In exactly one week's time, the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent will be sitting in an aeroplane. Destination: France, via KL (that's Kuala Lumpur to anyone not familiar with hip traveller's lingo) and Amsterdam.

If I was someone who just happened to stumble onto this site and lingered long enough to read two or three posts, right now I'd be thinking to myself, "Wow, I bet this neurotic basket-case is just the sort of person who'd be afraid of flying."

But if I was that person, I'd be wrong. I'm not afraid of flying at all. I'm fucking terrified.

I've mentioned my flying phobia before, but feel obliged to labour the point somewhat so that it'll seem all the more poignant and sad if ... you know ... I end up biting the big one somewhere in transit.

It's kind of ironic that I'm so petrified of flying because I've had to subject myself to a fair bit of it over the years. As anyone with the same fear will tell you, it doesn't matter how much of a frequent flyer you become because the experience never improves. You never get used to it and you never truly relax. I guess I've made some progress because I no longer eject the contents of my stomach an hour before every flight, but I still try to slide under the seat at the slightest hint of turbulence and still come perilously close to breaking the Dreamboat's hand during every take-off and landing.

I flew for the first time as a baby and don't remember anything about it. I was fifteen and nervous as hell for air journey number two. The plane taxied down the runway, reached the take-off point and then turned around and went back to the terminal. The cabin pressure had failed and we had to swap planes.

Flight number three occurred a few months later, during Auckland's worst storm for forty years. After half an hour spent circling (ie bucking, pitching and tossing) above Auckland airport, we finally landed. Your Correspondent disembarked just ahead of a couple of the flight attendants and heard one remark to the other, "God, I never thought we'd get down from that one." Great. Just great.

My flight from Christchurch to Sydney five years ago was a memorable one too. The turbulence was unbelievable. The pilot informed us he wasn't able to climb to a higher altitude to get out of it because there was a lot of traffic in the sky and Air Traffic Control in Sydney wouldn't give the go-ahead. I never learned what went wrong on that flight, but when we landed the engines were cut and we were towed to the terminal, surrounded by half a dozen fire engines and an equal number of ambulances.

And this all happened in the days before there were terrorists, DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis) and SARS disease to worry about.

I've spoken to people who swear by all sorts of chemical goodies to help phobics like me enjoy their flights. One girl I know takes beta blockers. Another takes valium. I'm not sure that knocking myself out would be a good idea. If anything was to happen, I don't want the Dreamboat spending his last minute of life on this earth desperately punching me on the jaw while screaming, "I love you! D'you hear me? Niki! Wake up! We're gonna die!" On the other hand, if I was conscious he'd have to spend his last minute of life on this earth dealing with the realisation that messy events were taking place in Your Correspondent's undies.

The only other thing I'll say about this whole 'fear of flying' business is that it seems to bring out the cruellest, basest and most perverse instincts of other people. I've never been able to work out why people who don't mind flying immediately feel compelled to relate stories of their worst-ever experiences in the air when they discover that I do. And they're always so cheerful about it. It's like they're doing me a favour. So if anyone reading this feels the urge to somehow allay my terror by sharing the hilarious story about their trip to London when the turbulence was so bad the attendants hit their heads on the ceiling and spent the remainder of the flight being amusingly unconscious under the drinks trolley, kindly hear my plea: don't, OK? Just don't.

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In Which the Dreamboat Officially Achieves Sainthood

I've long suspected that the bloke I live with is a rather special and singular being. Other people tend to agree. In fact, I've even received a number of inquiries about the possibility of cloning him, which is significant when you consider that no-one has ever shown the slightest bit of interest in cloning me.

Of course, this alone isn't enough to confer actual sainthood on a person. Requirements must be met. Otherwise, any old dipshit could claim to be a saint and there'd be all sorts of squabbling over the best feast days and the like. No, in order to satisfy all the saintly quality control procedures there have to be things like miracles -- big, juicy, supernatural-type miracles, such as getting two pay rises in one year and being able to buy stuff like raspberry vinegar in places like Karratha.

Your Correspondent was witness to such a miracle on Saturday, when she changed the sheets on the Holy Bed. As she was smoothing down the fresh pair, she saw a shape on the bottom sheet. It was a perfectly formed hand-print -- a Dreamboat-sized hand-print. On an immaculately laundered item of bed linen.

Your Correspondent gasped in astonishment and then assiduously examined the rest of the sheet for prints of other, more interesting body parts. But no. There was only the hand. Which proved to Your Correspondent that this was a spiritual matter, because let's face it ... buttock prints don't exactly mesh well with the whole sainthood thing.

When this was brought to the Dreamboat's attention he placed his hand over the print to show that verily, it was his. Then he gave an inscrutable-but-saintly smile and ambled back to the living room to watch tv. He did, however, nod slightly at Your Correspondent's offer to prostrate herself before him on a daily basis.

When I think back over our time together, I realise there have been many instances of miraculous events that were a direct result of the Dreamboat's influence. Many of these occurred in public places and most of them involved alcohol which, as we all know, is a divine substance. Here are some examples, all of which have been known to take place over the course of one night at a pub:

1. The transformation of WINE into URINE!
2. Encouraging those who can SEE to get BLIND!
3. 5,000 hot chips and fishes feeding TWO PEOPLE!
4. After encountering obstacles on the ground, LEVITATING briefly in the AIR!
5. The RAISING of the DEAD! (Generally demonstrated at the end of the night, in privacy.)

So forget the Shroud of Turin (over which controversy continues to rage). I give you the Sheet of Karratha - a new religious symbol for the 21st Century. Anyone wanting to make a pilgrimage to view this holy relic is welcome to contact the writer. Just be sure to have your credit card details handy.

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How to Write Purple Prose: An Example

They clung to each other as the last rosy rays of sunset stained the sky and fluorescent tubes flickered to life in the Woodside company houses of the picturesque Outback town below.

"Darling," sobbed Niki, a torrent of tears gushing from the limpid pools of her eyes and leaving brownish tracks of mascara on her blanched cheeks, "can you ever forgive me? When I think of all I've put you through over the last week, I ... I can hardly bear to live with myself. I have been selfish and cruel. I have neglected my domestic duties to an inexcusable degree. Only the realisation that we'd almost run out of eggs and Vegemite brought me to my senses." Her creamy-but-freckled shoulders shook in a paroxysm of weeping. "I cannot quell the awful thought that in only another day or so we might have discovered ... dust bunnies under the bed."

"There, there," soothed the Dreamboat as he leaned back against the majestic windmill to take some of the weight off. "Don't cry, my wee love." He cradled her tenderly against his manly chest and a mighty tsunami of love surged through him. He wondered if this might be a good time to introduce the subject of his manhood and its virile needs.

Niki's sobs gradually quietened and new peace began to steal over her. Safe in the encircling arms of her beloved, she began to fully appreciate the beauty of her surroundings -- the newspapers playfully scattered around by a mischievous zephyr; the friendly sparkle off the used syringes lying on the ground -- and sighed in contentment.

"I will never again try to give up smoking while suffering from a virus, depression and PMT," she whispered.

The Dreamboat's powerful jaw clenched with emotion. He had so much to be thankful for: his steadfast refusal to heave his own true love over the side of the flimsy wooden balcony despite the overwhelming temptation, his restraint when he'd seen just how big that puffy thing at the back of her dress made her bum look and how tacky those bloody stars all over it were ... He was a man truly blessed and the realisation nearly overcame him.

"I'm glad," he responded huskily. "Come home with me, my dearest, and we'll watch Big Brother Uncut."

They turned and walked together into their future, knowing that it promised all the sweetness and laughter that only well-made omelettes and reality television can bring.

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Ten Things I Love About Karratha (Continued):

3. The 'Crime' Section of the Local Rag
This is a never-ending source of revelation for me. I suppose I should be grateful there's nothing more serious going on. Here are some of my favourites:

"February 9: An early morning inspection by police on the roof of Coles Supermarket saw three people questioned about their motives and behaviour. Further inquiries will determine whether charges are laid."

Cop: What are you three doing up here?
Roof Lurker #1: What are you doing up here?
Cop: I asked first.
Roof Lurker #2: Calculating the coordinates for a wormhole to take us to Sydney for some shopping.
Roof Lurker #3: Conducting a black mass.
Roof Lurker #1: Dusting.

"February 18: A police patrol at the Dampier Park failed to locate a naked man who was reported sitting in the toilet with the door wide open, in full view of passers-by."
Obviously, the air-freshener had run out.

"February 21: After a complaint was received of a person slinging rocks at houses and street lights with a shanghai in Standbridge Way, Millar's Well, police located a man hiding under a foot bridge. He was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct."

Official Interrogation of Horace Scraggs, the Slingshot Sniper:
Cop #1: Come on, Horace. Tell us why you did it.
Cop #2: Yeah, Horace. You know we searched under the bridge? Quite a little stash you had there - marbles, ball bearings ... the customised moulds.
Cop #1: What were the moulds for, Horace? Thinking of doing a little bridge-bake, were you? Planning to cook up your own projectiles?
Horace: Go to hell, you bastards. I'll never talk.
Cop #2: Where did you get the cement from, Horace? Who's your supplier? Tell us.
Cop #1: Yeah, tell us, Horace. We've got enough on you to put you in the chair ten times over. Talk or you'll fry. Save yourself, Horace. Tell us.
Horace: (breaking into sobs) Ok, ok. It was Karratha Hardware, you fucking assholes. Karratha Hardware, alright?
Cop #1 and Cop #2 exchange weary but triumphant nods.

I'm telling you, it's a jungle out there.

Or maybe a zoo.

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The Big Cheese Offers Divine Counsel

BC: Oi! Stupid Woman! What's this I hear about your being all depressed and self-indulgent lately?

Niki: Piss off, Holy Fromage. I'm not in the mood.

BC: That's no way to talk to a god, you sacrilegious insect. I've got a good mind to visit a plague upon your house.

Niki: You already have, in the form of a cat. Don't tell me you've forgotten already?

BC: Oh, yeah. That's right ... Anyway, snap out of whatever slump it is you've fallen into. It's stressful on that nice bloke I gave you to play with, it's boring for the readers of your ridiculous witterings and it's an insult to me as a deity to see you moping around like there's nothing good going on in your life.

Niki: I can't help it. I feel like total crap all the time. The only thing I want to do is sleep.

BC: No wonder, with hair looking like that. I'd be ashamed to go out in public too if my blessed locks were in the same state as yours. Do something about it. Close your eyes, pick something at random out of that huge box of hair-care products you insist on accumulating, apply it to damp hair and leave it to process for three to five minutes before the final rinse. That'll pep you up a bit.

Niki: Whatever.

BC: And get your scrawny arse back to work. Everyone else there feels sick all the time too, but at least they have the courtesy to show up and share their misery. Why should you be any different?

Niki: I can't face it.

BC: She can't face it. Just try being a god for a day and then we'll see what you can't face. The pressure ... the unrelenting pressure. Having to listen to idiots like you 24/7 and pretend I actually give a shit. The struggle to retain market share against overwhelming competition. It was bad enough in the old days when there was only the established religions to worry about, but now I've got this whole bloody New Age movement to compete with as well. People inventing gods all over the place. People channelling spirits of enlightened dolphins from the Horsehead Nebula. People worshipping characters from The Matrix. The never-ending battle to promote the religion of dairy products in an increasingly secular world populated by consumers of soy ... (sacred lower lip trembles)

Niki: Well, don't whine to me about it. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm having enough trouble trying to function as it is.

BC: Typical. It's all 'me, me, me' with you depressive types, isn't it? Look. I'll say this only once. Try to find some humour in it and then write it down and put it on that silly website of yours. It doesn't matter if the humour's lame -- that's what we've all come to expect from you anyway. Just think for a minute, if that's possible, given the addled state of your brain. This was why you started the damn blog thing in the first place, wasn't it? To stop you from being too pathetic, too often?

Niki: Yeah, you're right. It was. Hey, thanks. For once, there might actually be something useful in what you're saying. I'll think about it.

BC: About time.

Niki: One last thing: how did you learn to give advice like that? You've never managed it before.

BC: I sat in on a seminar hosted by one of those New Age demi-gods who keep appearing everywhere. Oprah, I think its name was. Now get out of my sight. Springer's about to start and Shiva's just boogied in with four bowls of popcorn. And for heaven's sake, do something about that bloody hair ...

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Normal Transmission Will Be Resumed ...

... as soon as Your Correspondent manages to get her groove back.

She hasn't been too well lately. She's also been wrestling with a nasty bout of depression. This makes her tired, humourless, lacking in inspiration and not much fun to be around.

Tomorrow, she's going to attempt the Back-to-Work thing. If it goes well, who knows ... she might actually have something entertaining to write about. If not ... well, she can always bore her readers' arses off with a commentary on something that sucks, like politics or macro-economics. Or her eight-year history of depressive illness.

Nah, it's ok. Fear not. We won't go there.

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This is the cat I'm looking after temporarily.



Yes, he's pretty. Yes, he's affectionate. Yes, I'm forming an attachment to him. I suspect the Dreamboat is softening towards him as well, despite frequent (and accurate) observations such as, "He's strange."

Something drastic needed to be done about this cat, and on the weekend the Dreamboat and I did it. We changed his name. The feline formerly known as "Purr" is now called "Mofo".

Believe me, it suits him.

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The Saturday night skit performance ...

... was an unmitigated disaster. The audience didn't understand it, didn't like it and certainly didn't find it amusing. My playwright friend did a great job of acting out the 'Niki' role -- she even dressed for the part -- but it wasn't enough. The whole thing crashed and burned right in front of my eyes.

It shouldn't have surprised me. We're talking about a room full of middle-aged business people who had already been listening to speeches for four hours before my little 'entertainment slot' rolled around. Plus, I'd written the piece to be read, not performed. And let's not forget the very distinct possibility that the thing sucked anyway.

Just to make matters a hundred times worse, an Aboriginal guy approached me afterwards and asked me to help him write a play. No prizes for guessing that it was to be a political play. We talked for about twenty minutes. I don't know if he was drunk or merely had so many chips on every part of his anatomy that he was incapable of sustaining civil dialogue, but he became increasingly abusive (ordering me to 'shut the fuck up', etc) until Your Correspondent lost her temper and stormed off. He stayed where he was, yelling at the top of his voice, "Hey! Niki! Fuck you and fuck your play. I bet you can't write for shit anyway."

This didn't strike me as particularly fair. I could understand the Big Cheese deciding the performance would be of the 'lead balloon' variety to pay me back for its irreverent tone, but being abused for twenty minutes by an overly-aggressive wannabe activist ... what the hell was the deal with that?

So I went home and I cried. After eventually falling asleep, I woke up and cried some more. I decided to spend the day being depressed. I lay around in bed all afternoon until it got dark and then got up and ate junk food with the Dreamboat.

Anyway, I promised I'd tell you what happened and I have. That's it -- duty discharged. That's all I'm going to say.

Quite frankly, I really don't want to talk about it any more.

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A Description of Your Correspondent's Friday Punctuated with Exclamation Marks to Make it Sound Exciting:

Vertigo! Lying on kitchen floors for short periods of time! Hasty trips to the loo! Incoherent phone calls to the Dreamboat! Spending all day in bed!

I never thought I'd say this, but I would've preferred to have been at work.

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So here's what has happened:

This Saturday night, a group of Karratha's business and professional people - all members of an international humanitarian organisation - will be meeting for dinner at a local restaurant. There will be entertainment in the form of a skit. Not just any old skit, mind you. This skit.

Yes, that's right, kiddies. The unsuspecting movers and shakers of Karratha's business world will soon be treated to a sampling of the dreck I regularly inflict on you lot. Pity them.

The benevolent soul behind it all is a woman who is involved with the humanitarian organisation I mentioned. She also happens to be a member of the local writers' group and learned about hot water at last month's meeting (translation: Your Correspondent was showing off and told everyone about it). She encouraged me to print off the (then) most recent post and read it aloud to the other group members.

This woman is an accomplished playwright and it never occurred to me that she'd continue to read the posts, let alone find an actual use for one of them. But on Tuesday she sent an email asking if I'd mind "Conversation" being used and Your Correspondent wasted not one nanosecond in jumping at the offer in a pathetically eager kind of way.

Since then, I've been busy. I compiled a list of demands for recompense (1. Presentation by the mayor -- who I wouldn't know if I fell over him/her -- of symbolic keys to the town; 2. A commemorative fountain, plaque and mural; 3. US$12 million in gold bullion, etc) and spent hours trimming it into something more realistic (1. Credit for authorship, and 2. Permission to sneak into the room and stand at the back while the skit's being presented). I sat up until 2 o'clock this morning re-writing the ending. I emailed the result before I went to bed, received a reply from my fellow writer saying she liked it, and then I promptly decided that the piece isn't good enough, I could do much, much better and everyone present on Saturday night is sure to totally fucking hate it.

In other words, I'm expecting the sort of reaction from people that I witnessed in the local theatre last night after watching Punch-Drunk Love.

Some friends/colleagues of the Dreamboat's have invited us out to dinner on Saturday night at the same restaurant as the Big Event. We'll go, I'll be nervous, I'll probably drink too much and run out of the restaurant crying if people hate the skit. But at least you'll get to read about it on Monday. A humiliation shared is a humiliation quadrupled, and all that.

Stay tuned ...

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Fame at last!

Well, sort of.

Maybe.

In a small way.

However, due to severe time constraints, Your Correspondent can only cordially invite you to Watch This Space until she gets around to explaining what the hell she's talking about.

More later.

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Tomorrow Your Correspondent returns to that institute of higher learning where she's been working on and off for the last couple of months, to start another two week stint. This time, she is going to be a Casual Executive Assistant. It's a useful thing to know. At any moment a touring alien from the Pleiades could tap me on the shoulder and say, "Define your station in the world in three words or less". I like to have a ready answer handy, just in case.

"Executive Assistant" is just Education-speak for "Personal Assistant". The last time I held a position as a PA was four years ago in Sydney. I worked for two women. After getting to know them a little, I didn't think the term "chalk and cheese" was graphic enough to describe how different they were from each other, so I christened them "Concrete" and "Camembert".

Neither of them was particularly nice, but Camembert wasn't in the office much, so she and I got along tolerably well. My relationship with Concrete, however, was a strained one right from the beginning.

One morning, after listening to a particularly sarcastic voicemail message from the lady in question, I stormed out of the office, punched the wall next to the lifts and broke my hand. I didn't realise it was broken at the time; I found out six weeks later after moaning to a doctor friend in the pub about how much it still ached.

The experience confirmed two things I'd long suspected: I hate working for women and I'm not very good at being a PA.

The Director on whose behalf I'll be slaving for the next two weeks is male. That's one minor consolation. And perhaps the role of a Casual Executive Assistant is inherently more enjoyable and satisfying than that of a Personal Assistant. I somehow doubt it. So if future posts become distinctly un-funny and/or infrequent, you'll know that I've either:
a. had my spirit totally crushed and am spending all my free time whimpering under the bed, or
b. broken something else

Bets can be placed as of ... now.

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The Weekend's Events: Primers for Beginner Readers

Thursday: Lucky Niki Gets a Severely Disturbed Cat to Look After Temporarily
Look at the pussycat. His name is "Purr". Niki did not give him his nice name. His former owner did. She is a lady who other people call "mentally disabled, but very genuine".

Purr is pretty but he is also very fucked in the head. Sometimes he loves Niki. Other times he runs away from her. Niki doesn't mind. She is used to this. The Dreamboat does it too.

Purr will only sleep in Niki's laundry sink. He likes to yowl. His yowl is very loud. He likes to practise yowling between the hours of 5:00 and 6:00am. It is lucky for Niki that Purr does this because otherwise she would sleep until 8:00am and everyone might think she is a lazybones. Good pussycat, Purr! Don't let Niki be a lazybones!

Friday: Niki Takes the Dreamboat to Dinner
Here is Niki taking the Dreamboat out to dinner. Doesn't the Dreamboat look handsome? Doesn't Niki look half-pissed already? Silly Niki! She forgot to eat lunch again. If you are going to drink twinkly juice out of big glasses you should always eat lunch first.

See the nice lady in the restaurant taking away the empty wine bottle. See the nice lady bringing more drinks. The Drambuie is for the Dreamboat and the cognac is for Niki. Yum, yum!

Here are the Dreamboat and Niki back at home. Can you see how many empty wine bottles there are on the table? That's right. There are two. What time does the clock say? Yes, it says 4:00am. What is Niki doing? She is ironing a shirt for the Dreamboat to wear to work. He has to get up in one hour. Niki has a funny look on her face. That's because she is seeing two shirts and two irons. But we know there is only one shirt and one iron, don't we? Funny, funny Niki!

Saturday: The Dreamboat and Niki Have a Very Exciting Day
Here are Niki and the Dreamboat in bed. They don't feel well. The Dreamboat didn't go to work after all. Naughty Dreamboat!

See Purr jump onto the bed. Bad Purr! See Niki's arms and legs and back turn red. This is called a "rash". See Niki scratch. Niki is talking to the Dreamboat. She is telling him she has a "fucking allergy". Niki is taking a little pill. It's called an "antihistamine". That's a big word for such a little pill, isn't it?

See Niki at K-Mart. She feels funny. See Niki at the supermarket. She is looking at all the things on the shelves. She is very quiet. See the Dreamboat put Niki in the fiery chariot and drive to the bottle store. Niki is staring at the dashboard. It is a very interesting dashboard. She stares at it until the Dreamboat drives her home again.

See the Dreamboat's birthday party. Doesn't it look like fun? Look, there's Niki. She is all better now. See the other nice people. They are very thirsty. Look at them falling asleep in the living room. Don't they have homes to go to?!

Sunday: The Dreamboat's Happy Birthday
Here are Niki and the Dreamboat in bed again. They don't feel well again. They might stay in bed all day. Boring Dreamboat! Boring Niki!

Now it is night-time. See the Dreamboat's birthday cake. It has 38 candles. See Niki trying to light them all. Look at the coloured wax dripping onto the cake. Isn't that pretty?

Monday: Niki Gets a Present of her Own
Look at Niki's top lip. Isn't it big? Why do you think that is? No, she hasn't had a collagen injection. She has a "coldsore". Coldsores are very yucky. People get them when they eat the wrong food and drink too much twinkly juice and don't get enough sleep. Ugly, ugly Niki! Serve her right!

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Happy Birthday to the Dreamboat



Snappy dresser, friend to all of god's little creatures and the coolest primate on the planet.

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Actresses I've Been Told I Resemble:

1. Nicole Kidman
2a. Anjelica Huston and 2b. Uma Thurman (in the same week, for god's sake)
3. Holly Hunter
4. Goldie Hawn
5. Julianne Moore

The truth of it is, I don't look remotely like any of them. Holly Hunter is probably the closest, but even that's pushing it a bit.

The moral of this story? It's all in the hairstyle, kiddies. It's all in the hairstyle.

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The Packed Lunch as a Tool of Detection

A lot of what you could call 'characters' work in the Construction industry. A lot of what you could call 'shitheads' probably work in the Construction industry too, but I've never really met any of them. So far.

Two of the 'character' types work with the Dreamboat. They're the same age. One is tall and dark. The other is short and fair. They've been mates for years. If I hadn't been told this I would've worked it out anyway, because they're fiercely competitive and they insult each other a lot.

It was these two who introduced me to the whole 'packed lunch as a tool of detection' concept. It works like this:

1. They compare what they've each been given by their wives for lunch on any day
2. They look around to see what everyone else is having
3. They extrapolate the results into a complex analysis of the state of everyone's relationships

Tall, dark guy generally gets leftovers from dinner the night before. Short, fair guy apparently gets fancy gourmet creations, sometimes running into more than one course. The quality of the Dreamboat's lunchtime fare is determined by the existence or otherwise of leftovers, what we've got in the pantry and the degree of effort I feel like making.

I didn't think any of this mattered until the first time the Dreamboat took some 3 Minute Rice stuff into work for lunch. Much speculation followed, as I discovered a few days later when I saw the Gang of Two and their wives:

Short, fair guy: We were a bit worried when we saw what [the Dreamboat] was eating the other day.
Tall, dark guy: Yeah. Instant rice. He doesn't normally get that.
Short, fair guy: We thought you two must've had a blue or something.
Niki: No, I just ran out of everything else. Is this what you guys do every day? Take note of what everybody's eating?
Tall, dark guy: Hell, yeah. (nodding at short, fair guy) He gets the best lunches. He's bloody spoilt rotten. Wish I could get lunches like his.
Short, fair guy: (looks smug)
Wives: (look at each other, then at me, and roll their eyes. They've obviously heard all this before.)

So tomorrow, for the second day in a row, the Dreamboat will be munching on a pita bread wrap. I really hope that's OK. I'm praying it sends out the correct message about our domestic situation -- that the Dreamboat (symbolised by lettuce, capsicum, snow peas, tuna and sweet chilli sauce) is being tenderly enfolded in the loving arms of his doting partner, Niki (represented by a round piece of flat bread), to an acceptable degree.

If not, I'll have to seriously consider making a more powerful statement. A few sausage rolls, perhaps ...

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A Conversation with the Big Cheese

Because everyone needs an imaginary deity of their own to talk to ...

Niki: Hail, Holy Fromage. I, who have not only dined on crab cakes twice in the last week but can also admit that they're totally irrelevant right now, salute thee.

BC: Heyyyy, my foxy little spitfire. How's it goin'?

Niki: Spitfire. I like that.

BC: Oh, it's you ... the vexatious one. For a brief moment there I thought it was Lara Croft. What do you want?

Niki: Just a couple of things ...

BC: (sighs) Hurry up. I've got lots of all-powerful godly stuff to do and I'm meeting Buddha for lunch at one o'clock.

Niki: Well, firstly, do you think you could convince the Coles supermarket in Karratha to stock some fresh rocket? My salads have been lacking a certain something lately.

BC: As you rather unflatteringly pointed out a few months ago, I'm a Delicatessen Deity. I don't do rocket. You'll have to take up the matter with the Venerable Kumara over in Produce. Anyway, Woolworths down at the other end of the mall has rocket.

Niki: Look, mate, I've got better things to do than run with a laden trolley from one end of a mall to another for just one bloody item.

BC: Then it's your problem, isn't it, you lazy cow? What else?

Niki: I wish you'd do something about the terrible rap poor old Lola got in that Copacabana song. I mean, there she was in her sexy dress with her little feathers in her hair, singing and dancing her heart out because she desperately wanted to become famous. It wasn't her fault that some sleazy diamond-wearing bloke took a fancy to her and her jealous, bar-tending Neanderthal of a boyfriend objected. The way that song ends, with Lola propped up against the bar drinking herself into a stupor, her wee feathers all faded and her sanity in question ... it's like she actually deserved everything that happened. But why? Because she was a talented and attractive woman trying to make something of herself? What's the deal with that? And why does that song still even get played? And why does it have to be so fucking catchy? For years I've carried around the scars made by Copacabana. And I don't even like it. Never did.

BC: Child, are you on drugs?

Niki: (composing self) Uh ... no. No, I'm not.

BC: Get a move on, then. Anything else worthy of my consideration? Anyone I should smite? Any pillars of salt needed? How about some tequila and lemons? Don't hold back, now.

Niki: I don't suppose you could give me a clue about what the hell I'm supposed to be doing with my life?

BC: Sorry, kiddo. You know the rules.

Niki: Yeah, right. Fine. Have a nice lunch. Give my regards to Buddha.

BC: If you don't mind, I'd rather not. He never quite got over it when you gave up being a vegetarian. He's become a lot more excitable over the last few centuries, you know. It's not good for the old ticker, especially with all that weight he's carrying.

Niki: As always, it's been ... unsatisfying.

BC: Same here. Later, kiddo. Try to behave yourself. If you're really good, I might see about materialising some bocconcini for all you folk stuck out in the wilderness.

Niki: Wow. I'm overwhelmed. Thanks a lot. And see what you can do on the Lola issue, OK? It's a real biggie down here ...

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The Melbourne Comedy Festival Roadshow was in town over the weekend and we went to the final performance last night. It was a 'private' event -- the 400-seat theatre had been reserved exclusively for workers on the Woodside LNG Project and their families -- and the house was full.

I think the artists enjoyed the night every bit as much as the audience. There's something to be said for taking a show to small towns, because the populace will almost invariably support it to the max. Particularly when a large percentage regularly works ten-hour days with one day off every fortnight. People like that are generally appreciative of anything that sits them down and gives them a laugh.

I love the Aussie sense of humour. Whether it's dry and understated or totally over-the-top and self-parodying, at least you can say it's there. Some of the best satire I've ever seen has come out of Australia -- BackBerner (sadly off the air since November 2002) is a good example.

Australians aren't ashamed to laugh, and their passion for, and support of, local comedy (stand-up or otherwise) is a testimony to that fact. They seem to respect their home-grown comedians far more than their neighbours across the Tasman do theirs, unless things have changed in the five years I've been away from my homeland.

The 'cultural cringe' factor is a lot stronger in NZ. Kiwis have always seemed rather embarrassed by their own efforts to make themselves laugh, preferring in the end to let the British do it for them. (There are exceptions: the Topp Twins and the late Billy T James - God rest his big gleeful soul - spring to mind. ) Admittedly, there have been some atrocious comedic attempts made in NZ over the years, but it's still a genre that has never been given enough support or funding from public broadcasting.

At the end of the day, maybe Kiwis just feel more comfortable with the whole 'dark and brooding' thing (LOTR and, from what I've heard, Whale Rider notwithstanding). Sam Neill described it as the 'Cinema of Unease' in his 1995 doco about NZ film. There's definitely something printed in the national psyche to do with isolation, loss and a simmering sort of menace, which comes out strongly in films like The Piano, Once Were Warriors, The Quiet Earth and Vincent Ward's unsettling Vigil. But hey, the scenery's bloody pretty and the people are wonderful and don't let anything I've said put you off your long-anticipated holiday to NZ, will you?

I'm not sure where that wee rant sprang from. I really only wanted to say that we had a great night and laughed until we wobbled and Your Correspondent decided on the way home that she wanted to be a stand-up comedian, just like she always does whenever she sees live comedy.

But to all you aspiring/fledgling/struggling Kiwi comics out there -- take heart. When I'm rich and famous, I'll sponsor a NZ comedy festival to showcase your talents. And then we'll really make the buggers' eyes water, eh?

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Things to Do When You're Really Bored

Yes, Your Correspondent has tried all of these with the exception of Item #5, which comes courtesy of my sister. She was a guest at one.

1. Play With Your Damn Toys (childhood)
Nag, wheedle, cajole and inveigle your parents into buying you lots of dolls. Then nag, wheedle, cajole and inveigle your parents into buying you a dolls' pram. Ignore the lot for six months. Wait until the worst day of the year, when it's pouring with rain, freezing cold and snow is imminent. Decide the time is now right to play with your dolls and pram. Dress the dolls in your younger sister's baby clothes and then wrap them securely in plastic bags. Place them in the pram. Take everything outside. Trundle the pram around your back yard for precisely eight minutes. Go back inside and spend the rest of the day whining about how bored you are.

2. Have Fun with Your Fingernails (early adolescence onwards)
Decide in advance when you're next planning to get bored and prepare accordingly. Grow your fingernails very long. Use a geometry compass to drill holes in them. This may take a while. Insert stud earrings in holes. Don't forget the little butterfly things at the back. When the nail area around the holes starts to discolour, rejoice and go about your business.

3. Write Pornographic Poetry (mid-adolescence)
If your mother accidentally discovers this while accidentally searching your school bag, say Patti Smith wrote it.

4. Become the Life and Soul of the Party (late adolescence)
Get someone to buy you a bottle of tequila. Drink it with a few of your little friends. Keep the empty bottle. When you're next invited to a party, fill the bottle with water and take it along. Sit somewhere conspicuous, open the bottle and start gulping down its contents. Insult everyone at the party with total impunity because they all think you're off your face.

5. Entertain (late adolescence onwards)
Ring all your friends and tell them you're throwing a fancy-dress Underwater Cocktail Party. Emphasise that it's a BYO affair, and compulsory to dress up to look like something that lives under water. Take a piece of cardboard. Cut it into a shape that resembles a shark's fin. Attach fin to the household dog. (If you don't have a dog, borrow one.) Make a dorky costume for yourself if you feel like it, but hey ... no pressure. Spend the night drinking expensive liquor and laughing at everyone's costumes, especially the dog's.

6. Draw All Over Your Face (any age, but it helps if you remember the 80s)
Sip a few bottles of vino in a relaxed manner with anyone who happens to be lying around the house. Drag out five bags of cosmetics, painstakingly accrued over the previous two weeks. Draw clouds and seagulls on a sky-blue background over everyone's faces. Dye the hair of the more adventurous with food-colouring. Pretend you're Toyah Willcox. Strut up and down the living-room, singing "It's a myst-er-wy, it's a myst-er-wy". A couple of hours later, puzzle over why your group has been denied entry to a nightclub. Conclude that it's a myst-er-wy.

7. Pretend You're Foreign (any age)
Get very drunk with a like-minded friend. Jump on the nearest public transport, preferably at a time of day when it's reasonably busy. Conduct a loud, witty conversation with your friend in a badly-executed foreign accent (French is always a good choice). Single out any passengers who look amused and tell them they "smell verra nice".

8. Reminisce About the Good Old Days (around the age I am now)
Remember high spots from your childhood, like those times when you drank your bath-water even though your mother said it wasn't allowed. Damn, that was good.

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You know how every now and then you can have the sort of day when everything seems like it's been dipped in honey and then lovingly licked in smooth strokes by a tongue that actually knows what it's doing? The sort of day when orchards burst into bloom at the exact moment you're galloping through them atop your mighty white charger, on your way to kill your evil offspring after having drunk from the Holy Grail and donned your burnished silver-alloy armour while an invisible choir sings a stirring rendition of the O Fortuna from Carmina Burana? (Download the free Mp3 here if you're really keen.) The kind of day when no-one annoys you and you look drop-dead gorgeous and complete strangers give you flowers even though you didn't get up an hour earlier to drench yourself in cheap deoderant-cum-perfume?

Yeah, well today wasn't like that.

Today was a 'knickers keep riding up your bum and skirt lining keeps sticking to your legs' sort of day. If it had been able to manifest as a dog, today would've been a papillon called Fergus. If it was a cat, it'd be a sphinx called Hetty. If it was a colour, it'd be puce. If it was a food, it would be mushroom-flavoured ice cream.

There are only three things capable of wiping a day like today out of one's aching synapses: pizza, red wine and a movie like this. There's nothing like watching French films about crazed animals tearing around the 18th century countryside wearing wicker armour dotted with metal quills and disembowelling pretty blonde peasant Catholic virgins to encourage the day's vicissitudes to fade from memory. The occasional Native American martial arts expert thrown in as a bonus helps too. Just what le docteur ordered.

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Seasonal Factors

This is my first winter spent north of the Tropic of Capricorn and I'm loving it. The days are still around 30degC and the nights don't seem to fall below 15degC. It's my dream climate.

Not everyone finds it so wonderful. I've heard women whose children were born in Karratha wistfully say they really wish the kids could experience four seasons. I'm not sure what the big deal is -- when I was a kid I lived in a place that had four very distinct seasons and it only served to convince me that I wasn't too thrilled about any of them except summer.

As far as I'm concerned, winter is only good in short, intense bursts -- about the length of a decent skiing holiday. Even then, if there aren't huge wood fires and plentiful supplies of good cognac or port within arm's reach, you can forget it.

Older Colleague at work told me last week about a family she knows that has never been able to get used to Karratha's balmy winters. These people originally hailed from somewhere further south and are therefore used to frequently thrusting their appendages into microwaves and pushing the 'defrost' button during the winter months. They miss the cold weather so much that they've put a little ritual in place to help them remember what it's like.

They turn up the air-conditioning so the house is freezing. The mother cooks up huge pots of thick soup or stew. The family members don two or three layers of winter clothes. Then -- and this is my favourite bit -- they drag their cobwebbed electric heaters out from storage and switch them on.

Meanwhile, outside the temperature is in the low 30s (high 80s in Fahrenheit terms). People are wandering around in shorts or sarongs and t-shirts, firing up their barbeques and making salads. The kids are splashing around in the pool. Everyone's pleasantly tired because they spent all day out in their boats, fishing and swimming. It's the perfect time to sink a few icy beers.

Artificial winter, or summer all year round? I know which one I prefer ...

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How to Keep Your Relationship Alive and Interesting on a Tuesday - the Dreamboat's Approach

Note: These events actually took place last Tuesday, but the timeless wisdom and universal quality contained therein make them relevant on the second day of any week. Unless you consider Sunday to be the first day of the week, in which case you should make use of the timeless wisdom etc on the third day. I hope that clarifies things.

1. Arrive home from work. Sweep your beautiful and willing partner into your arms and kiss her passionately. Especially if she insists.

2. Invite your loved one to 'come and look at this'. Indicate with a smile that you've 'got a surprise' for her.

3. When she asks if it's a present, don't give too much away. Savour her look of excitement and anticipation for as long as possible. Just say something like, "Sort of".

4. Reveal your plastic supermarket bag with a suitable flourish. Ensure that your eyes linger meaningfully on the securely-tied top and then raise them to hers. This will emphasise the importance of the bag's contents and prolong the mystery.

5. If her lovely face drops a little and she says, "Oh, is it food?" it's very important to remain cheerful and up-beat.

6. Slowly and carefully untie the top of the bag. Encourage your goddess to pay close attention. She will eventually notice that the contents are in fact enclosed in not one, but three bags. They must contain something truly precious, she'll realise.

7. Reach into the bag and withdraw your prize - a large crab.

8. Don't react with surprise when she squeals and jumps three metres back. Do not, under any circumstances, laugh. Rather, reassure her with tender words: "It's ok. It's dead. Already cooked, too. And there are three more still in the bag."

9. At this point, your loved one will probably say something like, "Fine. You smash them up or whatever. I'm not bloody touching them." Gently agree. Offer to make crab cakes for dinner. Suggest she throws together a salad. This is an undemanding task and will afford her the opportunity to regain her composure. Many years into the future when she has finally managed to do this, she will think back to this moment and her heart will swell with gratitude at the memory of your thoughtfulness.

10. Start tearing the crab's legs away from its body. Take the two large front legs and make them do a little dance across the bench top while opening and shutting the claws. A little tasteful humour is always a winner in such situations.

11. Thrill your goddess with the story of the two work colleagues who risked their all to provide her with these marvellous crustaceans. Relate how the owner of the boat jumped onto a chair and refused to get down after the nets, bulging with crabby goodness, were hauled from the sea and dumped on the deck. Speak of the boat owner's friend who was forced to perform unspeakable acts involving crabs and pots of boiling water all by himself. Continue to rend your crab limb from limb as you talk. Your goddess will be too enthralled by your story to notice.

12. No learning is ever wasted, so seize any opportunity to expand your loved one's fund of general knowledge. When the time is right -- say, just after you've prised off the crab's carapace and exposed its internal organs -- draw her attention to an interesting feature by saying something in the order of, "Look! Those are its lungs." Don't worry if she doesn't look for long. She doesn't need to, because you can be sure the image will remain in her mind for quite some time to come. Oh, and that funny colour that her face has turned? Don't worry about it. It'll go away eventually. It's probably to do with hunger.

13. Throw out bags brimming with shattered crustacean shells but keep the meat, of which there is considerably less. Add other gourmet-type ingredients and fashion the mixture into cakes. Use egg-rings to give them that perfect 'up-market seafood restaurant' look. Shallow-fry cakes. Eat with relish. Note that goddess is eating with relish too. Smile secretly to self.

Final note: These guidelines could probably be applied in any situation involving a loved one and a dead thing, although it really helps if they're not one and the same, and the dead thing is edible.

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Conversation with the Dreamboat while seated on a log at Deepdale Station:

Niki: If you could come back as any animal, what would it be?
Dreamboat: (nodding at an eagle spiralling high in the cerulean blue) One of those, probably.
Niki: You just said that because it's the first thing that popped into your head.
Dreamboat: No. It's what I really would choose to be - a bird. Especially an eagle.
Niki: Well, that doesn't surprise me - potent symbol in world myths and legends, representative of 'overview', all noble and majestic and stuff ...
Dreamboat: Top of the food chain, too. That's important.
(pause)
Dreamboat: So what would you be?
Niki: A swallow. Because they play.
Dreamboat: A cute little cheeky thing that zooms around everywhere. You're that already.
(pause for an "Awww ..." moment and the exchange of mushy looks)

Now it's your turn, gentle reader. What would it be?

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Weekend Highlights

1. Temporarily Childless Once More
An hour before we were due to leave on our camping trip, I had a phone call from a woman inquiring about our last remaining kitten. I was brutally honest - "She's very timid because my friend's rottweiler put her in his mouth and kind of traumatised her. You're welcome to come over and have a look but she'll probably hide under the couch and refuse to come out. Plus, she's not very good at handling trays of hors d'oeuvres" - but the woman insisted on rocking up with her two little kids and falling in love anyway. She was very nice and so were the kids. They took kitty away and Mum called me half an hour later to inform me she was settling in fine. Of the three new owners, she was the only one to do this. Like I said - nice lady.

A volunteer organisation called SAFE (Save Animals From Euthanasia) started up here in February. Since then, they've taken in eighty abandoned animals and found eighty homes for them. In a town with a population of ten thousand, that's a lot of dumped animals. The organisation has been advertising for temporary carers to look after homeless wee darlin's until they can be placed in new abodes. Your Correspondent has signed up because she is an idiotic masochist who can't get enough of feeling all bereft and heart-broken when her little charges move on.

2. "Deepdale" Station
We've camped in some beautiful spots over the last two years, but after spending a couple of days here, the Dreamboat and I have decided it's our favourite.

A lot of other people feel the same way. Some of them camped there over the weekend too -- noisy people, who like to share their love of Country and Western music with everyone inside a ten kilometre radius. The sort of people who drive to glorious spots in the middle of nowhere and then listen to talkback radio at full volume while simultaneously trying to conduct screamed conversations over the top of it. Yet the place was so gorgeous we still loved every minute we were there ... well, with the exception of about twenty or so, which has a lot to do with what comes next.

3. Big Toe = Big Drama
So it's Saturday night and the Dreamboat and I are sitting in front of our campfire, nibbling on cheese and crackers. We're both making great headway with Beer #4 and Your Correspondent, having drunk vast quantities of water earlier on, can no longer put off the necessity of charging into the trees with a torch and some loo paper. Over the course of Beers 1-3 she has partially slipped off her footwear -- sandal-type arrangements that consist of what looks like pieces of tractor tyre secured to each foot with velcro straps.

The front sections of both sandals are partially covered in dust and leaves, which Your Correspondent is pushing back with her toes as she slides her feet forward. And that's when she realises she's got a prickle of some kind stuck in one of her big toes, right next to the nail. She shakes her foot. The prickle doesn't seem to be budging. It's starting to hurt. A lot. She shines the torch onto her foot. There's no prickle to be seen. With one of those great leaps of perception Your Correspondent occasionally experiences, it becomes clear there never was a prickle. Nope. What's happened is that she's been Bitten By Something.

The twenty minutes that follow are among the most painful Your Correspondent has ever experienced. In less than sixty seconds, the toe is too sore to touch. In less than two minutes, the pain spreads to all the other toes. In less than five, the foot is burning hot down to the arch and along the entire outside edge. The Dreamboat is shining the torch on the ground, trying to identify what made the bite. At the same time, he's having visions of driving a delirious Niki 150km back to Karratha while trying to dodge dozens of suicidal kangaroos on the road.

Your Correspondent is gulping down beer and thinking, 'Great. Just fucking typical. Story of my life.' The shock of the pain and the large amounts of medicinal beer don't do much to help her bladder problem, so she grabs what she needs by way of accessories and half-limps, half-hops to somewhere suitably private. Trying to squat in the dark with all of one's weight balanced on a single foot is not to recommended, unless you've long been nurturing a desire to pee over said foot. Even then, I wouldn't advise it. It's bad for your footwear.

We consult the trusty Hilarious Animals manual. After establishing that Your Correspondent wasn't bitten by a crocodile or stung by a Portuguese Man O' War, we narrow the list of suspects down to ants and spiders. There are plenty of big ants running around, but we've come across them on other camping trips and never had any trouble. Then the Dreamboat sees it - a small spider, burrowing amongst some leaves. It has a white stripe down its back and striped legs. It looks too small to cause so much pain, but it's the most likely candidate.

Your Correspondent spends the next half-hour or so with an ice-filled tea towel wrapped around her foot. The pain eventually diminishes, but the toe remains swollen for a further hour. More beer is consumed. A bottle of wine is mysteriously emptied. The Dreamboat catches Your Correspondent trying to gouge a piece of cheese off the block with her thumb.

DB: What are you doing?
Niki: I am a bite victim. I'm allowed to fiddle with the cheese.

He realises these are not the words of a dying woman and later whisks her into the privacy of their tent where life-affirming actions of an undisclosed nature may or may not have taken place.

4. Other Stuff
We swam, we ate and we nursed our hangovers to the point where it seemed reasonable to start working on acquiring new ones. Your Correspondent saw a couple more of the striped spiders but kept all stray body-parts out of reach. Most of the noisy neighbours betook themselves home. All was idyllic and uneventful (in the right way) until this afternoon, when we reluctantly packed everything up and boarded the fiery chariot for home.

Less than ten minutes' drive away from the campsite, the landscape looked like this. Those things resembling rocks in the background are actually giant termite mounds. What a contrast, huh? Western Australia, I love you to bits.

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