How excitement, INDEED

Well, the last day of Summer has started with a bang.

I rode in to the art school this morning on the inner north bike tracks, which, once you got to the Turner end of O'Connor, were AMAZING. Hail up to my ankles, trees denuded to make a bizarre green autumn landscape. There was mist everywhere, but warm sun as well. It was like being in a fantasy film. There were times when I could only just crunch through the thick hail drifts without slipping over, but I wasn't cold (just wet-bummed!).





And yes, the art school was closed, with groups of people hovering around the main entrance fretting over their precious things inside. Including me, with my open windows. But the windows (of which apparently there a lot last night) turned out to be the least of our worries.



Apparently around midnight big holes opened up in the school's roof, and water was coming down the walls in sheets. People who were living there (the school has flats for visiting artists and commuting interstate sessional staff) were evacuated, and no-one else allowed to enter because of exposed electricals posing an extreme hazard. One colleague snuck in very early this morning, and told me that there IS flooding in the Book Studio, but it's mostly on the floors, and doesn't seem to have affected the cupboards and storage areas. Which is something of a mercy, but I can't help worrying about the presses and type in a damp atmosphere.

So I headed home. All the way home students were shouting out to each other on the bike paths: 'Uni Closed! No Lectures! Go Home!" It felt like living among the days of town criers. Apparently the university has at least 60 buildings damaged; there seems to have been a belt of hail that swept through west Belconnen, Black Mountain, Turner, Civic, Reid, Braddon, Ainslie and Campbell, but suburbs like Dickson and Downer and Lyneham only got the fringe of the hail. We had a spiffing storm, though, and thanks to that and all the other evening storms we've been getting, we're looking quite green.



This is a self-portrait (being green), because, of course, this blog is a first person narrative and every post shall be about ME. Seriously, though, this is not just a thin layer of hail on grass. This is a layer of hail and fresh leaf-litter than was over ankle-deep. My arms were hot and my feet were COLD.

More photos in my flickr set.

Christy has some excellent photos as well, some taken by Paul in the middle of the night. A friend sent me some action shots of Civic directly post-storm, and I'm just waiting for her ok to blog them. They're pretty amazing.

UPDATE: Here's my favorite shot from the batch my friend sent me:



They were taken by the ActewAGL Networks and Distribution team, and you can see some of the others at my flickr set.

We just had more hail at 4.30pm while Bumblebee was in the local pool having a swimming lesson! All the kids were sent out of the pool right smart.

The latest on the university and art school (as of 5pm) is that they will be closed until at least Friday. I feel a bit helpless; I've got a client's artist's book mockup sitting out in the open on a table in the studio, and I'm crossing fingers that the $1000 worth of paper sitting on my office floor will be ok. Sigh.

Remember to breathe

The busier I get, the more I look at clouds. Especially while I'm driving. If I ever die in a nasty car accident, odds on that it was caused by my attention being caught by an especially stunning cloud/sunset/weather front. Mind you (touches wood nervously) I've never had an accident after over 20 years of driving, so maybe it just keeps me sane.

This was a weird evening. We were having a picnic with friends by Lake Ginninderra and suddenly the sky turned yellow with these odd patterns in the clouds. We were all yellow-tinged, and looked like the Simpsons. Then it just went away, no storm, nothing.

Unlike tonight -- thunder is booming outside my window and the lights just flickered, which is the universe's way of saying: GET OFF THE FRIGGING COMPUTER, WOMAN, AND HAVE AN EARLY NIGHT. Yes, ma'am.

Postscript: Hil has one of these photos as well, with all the right terminology... mammatus clouds. I used to know lots of cloud types when I was at school, but they fell out of my head over the years. I think I'll have to do some revision.

And last night's crashingly exciting storm wreaked havok on the inner north of Canberra. BB reports that parts of Civic still have thick layers of hail at 7.30am, even though it fell at midnight. ANU students and staff had been advised not to go in as over 60 buildings are damaged... and all I can think is that I left a couple of windows open in the Book Studio. I'll ride my bike in (the paths are pretty clear, according to BB) and check it out, which will be much easier than driving into Civic, I imagine. How excitement.

Poet House

Roaming the interwebs whilst eating a container of BB's sensational leftover Sri Lankan curries (did I tell you he's doing a 4-week Sri Lankan cooking course?) for lunch, I came across this. If you like comics about literary figures, check it out.

I'll be back later today, with any luck, to remember to breathe.

Right now, I have to clean off my keybort. It's covered in bits of curry and printing ink...

Needed: Time

I've just come in through the back door from riding my bike home in the cool Canberra night, and I'm too awake to go to bed yet, thanks to the marvellous talents of Eric Bibb and Kristina Olsen and the silken ambience of Tilleys cafe. Oh boy, they can sing. I adore Eric and know his work well enough to sing along to nearly everything he played tonight (especially 'Needed Time', which chokes my chest every hearing), but Kristina is something else again, and I would have been more than happy to spend an entire evening listening to her bawdy, brave, excruciatingly funny and often intensely sad songs, complete with excellent joke telling and a love of life that is extremely infectious. She's playing again at the National Folk Festival at Easter, and I won't miss a gig if I can help it.

I was accompanied by Owen, Mr Crazybrave. He was holding the flag for Zoe, who decided not to sacrifice her newborn for the chance to catch Eric live at Tilleys. Eric did say he'd be back, so she'll get another chance, and hopefully at a more convenient stage of her life.

That topped off an interesting (child-free) weekend. Friday night BB and I went to see The Illusionist, a fin de siecle Viennese visual feast starring Ed Norton, whose movie choices rarely let me down. It's a spiffing good tale.

Yesterday I spent the day with Bernice Balconey, doing some slow making on a collaborative piece of art about Gwen Harwood. It's going to take a while to complete, what with both our busy-nesses, but we'll get there, and we're both feeling a tad elated by what we got through yesterday with our problem solving and testing.


Bernice Balconey (incidentally, pronounced with a 'cone' in the centre, not like something jutting out of a building) models a lovely piece of Gwennie.

And in between all that fun I worked like a dog on the computer, correcting and inputting text and laying out scholarly journals, etc etc etc blah de blah.

And in between all that, and during some of the mellower songs tonight, I tried to plan a post I desperately want to write about The Solid Mandala, a post which will have to wait until I've finished all this urgent bloody work if I want to make it at all considered.

Oh, BTW, all you lovely ladies who have tried to put me on your Google RSS feeds, I'm sorry, I'm trying my best to work out what is lacking in my blog -- I've ticked all the right boxes, but I don't seem to feed out. Any tips from uber geeks (as opposed to under-geeks like me) would be very welcome.

Ok, tired now. I have to teach tomorrow and I need some sleep. I shall have sweet dreams of Eric and Kristina, and I wish you all sweet dreams as well.


Postscript: I didn't have sweet dreams, I had a series of intensely frustrating ones about an ex-boyfriend who used to drive me (and his friends) crazy before he killed himself and gave us all some breathing space. I haven't dreamed about him in years, and buggered if I can work out why he reared up his ugly-cute face last night. I woke up quite flustered. Anyhoo, I digress. My lovely commenters tell me that my atom feed works perfectly, and I know I work in Bloglines, so perhaps it's the fault of Google.

Remember to breathe

Damn, I forgot that I'd set myself a Tuesday date with myself every week to do this. Still, I remembered the next day, which is better than never.

This week I'm remembering to breathe by thinking how far I've come since 1980... it's been a long journey, and I'm 99% sure I look a damn sight better now than I did at 12. I don't think I've worn white jeans since, but I did love that cheesecloth handkerchief top.



This is a few months before I cut my hair to look like Princess Di.

Yep, it's been a looonnnngg journey. Breathe...

Arty friends

Finished Mary Gilmore. I'm still tweaking two Visual Arts PhD theses, and it's times like these that I just love finding new music and music combinations... you've probably noticed, from my last few posts. If I'm doing mindless busy work like this I tend to cruise along Arty Fufkin's links list and download some fresh mashups around teh interwebs, music to make my brain tick along in the background, trying to identify all the mashy goodness. It's better than watching Spicks & Specks, sometimes. Here's a classic example of how to bend your brain gently...

Sigh. Back to it.

Introducing the Book

Yesterday I taught my first Book Design class at the art school. I'd forgotten how tiring talking non-stop for four hours can be. By the end I could see the students drooping, but they 'd seen a lot, heard a lot, and walked out with two (simple) binding technique samples that they'd done themselves, so I think I did ok. Now that the first class is over, I'm a lot more relaxed about the rest of the semester, even though I'd only had two weeks notice to prepare the course outline and gather my thoughts, and most of the work is still ahead of me. If I can maintain my idea of mixing discussions on book theory and design with practical binding exercises every week, I'll be a very happy duck.

But snaps to Zoe, who sent me this:



I lurv it.

Do yourself a favour

Listen to Thou shalt always kill.
Just once. More if you like, but I'd say it would get on the nerves after too long.
Once is excellent.

Freaky...

... is when my itunes on shuffle plays Rufus Wainwright's Memphis Skyline followed by Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah.

For those that don't know, Rufus wrote MS about Jeff's death, and one of the lines goes

Then came 'Hallelujah' sounding like mad Ophelia.

For those that don't care, I'm sorry. As you were.

It's just that... music machines on 'random' settings often toss things together that make sense, don't they? hmmm.

Here's the story, morning glory

I'm sleeping so well at night at the moment, not because my mind is clear, but because I have switched pillows from an old stained foam slab to a fluffy new microfibre jobbie. When I finally get to sleep (which is an exercise in self-deception, trying to trick my brain into feeling relaxed enough to let go of multiple problems long enough to recharge) I sink into a space where my neck doesn't hurt and nothing bothers me until morning. Apparently I had a mumbled conversation with BB in my sleep a couple of nights ago, which is something I used to do years ago when my sleeps were solider, so while it worried BB, I see it as a Good Thing.

Anyhoo, I woke up this morning to this blissful sense that my neck was quiet, and started to go back to sleep when I realised that it was Market Morning. And that the markets weren't close to home this week, but over the other side of the city, thanks to the Canberra Show setting up for next weekend. Bugger. I really, really wanted to just turn over and go back into pillow heaven, but the markets really are better early in the morning. So I arose with an acute feeling of martyrdom and left BB to his microfibre pillow, even though he doesn't heart his as much as I heart mine.

Out to the car, and suddenly I was hit by the coolness of the morning; the car was covered with dew, and I needed to turn the de-mister* on, just for a minute or two. As I turned the corner onto Northbourne Avenue, the windscreen cleared, and the sky revealed itself to be a pale, dewy, cool blue, with a horizon-line of hot-air balloons. My first Balloon Day of the year! In my world balloon days occur all through Autumn in Canberra, and auger a good day, if only because they put me in such a good mood that anything seems possible.

The Farmers' Markets have moved to the Canberra Institute of Technology (Reid) carpark for this week and next, and it's a much more open venue than at the showgrounds. At 7.45am it was all still in shade, with a touch -- a hint -- of cool to the air, and all of us early-risers wandered around and sampled and bought and chatted, and looked up at the balloons overhead, and...

... well, it was just so damn CANBERRA.

I lugged my trolley full of nice things home, put The Lighthouse Keepers on the record player, and made a cracking good breakfast of toasted bagels covered in deli yummies with lashings of tea. Then on a whim I hussled Bumblebee into some clothes and took him over to the National Gallery to see Egyptians: Journey to the Afterlife. We just made it into the first mosh of the day without lining up, and when we came out there was a waiting line that seemed to go on forever... and deeply impressed Bumblebee, who thought my getting him there early was just a new variation of Mother Torture. It's nice when kids look at you with a note of respect in their eyes, but it never lasts long enough. I've been wanting to get to that exhibition for months now, especially after hearing Floppy talk about it when we met, but it's taken until the second-last weekend for me to get there (as usual, nothing like a deadline to force me into action). It's fabbo, if you can find spaces between the hordes to see anything. Bumblebee fell in love with the mummified cat, which for me wasn't as good as the one in the Civilization exhibition of years ago (early 1990s?).

So here I am, stuck again in front of the computer, chipping away at the pile of paper that is Mary Gilmore's Collected Verse, Volume 2, but I've had a marvellous morning, which is something I was not expecting when I dragged my sorry bum out of bed. Thank you, hot-air balloons!


I think there's something in that for all of us...



* not sure if this is the right spelling, looks like something you could buy to get out of a bad relationship (in a better universe).

This is like one big comment for all the ones I didn't make

Since my Xmas gallavant without steady access to a computer, I have a backlog of posts to read on my Bloglines account. There are some blogs I read as soon as I see they've posted (you probably all know who you are), and there are others that I have let build up, and I'm trying to catch up them so that I can go back to my regular cruising habits. Reading backlogged posts in one hit has the disadvantage of not allowing me to comment while the topic in question is current, but sometimes the sheer joy of a concentrated stack of someone's writing style makes up for that.

With all my busy-ness, I've set myself the goal of catching up with one backlog a day before I get stuck into my work. Today was Jahteh's turn, and I had the absolute best time reading about her life and opinions from late December onwards. What a great woman! Gutsy, and dryly funny in the face of adversity with the blackness of humour that makes life worth living, and a keen eye for the best eyecandy the web has to offer.

Thanks for the great read I just had, and I wish you all the best for 2007.

Remember to breathe

I neglected these posts last year, and this year I'm determined to revive them. So Tuesday will now officially be my day to remember to breathe, although that doesn't mean I have to limit myself to only one day if the inspiration hits! Feel free to join in, as well.

So... have I ever told you how beautiful I think my son is?



And all that green grass is worth looking at for a while too... that was Kyogle, NSW, in the middle of summer. Lucky bastards!

Smells stranger than fiction

A childfree weekend, and anyone who knows me knows that this means work and movies. I'm slogging away on formatting two extremely interesting Visual Arts PhD theses and correcting volume two of Mary Gilmore's Collected Verse, and somehow trying to write a course plan for a casual book arts gig that has been dangled in front of me like a plump juicy worm on a hook. The hook is, of course, less time to work on my own project, but I'd be a stupid fishie for not snapping it up to savour that juicy wormy goodness amidst the tang of metal and my own blood. This will be my first proper teaching gig (as opposed to recreational adult classes) and of course I'll put way too much work into preparing for it, but c'est la vie.

Best Beloved and I went to the movies last night and ran into some friends at the cinema. 'I thought you never had time to go to the movies' she said. 'No,' I cheerfully replied. 'Movies are the things I do make time for, while everything else suffers.' So I take this moment to apologise to anyone I've been neglecting. When I down tools on a child-free weekend, I need dark rooms and Dolby sound, not people. But I will get more social soon, especially when I start getting out and about with the new academic year.

So, movies. Last night we saw Stranger than Fiction, and this morning I saw (by myself) Perfume. On friday night BB went to Pan's Labyrinth, which he really liked (I had to drive Bumblebee to meet his father, who was running late).

I came out of Stranger than Fiction and just wanted to turn around and go back in and watch it again, because now that I know what happens, I want to sit through it and really watch. And listen. And think. It's great. I don't want to give any spoilers; anyone who loves literature, or has had any experience with authors, writing or humanities academia should see this movie.

It's also the best thing Will Farrell has *ever* done to date. I'm not a fan of his movie choices, he seems to have graduated from the Mel Brooks school of comedy, a thing that make my toes curl in revulsion. But here he hits the right note, constantly. And one of the most interesting moments last night was the cinema audience's reaction during his proposition scene. I don't know if that was because the last three rows were newly-minted adolescents, or if it happens at every screening. I'll find out if I go back.

Emma Thompson is brilliant as a frustrated author; what other woman would let strings of her own spit stretch out on-screen? I also really enjoyed Dustin Hoffman's character, his academic ego and his pursuit of the best story at any cost.

Hoffman is also in Perfume: the Story of a Murderer, although the single-mindedness he shows in Stranger than Fiction is now the attribute of a different cast member: Ben Whishaw, who plays Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, and is far too pretty for the role, no matter how much sludge they fling over him. I did enjoy the dirty fingernails.

If anyone still needs proof that the printed word has exceptional powers, this adaptation is it. The book is marvellous in its evocativeness; the movie is stunningly beautiful, but lacking the space to let the imagination really sense the smells. Maybe it's the combination of a visual feast with a musical score; there just isn't room for scent. And they cropped all the really interesting bits out, and dwelt upon parts that translated to sight for far too long. Two and a half hours, and I felt it about three-quarters of the way through.

I came out of Perfume glad to have seen it, but not interested in ever really seeing it again, not while I've got that magical book on my shelf. It is worth seeing, if only the once. I enjoyed recognising the talent, such Alan Rickman (swoon), John Hurt, and having a flash of recognition at seeing Rachel Hurd-Wood, who played Wendy in the last version of Peter Pan. My, she's growing up. And the location shots are fabulous, especially on the big screen. But if you love the book, as I do, lock up your heart, go with caution, and you'll come out intact. Otherwise, go and see Stranger than Fiction, and hopefully come out elated. And don't forget to tell me what you think of them...

Miseducation

Book Magazine Book! It's the hot new thang! Do something fun/wacky/crazy/pretty/serious with a page, blog about it, then pass it on. A year later, the book is supposed to find its way back to the start.

I put my hand up for the miseducation issue, and unfortunately sat on it for while, so it's only got one page filled.

Here it is:



Collage, an old letterpress offprint and some childish pencil scribbling, which was a LOT of fun to do.

I've thought of a way to make up for my utter slackness, and also to have fun with the title. I'm going to take it to the BookStud, get lots of students to do their wacky things with the pages as part of their bookarts course, and blog their progress on the BookStud blog. Fun! I have the blessings of BMB's creator, so as soon as the students return (next weekish), I will get them interacting with the pages.



If you want to get involved with the Book Magazine Book project (you don't have to be arty, you can do whatever you want on a page, even your shopping list), read the guidelines and email johnbonbailey at hotmail dot com. Go to!

Too much White space

The Patrick White Readers' Group has bounced into 2007 with the news that we are to read at least the start of The Solid Mandala in time for ABC TV's First Tuesday Book Club discussion of it on March 6. Hooray!

I have a solid shelf of my bookcase full of Patrick White books, and I could have sworn that I owned TSM. It wasn't there, however, so maybe it's been 'borrowed' by Colonel Duck.* Best Beloved was in the vicinity of bookshops yesterday, and he obligingly nipped in and bought me a brand new copy for only $12.95, published by Vintage/Random House. We were both quite impressed by the affordability of the re-release.

BUT! Damn, there's always a 'but', isn't there? When I opened the pages, my heart sank. Go on, have a look for yourself. Can you see why my heart sank?



It's quite obviously a photographic reprint a couple of steps removed from a hardback edition; the type is not as crisp as if it had been freshly set and reproduced from that fresh setting. But that's pretty normal for a backlist reprint.

It's the position on the page that offends me mightily. There's space up the top for a header, but there's no header. There's a page number at the bottom, quite close to the text, which is fine, as long as it was given a bit of space underneath to balance it out. THE TEXTBLOCK IS SLIPPING OFF THE PAGE!

Sheer ignorance or utter neglect, is what I call this reprint. If they'd just hoiked it UP the page a bit (not so hard to do), it would sit comfortably in the space. But instead I'm going to read it with a sense that if it came out in the sun with me, all the words would run down off the paper and all over my hand. And that's going to be a bit distracting.

Boo sucks, Random House. Your design department needs to care a little bit more, or hire someone who knows about the (elementary) dynamics of white space.

There. I feel better now. I can finally start reading.


*Old family joke. Heh.

A very unpolitical overview of a very political moment

It's pretty safe bet that the David Hicks rally yesterday at Parliament House was organised by Sydney people to fit in with their bus schedule. Whoever worked out the proceedings had absolutely no idea of Canberra dynamics.

The rally was advertised for 11am. It didn't get underway until close to 11.30, which stressed out a lot of locals who had nipped out from work for an hour and wanted to be supportive and useful.

It was sadly underpopulated, and for the same reason: most people in Canberra work, and if the rally had started at 12 or 12.30, they would have at least doubled their numbers, for lunchtime, anyway. Very few office workers want to stand in the sun for more than an hour and then march to the American embassy.

My other criticism lies along the same lines: they had a vibrant, well-spoken line-up of speakers, all important in their own way, including politicians Andrew Bartlett, Natasha Stott-Despoja and Kate Lundy; then they 'took a musical break' without mentioning what was coming up after it. So all the office workers thought that their usefulness had come to an end and started wandering back to work... Suddenly an organiser cut jumped on stage and cut off the music. 'Hang on!' he pleaded into the mike. 'We have Mamdouh Habib, to speak next, please don't leave.' As the crowd murmured and drew in closer again (but considerably fewer than before), he made the executive decision to shunt Habib up a notch, and got him up on stage, leaving the music until later. If they'd mentioned earlier that they had this choice morsel up their sleeves, they would have kept the crowd.





BUT. It was bright, colourful, small and powerful. All the speakers said great things, especially Habib. There was a broad cross-section of people, including alert but not alarmed guards strategically placed around the site.




I was there with my red parasol, looking a bit more glam than I usually do for these occasions, as I was lunching with a prominent artist afterwards to discuss hand-printing her next artist's book. I ran into the charming Loadeddog, who took my photo and promised to expose me to the world. Heh.

There was also a rather nice vehicle inspector, who had been told to do the rounds and check the protestors' cars, which I thought was a very underhand gesture on the part of the authorities. I parked my painted car in a charmingly bad spot, and noticed this fellow hovering nearby. I was in a cheeky mood, and sporting a bit of cleavage*, so I asked him sweetly if it was ok if I just parked there for a little while. He replied with a grin that he didn't give a damn where I parked, it wasn't his concern. He was just there to inspect the ve-hic-les (he said it that way, too).

So I sauntered over to the rally under my red parasol, confident that the only thing wrong with my car was the tatty paint job (did I ever mention that the paints I used at the end of last year weren't the nice stable ones Byrd had advised I use, and we spent our summer driving along as the paint peeled off in little chips? Now we look even more random and chaotic, like bits of the dead sea scrolls. I quite like it).

As I walked back, an hour later (I stayed for Habib), I could see from a distance that there was something on my windscreen. My first reaction was guilt -- maybe it IS illegal to have a tatty paint job! Bastard! I had myself worked up into a nice righteous frenzy, then I noticed that the note was hand-written:



Oh! How nice! As I got in my car another car drove past slowly and stopped, and a woman got out and said 'did I get the right person?' It was Hil, from Spirits Dancing, an arts (puppetry)-centred blog I like to dip my toe into occasionally (but should read more regularly!). Another Canberra blogger connection! I love those moments. Thanks, Hil, for the note -- and the minor heart-attack.



POSTSCRIPT: I didn't realise until today that this is Hil's puppet, presumably with Hil standing at the bottom of the pole holding it. You can see what the puppet does with his days here. Brownie points, Hil!


I'll leave this with perhaps my favorite photo of the rally:



but there are others at flickr.


* I have had a very radically short haircut, mown around the edges and very short on top. For some reason this makes me want to wear makeup and girly clothes. Not all the time, but more than before. I love the feel of my hair, especially when riding my bike, but I get a shock when I look in the mirror. I guess I'll get used to it.

Rally for David Hicks

Another last-minute notice, but at least you night-lurkers get overnight to think about it...

I've been informed along the Canberra grapevine, and more firmly, here, that there will be a rally tomorrow at 11am outside Parliament House (the 'New' one, although we'd better stop saying that; it's not very new anymore) to express concerns about the treatment of David Hicks, and the recent developments to his situation.

So if you like what you read in the link above, go to. I shall probably be there, as long as Bumblebee's first school morning (ACT gets an extra week! We rock) doesn't turn into some kind of class-changing mosh-pit. You seasoned veterans of first-school-days know what I'm talking about.

Caught in the web

This is what I spent today doing. It's not cutting edge stuff, but it was a voluntary jobbie and I like going outside occasionally. And so to bed!

A Cage Opera: sorry for the late notice

I'm sorry about the last-minuteness of this post, but if you're sitting around in Canberra reading blogs and wondering what to do with the rest of your afternoon, get thee hence to the Canberra Museum and Gallery at 3pm, to that glass box bit on the public square side, and watch a performance of A Cage Opera.



I'd like to blog about this further down the track (when I can muster myself out of the wurty phase I'm in right now) but for now I'll just say that it's pretty special. It's installation and performance art by Hanna Hoyne and Anna Simic.

Open until 24 March, there are only three performances. One was yesterday, the other is today at 3pm, and the last is a closing performance on the 24th. In between viewers will see the costumes and set pieces and view video footage created for the space.



Exploring notions and archetypes of femininity, Hanna designs and makes the costumes and set pieces specifically for Anna, who then wears and uses them for her site-specific performances. I will insert some images from the actual performance from yesterday when my camera batteries have recharged / Flickr comes back from 'having a massage' (bloody trendy tech-speak).

For now I'll just post this, in the hope that it can motivate maybe anyone who wants to see something a little unusual to perk up their day...

UPDATE: Photos of the performance last Saturday at my flickr site.

Fancy that!

Email from Best Beloved this afternoon:

I got a sudden impulse to Google the phrase 'Butterfly snot' (not sure why).
I got four references, one of which was your blog!

In fact, if you google 'butterfly snot' the FIRST exact match is my blog (now probably doubly so), because the phrase 'butterfly snot' was concocted by BB himself and suggested to Bumblebee as part of last year's Mother's Day breakfast menu.

So it's not that surprising, is it?

It must be a very slow day at his work today.


Postscript: I got an email from a lovely lurker saying that when they googled "flash my tits" into Google, a post of mine was on the third page of results (which makes me number 29 out of 811 results, not bad, eh?). Heh. They wanted to stay anonymous -- to you -- in case anyone dissed them for the search phrase. But hey, I've done weirder searches, haven't you??!!