but on the other, today is the first day for the rest of my life. Certainly today will be a day just like any other day, but then again, I've got to seize the day, to live in the now, until the now slips into the then. I've got to be careful about this and plan for tomorrow, but then again, tomorrow never comes. Or does it?

Today and today and today
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.

Shakespeare had it right, the old bastard - and even if he didn't write this, he should have. Today is a trap because, every new day we wake up in is today, and all the joys that tomorrow promises become the mindless reality of today. It's like Groundhogs Day, except there's no way out, there's no escape from this gaping void of nothingness, this endless succession of TODAYS, no escape at all, except for ...

Would you excuse me while I just nip into the next room and blow my brains out?

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
BANG!

Ah, that's better. There's nothing like Ending It All to Make You Feel Like New. Anyway, happy birthday to me and all that. Here's a story I wrote last night. It's for Gem, because even though she stole my birthday, she was nice about it. Bless you, one and all. Now I just have to go and sweep up the shattered fragments of my brain in the other room ...

---

He was born too early and she was born too late. They arrived on the same day, and there things might have ended if they had died on that day as well. But stories are rarely this simple and life never is.
They were total strangers to one another, as people who have never met or spoken often are. Nevertheless, it chanced that one day they happened to run into one another at a cafe, and formed a mutual bond of difference.
He was German and she was French, so they compromised and communicated in Mongolian. Neither of them could speak a word of this language, so they found that this was one thing which they could agree upon. They began to tell one another details of their separate lives, which they were both very pleased to discover they had.
He explained that he had been born into a Mannheim firm of Lion Tamers, and had run away with a troupe of travelling accountants to see the world and perform daring financial transactions for multinational businesses. She happily talked about her fulfilling career as a music therapist to abused pachyderms. They were both happy to discover that they shared nothing in common, and therefore agreed to stay in touch and see if they would grow older at the same rate, or whether it was just a coincidence.

The year passed slowly. Spring sprang and then Summer came and it turned into Sprung. Autumn shoved Summer out of the way and stayed there for three months. Then Winter fell with a thud that caused everyone to wake up with a horrible start. He realised that he had promised to give her a call but had forgotten her number. She remembered his phone number but that she forgot why she was going to call. So she went round to his house and knocked on the door.
So the years passed in this manner, and time progressed as well. She began to have her twenty third birthday over and over again. He began to save his days using the local banks 'Daylight Savings' account, until he had plenty of extra hours. So both of them lived for a very, very long time.

As bad luck would have it, they died on the same day as well. It is impossible to tell whether they were the same age when they died, or if she beat him in the end, since neither were able to talk to me. All I know is, he was so forgetful that he didn't turn up for his own death, and that she insisted that it be put off for later, since she was visiting family at the time. In the end, Death had to go round to their houses, sit down with them, and explain in a calm, reasonable voice that they had to come with him; if they weren't able to come to their funerals, who else would he get, at this late hour? They all agreed that it would be terribly inconvenient. And, in the end, Death didn't seem to be that big. (A bit chubby around the stomach area, yes, but that was only to be expected when you had been around for an eternity, like Death had.)
Now, where was I? I've no idea. I could go on for ages, and I probably will, but look at that!

It's

THE END.

So you won't hear anything more out of me.

My Brief But Dazzling Future Career in Australian Television

Not many people know it, but in a few years time, I will be a has-been, a piece of human detritus, chewn up and spat out of the ravening maw that is the Australian television industry. No, really. It will all start next month, at a party in some house in Brunswick or another, when I run into a television producer and tell him about my quirky yet whimsical, violent yet compelling idea for Australian television. Three days later, I will be called by him, out of the blue, and offered the opportunity to become producer for the show.

SILENCE OF THE HAMS - an ultra-realist piece of fiction about the Australian film industry, with a cast to die for.

Nicole Kidman - played by Gwyneth Paltrow
Gwyneth Paltrow - played by Carlotta
Bill Hunter - played by Paul Hogan
Paul Hogan - played by Rove McManus

Basically, it will be just like any other Australian film. It will be about the struggles of a community of twenty-something young actors who suddenly find themselves hunted by a serial-killer. The premiere episode will end with the ritual death of Nicole Kidman (played by Gwyneth Paltrow) on a funeral pire, as a sacrifice to the God Ereshkigal.
The following episode will be exactly the same in plot to the first. The show will run for a record 32 series, and become a staple of the Australian television industry.

Or something like that. Actually, I haven't thought about it that much. Anyway, the killer turns out to be Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, or John Howard, or somebody.
Then, suddenly, without reason, the show will be dropped and I will be cut off from the television industry. Disillusioned and angry, I will take to drink, and become a bitter, wretched old man living in a hovel on the edge of the Simpson desert with the help of an Australian Film Industry grant, taking pot-shots at British tourists as they drive past.
I've got it all planned out.