Halloween, Karratha Style:

It's approximately 7.00pm. There's a knock on the front door. Our friends Sam and Chiz are over and Chiz opens the door. Three Aboriginal kids are standing there. Two of them are our neighbours: Lewis, and his sister Kerry.

Kerry is wearing a blue plastic lampshade on her head. Lewis is wearing a bike helmet and is trying desperately to keep a screwed-up piece of paper in one of his eye sockets. The third kid isn't in costume.

Kids: Trick or treat!
Chiz: Oh, that's right ... it's Halloween. (to Kerry) What's your costume?
Kerry: I'm a witch.
Chiz: (to Lewis) And who are you?
Lewis: I'm a pirate.
Niki: (hunting around for something to give them) Here's a packet of potato chips. No tricks now, OK?
Kids: Yeah ... (overheard, while walking back down the driveway) Hey ... this really works!

|

It's four years today since the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent met.

I pretty much covered this subject last year, but you may trot briskly over there in single file and peruse it if you wish. The poignant story of how we met is told here.

|

Unusual Cat Names I've Encountered:

1. Line Segment ('Seggie' for short)
Courtesy of my brother Steve. It should go without saying that alcohol played a crucial role in the naming process.

2. Spoon
A friend of mine moved into a university flat with a bunch of other students and lo, suddenly there was Spoon. No-one can remember when the cat appeared, who named it, why that particular name was selected or, indeed, their own names. There is merely a hazy recollection of lots of drugs.

3. Benson and Hedges
Because there were two of them, obviously.

4. Tripod
What do you name a three-legged cat? Go figure.

5. Baal Rutherford W
According to the guy who dreamed this one up, there's a silent Q in there somewhere. Neither booze nor drugs were involved, but the person concerned was definitely a bit odd. The cat ran away after a month.

6. Bruce and Sheila
The ultimate tribute to Antipodean culture.

Honourable Mentions
The following names have been proposed for various unfortunate felines at different times, but for one reason or another the petitions were unsuccessful:
Assault and Battery
Burt Reynolds
Dildo (was given to a dog instead)
The Dread Pirate Roberts (... but I'll get to use it one day)

As always, feel free to share your own.

|

"Picture your pain as a white ball of healing light ..."

One of the things I hate most about being in constant pain is the degree to which it consumes one. I've been sitting in front of this damned computer for half an hour and have deleted four previous attempts at today's blog entry because they all end up being about the same thing. As you've probably already guessed, this latest one's no different. So I've decided to stop trying to fight it.

My pain is not a white fucking ball of healing light, thank you very much. It's far worse than that. My pain is an unshaven man in his late 40s who speaks with a French accent and packs an uzi. He's 5'11" and his name is Beryl.

Beryl wears a raincoat. His expression is sombre. He's quietly-spoken. He moves around a lot. Long before taking up residence in Your Correspondent's spine (firstly in the salubrious Lumbar region; then in the semi-respectable Thoracic), he was often seen consorting with unsavoury individuals in the Moroccan city of Tangier, where he is greatly feared. The locals refer to him in hushed tones as 'Beryl'.

It's rumoured that he is the bastard son of a Turkish rat-catcher and a confectioner from Adelaide. Little is known about his childhood but we can assume that his dried-fruit phobia stems from a traumatic experience suffered in his formative years.

Beryl is a Capricorn and lists his hobbies as: playing the autoharp, fondling his uzi and making people suffer. He loves Thai food and long, moonlit walks on the beach. He's ready to settle down and is looking for that special twinge or dull ache to make his life complete. (Non-smokers only, please.)

If you'd like to connect with Beryl, you can reach him through the usual channels: accident, injury or aggravated assault. He assures readers he will respond promptly to all genuine inquiries.

|

Cute, or what?



I tell you, my friends ... you can have an absolute shit of a day when you ...

1. Wake up at 3.40am due to back pain and can't get back to sleep
2. Find yourself leaving a message on the physio clinic's phone at 5.15am, begging for an appointment
3. Are minding your own business at work and then your crown implant suddenly disintegrates and falls out, giving you an eerie resemblance to a medieval hag
4. Get home from work, receive a phone call from your dentist, race into the clinic, have a new crown made and spend most of the evening with half of your face numb
5. Dash from the dentist's to the physio and experience an excruciating half-hour being manipulated and pummelled

... and yet all it takes is one look at these guys to suddenly feel wildly happy.

It's going to be hard to give this pair up, so I'm making the most of them while I can.

Incidentally, it's very rare to find a calico (tortoiseshell-and-white) male. He's almost certainly sterile. Imagine the shit of a day he's going to have when he finds out ...

|

Thanks to everyone who's been voting on these dumb wedding poll things. You're all very kind. So kind, in fact, that 48% of you think 'I solemnly swear not to write bad things about you in my blog if it all goes pear-shaped' is the most suitable wedding-vow option for people who've been married before.

Thirty-two percent of voters liked the 'Don't say anything. Conduct it all telepathically' option. I bet you're fans of the diminutive Prince Roger Nelson. Conducting telepathic conversations when on dates is, apparently, a forte of his. Unfortunately, none of his companions ever seem to have shared his gift.

My favourite was the 'You know the drill' option. Twenty per cent of you agreed. You bloody meanies.

It's obvious this current music poll isn't really setting anyone on fire, which is understandable, given that I couldn't get all that excited about it either and I made it up. I'll take it down in a couple of days, so feel free to either cast a pity-vote or just ignore it. It'll go away soon, I promise.

|

Outcome of the Tragic Tailbone Accident

I learned from my physio yesterday that my coccyx isn't fractured. (Yay, coccyx! Way to go, tough little bony dude!) However, the x-rays showed three vertebrae further up in the lumbar area that are unnaturally compressed, a 'squished-looking' disk and a curvature of the lower spine. (Boo, worthless and weak lumbar region! You, like, totally suck!)

The physio's advice: "Drop and give me twenty."

OK, so that's not altogether true. Her actual words were, "Take anti-inflammatories before you go to bed and if it doesn't improve in a few days, come in."

Conclusion: Say 'Yes' to drugs.

Here endeth the lesson.

|

Minutes of Special Meeting Held This Day at 'The Pearler's Rest' Restaurant, Karratha, and Continued in the Back Yard of the Karratha Imperial Palace Over a Couple of Cold Beers

Meeting Opened: Unsure of exact time, due to the distraction of a few liquid refreshments consumed prior to arrival at the restaurant. Approximate time: 8.00pm.

Present: The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent.

Purpose of Meeting:
1. To eat out, thereby avoiding the need to cook dinner
2. To discuss wedding plans

Correspondence:
Menus were tabled. After some consultation, responses were given and orders placed. Additional liquid refreshments were requested.

Special Business:
1. Underwear
Niki: The DB is not, under any circumstances, to wear daks beneath his kilt on the wedding day.
DB: Does not want to be a laughing-stock at his own wedding and will most certainly wear undies if he chooses to.

2. Grooming
Niki: The DB should grow a mullet for the big day.
DB: Would prefer to shave his head and get married bald.

3. Accessories
Niki: Would like to get a large anchor tattooed on her left arm the night before the wedding.
DB: (Objection raised and duly noted.)

4. Theme
Niki: Wants The Matrix Reloaded as a wedding theme.
DB: Agent Smith could not only officiate as celebrant, but could supply all the waiters at the reception as well.
Niki: Anything thrown by guests after the ceremony could be frozen in mid-air and rendered harmless.
DB: "Bullet time" would then be known as "rice time".
Niki: Desperately wants to wear a full-length black leather coat and sunglasses, have her hair slicked back and ride in on a Ducati.
DB: Doesn't want to wear a black frock-coat and be mistaken for a priest.
Niki: A sign worn around the neck saying "Groom, not priest" would prevent any confusion.

5. Music
Niki: Doesn't want traditional wedding music when walking up the aisle. Would prefer 'Freak' by Radiohead instead.
DB: Point of Order raised: the correct title is actually 'Creep'.

6. After the Ceremony
DB: Should butterflies or something similar be released?
Niki: Would rather set free lots of rats, spray-painted in fluorescent colours and with tufty wee mohawks on their heads.

7. Honeymoon
Niki: Will there be one, or will the bridal couple be too broke?
DB: Would like to have a two-week honeymoon, possibly at Hideaway Island, Vanuatu, or New Caledonia.
Niki: Can friends come?
DB: Only for the first week.

8. Wedding Cake
Niki: Would a profiterole cake be best? Mud cake? Ice-cream cake?
DB: Anything, provided it's not a fruit cake.
Niki: Suggested doing away with the cake concept altogether and giving each guest a Girl Guide biscuit on a plate instead.

9. Colour Scheme
Niki: Would it be possible to view the DB's tartan on the Internet to get an idea of the colours involved?
DB: Pointed out it was predominately green and suggested looking at Niki's family tartan also.
Niki: Admonished the DB for subsequently laughing at her purple tartan and stated for the record that all tartans are bloody ugly anyway.

There being no further business, the meeting was declared closed at approximately 11.15pm.

Next meeting: to be decided.

|

Three Times Three

Three things reluctantly cancelled today, due to back pain:
1. Work
2. Social engagement
3. Volleyball game

Three things reluctantly undertaken today, out of necessity:
1. X-ray session
2. Seventy-minute long appointment with Genghis, my dentist
3. Payment of $950.00 to said Genghis to have crown implanted

Three things Your Correspondent realised today:
1. Attempting to plan a novel while reclining in a dentist's chair AND having a tooth drilled down to the gum line AND trying not to gag on that sucker thing wielded by the dentist's assistant, just isn't humanly possible.
2. The All Blacks need me -- yes, me -- to buy black and white face paint and daub it on my radiant visage at every opportunity so they'll win the Rugby Union World Cup.
3. My life is a soap opera.

|

Despite all the recent dramas taking place in and around the Karratha Imperial Palace, I seem to be slowly catching up on all the unfinished business I was moaning about a couple of weeks ago. The only outstanding items are a course assignment, a short story I'm planning to submit to a national radio programme and approximately 4,000 emails.

With a pinprick of light almost visible at the end of a long and inky tunnel, I thought it was time to turn my mind to the impending NaNoWriMo ordeal.

It was a mistake.

I have absolutely no idea what the hell I'm going to write about. The left side of my brain is very upset about this. It keeps up a constant growl of discontent, muttering stuff like, 'Why can't you be like ScorpioGirl? She's got it sorted: novel-writing software and everything.' The left side of my brain really hates that I'm a Pisces and can barely hold my life together at the best of times.

The right side, by comparison, is delighted. It keeps cooing stuff like, 'How exciting! What an adventure! Just sit down and write a novel about the first thing that comes into your head. It's an organic process, you know. Very natural. '

Yeah, sure. The right side of Your Correspondent's brain has influenced many of the decisions she's made in her time and none of them have ever produced anything useful, like money. I don't think the right side of my brain is the full sack of spuds, to tell you the truth.

I don't have a plot summary. I don't have characters. I don't even have a bloody genre, for god's sake. But the first rule of writing is to 'write about what you know', so here are the options so far:

1. Semi-Autobiographical
The adventures of a woman with chemically-assisted red hair who travels to remote parts of a vast continent in order to sample the local twinkly-juice. Her carefree existence is forever changed after a tragic tailbone injury. Unable to exercise or make use of her vast sexual repertoire, she ends up fat and frustrated. Hopefully, though, she somehow manages to live happily ever after.

2. Sci-Fi
Aliens without tailbones come to earth, where they promptly discover twinkly-juice and begin shagging anyone with a fully-functioning spinal column. They eventually return to their home planet, hungover and suffering from various social diseases. But they live happily ever after anyway.

3. Romance
Boy meets girl. They drink twinkly-juice. They spend the night together. The girl gets Shagger's Back and sues the boy for medical expenses. The boy runs off with an alien who doesn't have a tailbone. Everyone lives happily ever after.

4. Crime
A body is discovered in a wood by a travelling twinkly-juice distributor. The corpse is missing part of its spinal cord. An autopsy reveals an alien anatomy riddled with social diseases. Detective Inspector Medulla Oblongata is called in to investigate. She is fat and frustrated, but her growing love for a litigious woman suffering from Shagger's Back transforms her. They live happily ever after until the next book.

5. Fantasy
Jolly red-haired midgets cavort around in their village, brewing magical restorative twinkly-juice. There is nothing wrong with their backs. Evil dudes, controlled by a bit of sentient black smoke that doesn't even have a piece of cartilage to call its own, try to do shit. But they fail. Everyone else lives happily ever after. Or whatever.

6. Literary
A stranger travels to a remote part of a vast continent. He doesn't drink twinkly-juice. He doesn't shag. He may or may not have a backbone. He does, however, have protracted dealings with a being known only as 'The Alien' -- a being who we know is really a metaphor for his disintegrating psyche, trapped in a morass of post-modern angst. He may or may not live happily ever after. Probably not.

Well ... if nothing else, I guess a certain pattern is starting to emerge. Frightening, isn't it?

|

Two Reasons Why Last Friday was Memorable:

1. Japanese Story
I'd been really looking forward to seeing this film. Not only did it do very well at Cannes, with rave reviews about Toni Collette's performance in particular, but most of it was shot right here in the Pilbara region of Western Australia. Many of the places we've been to -- Port Hedland, Dampier, the Millstream-Chichester National Park and even Karratha itself (well, one of its roads, anyway) -- were featured in the movie and bloody stunning they were too.

I wish I could say the same of the film itself but I found it disappointing. In Your Correspondent's opinion, the problem lies in a flawed storyline. The first half was simply too flimsy to justify all the drama and emotional stuff that followed -- it couldn't support it. It was as if a really important chunk that belonged somewhere in the middle was missing.

This confused Friday night's audience who, despite the promoter's assurance that there 'wouldn't be a dry eye in the house by the end', tittered and giggled all the way through, even in parts that obviously were supposed to be dramatic rather than comic.

I'd recommend Japanese Story to anyone who wants to see the incredible Pilbara landscape and/or have a gander at where Your Correspondent lives, but I'll leave you to be the judge where the overall credibility of the story is concerned.

2. Post-Japanese Story Drama
After the film, the Dreamboat and Your Correspondent had to wait for a taxi. We left the theatre and walked down to the main road entrance. This is flanked on either side by a fence, consisting of a series of wooden lengths, each one supported by metal posts at either end. Your Correspondent sat down on one. The Dreamboat decided to join her. The wood collapsed.

The Dreamboat managed to jump up in time, but Your Correspondent landed very hard on her coccyx (that's 'tailbone' to the less anatomically-minded).

If you've ever experienced the sort of pain that renders you totally incoherent, you'll understand what I mean when I say I made a fair amount of noise over the following quarter of an hour but none of it was speech. Fuck, it hurt. The pain was so bad it was all I could do not to vomit.

I've had two previous injuries to the good old coccyx. The first took place when I was twelve. I was walking home from school and one of my friends thought it would be highly amusing to run up from behind and kick me in the arse. There were shoes known as Nomads that were very popular with school kids back then. They were heavy, ungainly things. When my fashionable friend's Nomad made contact, the pain was unbelievable. I dropped like a stone and screamed myself hoarse.

The second occurred a couple of years later. I was supposed to be at Mass with my brother and sister, but we'd decided to skive off to a nearby supermarket carpark and mess around on a skateboard instead. The Almighty wasn't amused. Predictably, Your Correspondent fell off. Predictably, her tailbone took the impact. And predictably, the doctor said it was 'probably fractured' but there was nothing he could do about it.

It was fifteen years before I could sit on a hard surface and get up again without feeling pain. Fifteen fucking years. And now I've injured the bloody thing again.

I can't sit, lie down, walk around or stand still without pain. I can't even sneeze or cough without gasping and clutching my hindquarters, which is a damned shame considering I currently have a cold which requires frequent indulgence in both. I got through Sam's birthday celebrations last night with a cocktail of anti-inflammatory pills and as much booze as I could pour down my throat. Then I danced my injured bum off. It wasn't the wisest course of action Your Correspondent has ever taken.

So ... x-rays tomorrow. I'm dreading the result. If anyone's feeling charitable, cross your fingers for me, please? And then spend some time with your own coccyx. Pat it gently. Talk to it in sweet and loving tones. Thank it for not giving you any trouble, because you really don't want to experience the alternative.

Trust me.

|

Happy Birthday to a Queen Amongst Primates

Mighty Warrior Woman Sam is our trainer at the gym. In the ten months we've known each other, she and her bloke (Chizmeister the Barbarian) have also become very dear friends. Today is Sam's birthday.

I adore this woman. So much so that I've asked her to be sole bridesmaid at my wedding. It's not easy to motivate people who work a minimum of 54 hours a week to maintain a fitness programme, but Sam manages it time and time again. She's a miracle-worker. She quite literally changes people's lives.

She's affectionately known around town as the 'Queen of Mean' because she pushes her clients hard ... but she pushes herself harder. She's also called the 'Nutrition Nazi' because correct eating is such a very big part of her philosophy. She's been known to go through her clients' fridges and pantries (with their bemused permission) and throw out anything that's bad for them.

Sam possesses so many qualities I admire and respect that it's hard to know what to talk about first -- her kindness, generosity, huge heart, dedication, passion -- but I think what I love most about her is her honesty and forthrightness. She also swears more than anyone I've ever met, myself included. This isn't a person who calls a spade a spade; she's more likely to call it a 'fuckin' tool'.

I've been collecting 'Sam quotes' ever since I met her. Here are my three favourites:

1. On people who spend hours in the gym doing cardio workouts:
"Why don't they just fuckin' eat right? Then they wouldn't have to bother."

2. On why we should trust our partners/spouses:
"Look, mate, just because we want them, doesn't mean anyone else will."

3. On diet:
(This was told to me by a friend called Tania, who'd signed up for personal training with Sam and was having her first assessment)
Sam: What's your diet like?
Tania: Pretty good, actually.
Sam: I'll be the fuckin' judge of that. What do you eat?
Tania went on to win a twelve-week Fitness Challenge.

So Happy Birthday, Samstress my sweet, and thank you for everything you've done for us. You helped me lose 10 kilos in four months, encouraged the Dreamboat to become a toned shadow of his former self and introduced me to some great folks when I was new in town and didn't know a soul. You and Chiz are both wonderful people and I'm very glad we've had the chance to get to know you better.

But you're still not allowed to wear a fucking turquoise dress at the wedding.

|

A couple of days ago, I made an appointment to see my doctor. The earliest I could get in was Friday -- tomorrow.

I wasn't sick. I just wanted to renew a prescription. It was going to be one of those in-and-out-again, 'here's your prescription, that'll be 50 bucks, try not to contract any life-threatening diseases on my shift," consultations. A nice, hassle-free, three minute job.

No. Such. Luck.

I give you: streaming eyes and nose ... headache ... sneezing ... a cough that sounds like someone's shaking a coffee tin full of gravel ... profuse sweating from the exertion of brushing one's teeth ... oh, and let's not forget the ubiquitous coldsore. Welcome to the wonderful world of Niki's dysfunctional immune system.

Do you know what this means? It means that, thanks to my traitorous body, I'm going to have to see the doctor when I'm in an unwell state. This is something I generally try to avoid at all costs.

He'll want to listen to my chest. He'll feel obliged to lecture me for a very long time. He will possibly try to give me some of those charming drugs adored by yeast colonies the world over. In short, I'll leave feeling five times more miserable than I did when I went in.

All I wanted was a bloody prescription. Was that too much to ask? And now I'm sick. I'm telling you, superheroes, if I didn't already hurt all over, I'd be giving my body a damned good smacking right now.

|

We've set a date for the holy hot water nuptials: Friday 15 October 2004.

Yes, in exactly one year's time we'll be prancing around on the banks of the Brisbane River in all our finery, dodging roller-bladers and waving to commuters speeding home on the River Cats. The Dreamboat will be hungover, but resplendent in his kilt. He'll sway only slightly when the heat-stroke kicks in.

Your Correspondent will also be hungover, but will look as radiant and beautiful as a triple-thickness, soft-focus lens thickly smeared with vaseline can make her. She'll disappear occasionally, but her devoted nieces will track her down and reassure everyone with, "She's hiding behind that wall over there, smoking." The Dowager Empress (my mother) will heave a sigh of disgust and mutter, "I really don't know how he puts up with her."

One year to get ready. Three hundred and sixty-six days, actually, given that 2004 is a leap year.

The venue's been booked.

It's begun.

|

Our new couch finally arrived today.

Regular readers may remember that our previous couch perished back in April. On ANZAC Day, to be precise ... a very important day when we remember our fallen heroes. Our former couch can rightfully take its place in their number because I seem to recall a fair amount of falling going on in the living-room when the damn thing disintegrated. At least it went valiantly, championing the cause of Good Lovin'.

The sleek new beastie standing in its place is a different class of animal altogther. One look is enough to tell you that this critter is built for punishment. It'll take anything we throw at it, including each other. It's elegant. It's streamlined. It's downright erotic.

It's also fully adjustable. Not in a sad La-Z-Boy kind of way, but in a sexy 'alter-me-to-suit-your-intended-activity-and-then-we'll-see-what-happens-shall-we' type of proposition. The Dreamboat loves it. He took great pleasure this evening in showing me all the positions our new couch can assume. I suspect he thinks of it as a very big Transformer toy and hopes that by getting the adjustment combination just right, it'll morph into a Ferrari.

Oh, and did I mention our new couch is red? Well, it is. Rich, vibrant, bright red. It had to be red. No other colour would suffice because, as everyone knows, red couches go faster.

Yes, we also got some groovy computer chairs. Yes, the new TV cabinet that arrived with them definitely has its own fair share of appeal. But there's something about a funky red couch that does it for Your Correspondent every time. It's pure sex, I tell you. Go out right now and buy one of your own. Then try to tell me I'm wrong.

|

Advice to Brides-to-Be: an Occasional Series

Never, under any circumstances, read bridal magazines or -- even worse -- use the Internet when planning your wedding. One minute, you'll be innocently surfing around trying to find a venue that isn't totally booked up until April 2009; the next, you'll find yourself paralysed with indecision over whether to have big tacky bows or big tacky sashes on the chairs at the reception.

It would appear that furniture-decorating is a crucial element of any successful wedding. All the websites I've visited say so. If I wasn't already losing sleep over whether to cast butterflies, doves o' love or soap bubbles into the air after the ceremony, I'd be starting to get really anxious about the whole chair-dressing issue.

Then there's the theme. Apparently, themed weddings are just the thing for über cool couples who 'dare to be different'. There are plenty of themes to choose from and they all come complete with their own exclamation marks: Beach! Medieval! Purple! Fairy! (I kid you not) Movie Star! Arabian Nights!

The appeal of raiding our local amateur theatre group's wardrobe department and hiring a belly dancer for the night is somewhat lost on the Dreamboat and I. That's presumably because we're a couple of über boring bastards who don't dare to be different. Besides, apart from the aesthetic challenge presented to our guests by the sight of Your Correspondent's thighs veiled only by a thin layer of something gauzy, harem pants would probably clash with the Dreamboat's kilt.

This doesn't mean I haven't been working on a few theme ideas of my own:

1. The Gilligan's Island Wedding
Guests are locked into a room full of sand and fake palm trees, given two old jokes each and never permitted to leave.

2. The Telethon Wedding
Attendees are made to pash people they don't like and pledge their life savings on expensive gifts before issuing a challenge to all other wedding guests in the solar system to do the same.

3. The Reality TV Wedding (also known as Mr and Mrs Millionaire)
Guests are transported to a luxurious reception venue under the mistaken impression that it's all paid for. After a series of eliminations, the winner writes out a cheque for a million dollars and then buggers off to an exciting new life as a bankrupt nonentity.

If anyone has a theme of their own and wants to contribute to the ideas pool, please feel free. You'll be doing a lot of needy people a great service, because it should be apparent by now that engaged couples can never have enough choice when it comes to planning their Special Day. Who knows ... Your Correspondent might even finally get around to changing the poll topic so we can vote for the best.

Then we'll get started on the choice of music.

|

Sorry for the prolonged absence, Superheroes. Your Correspondent has been extremely busy of late. Here, in twenty-five nutshells or less, is what's been happening:

Wednesday
A milestone is reached in Your Correspondent's fledgling career as a radio producer: she live-produces her first show. This is very exciting, especially as she doesn't know what the fuck she is supposed to be doing. However, with the help of a generous colleague and a few fortifying cups of Earl Grey tea, she muddles through.

If you overlook a few minor details about a) the presenter (young, female and in possession of all her hair), b) Your Correspondent (not single and only slightly neurotic) and c) the setting (not Seattle), the situation could've almost-but-not-quite been straight out of Frasier.

Thursday/Friday
Your Correspondent has two days off work, so how does she make the most of her free time? She cleans the house. From top to bottom. Very thoroughly. Because life's too short to waste lolling around and enjoying oneself when there are pube colonies flourishing in the bath and kitchen sinks to be de-calcified.

On Friday we also wave goodbye to our temporary cat, who has finally found a permanent new home. Your Correspondent confesses to having a lump in her throat when her former charge is carted out, yowling and thrashing in her cat-cage. The lump disappears, however, upon discovering how much cat hair a struggling feline can deposit on a freshly-mopped floor.

Saturday
The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent congregate with 40-50 friends by the pool at a local drinking establishment and officially celebrate our engagement in fine form. If people can be judged by the company they keep, we must be doing something right in the 'bloody terrific' stakes.

At midnight, a group of dedicated revellers come back to our place for more activities of a celebratory nature. The last few are gently coaxed off the premises at 4am. The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent tidy up and smile fondly at their sparkling new toaster and fondue set before sinking into their respective comas.

The night was a roaring success. We're very lucky to have met so many cool people in the ten months we've been living in Karratha. It's going to be a difficult place to leave.

In the meatime, however, it's time for Your Correspondent to put her clapped-out old liver to bed, where it shall no doubt dream nice dreams about de-tox clinics and long holidays.

|

Definitive Moment #48 in Your Correspondent's Life: the First Pash

This is not a romantic story.

My First Pash took place at a country pub, in a shed used to store crates of beer. The pub was owned by friends of my parents. They'd invited us to stay there over New Year.

I was twelve. He was fifteen. His name was Henry. Yes, that's right -- the deliverer of my First Pash had the cheek to be called Henry; a name that hadn't exactly set the world on fire since the heady years of Tudor England.

On the day in question, there were seven of us crammed into the beer shed -- three guys all aged fifteen; an eighteen-year-old girl; Your About-to-be-Pashed Correspondent and two of her younger siblings. We'd been in there all afternoon, pinching bottles of beer out of the crates and passing them around. The girl had decided to teach Your Correspondent how to smoke cigarettes.

It was Naughty Kid heaven.

The pash took me completely by surprise. I didn't like Sir Henry and it was quite obvious he didn't think much of me either. He'd made some smartarse crack at my expense earlier in the afternoon and I'd spent the next two or three hours pointedly ignoring him. Imagine my astonishment, therefore, when just after we'd risen to make our getaway before my parents finally tracked us down, this grumpy guy planted one on me.

I had a fairly good idea of what pashing was supposed to look like because even then, back in Stone-Age New Zealand, there were TVs around. The practice obviously required a great deal of skill. Participants were meant to close their eyes and somehow get their mouths to connect without breaking each other's noses. They were then supposed to occasionally tilt their heads to the other side so their necks wouldn't cramp. Lip contact was to be maintained at all times. The pash had to last until one or other of the participants got bored, at which point they'd break away in order to sigh a lot, drink more champagne in front of the fire and refer to each other as 'darling'.

Never -- not once -- did anyone on TV mention anything about tongues. So when my chaste little mouth suddenly came into contact with Henry's cold, beery slobber, I didn't know whether to gag, bite, or push him away. In the end I just stood there woodenly, wondering what the hell was going on.

It ended as abruptly as it started. One minute there was serious tongue-sloshing action taking place; the next ... nothing.

Well, not quite nothing.

There was a something. It wasn't a long sigh. It wasn't champagne or a roaring fire and it certainly wasn't anything resembling a breathily whispered 'darling'.

It was a long string of saliva, running from good old Henry's chops to mine.

I stared at it in a kind of horrified fascination. Its creator gave no indication he was aware of its existence. What did one do in these situations? Not knowing about the whole tongue-involvement business was bad enough, but what did Pash Etiquette dictate when it came to spit-bridges?

Was I supposed to ignore it? Casually wave my hand in front of my face, thereby sundering the connection? Or was it something the initiator of the clinch was meant to take care of? This whole pashing thing was all starting to seem just a bit too bloody hard.

Henry solved the problem by moving further away, which meant his sloppy souvenir drifted gently down to rest on my t-shirt. He glanced at me. His face was expressionless.

"Do you want to give me your phone number?" quoth he.
"Why?" quoth Your Correspondent.

He shrugged and walked out of the shed. I ran up the hill behind the pub and practiced my smoking lessons.

And that is the story of Your Correspondent's First Pash. Told you it wasn't romantic!

|

Your Correspondent is so tired she's seeing double. Therefore, she must regretfully inform you that there is absolutely nothing of any note in today's post. She craves your indulgence and will undertake to do better on the morrow.

That is all.

|

Very Thinly Spread

That's how I'm feeling at the moment. Somehow, I've managed to accrue a huge back-log of stuff I should've taken care of ages ago and it continues to pile up at an exponential rate.

This stuff consists of things I've volunteered to do -- actually starting my writing course assignments, preparing marketing material for the local animal welfare group, writing an in-depth critique of a friend's (very long) short story, compiling my writing group's monthly newsletter, organising the content for the next meeting -- and it's not looking too promising results-wise, considering Your Correspondent can barely manage to keep up with her email correspondence and a daily blog entry.

Then there's work (part-time, admittedly -- it's just as well), domestic stuff, gym sessions, volleyball once a week and oh yeah ... a wedding to think about.

I realised yesterday that this was all starting to get a bit out of hand.

Something had to be done.

I needed to please give this matter my urgent attention.

Immediate action was required.

So I took it. Yep, I really bloody took it, alright.

I registered for NaNoWriMo. Because endeavouring to write a 50,000 word novel in one month is exactly what I need right now.

|

"The True Meaning of Dread" -- a minimalist thriller

It is 7.20am. There is a knock on the door.

He's a tradesman in his mid-50s. You've been expecting him. Someone a bit younger and better-looking would be more pleasing to your aesthetic sensibilities, but real life isn't like that.

"I need to turn off the hot water," he says.

You invite him inside. He enters, still talking. You don't hear him because you are watching the index finger of his right hand squiriming vigorously inside his right ear.

"Sorry," you say, "What was that again? I didn't catch it."

Your mind provides you with a vision in full close-up of a horny fingernail scraping away vast amounts of waxy encrustations. You've just had breakfast. Your mind doesn't care.

"It's ok," the man says, "I'm still half-asleep at this hour too."

He repeats himself but you miss it again because while he's talking he removes his finger and starts rolling it against his thumb.

You look around your living-room: the carpet. The blinds. The white walls. The furniture. All the time you're thinking, What the fuck is he going to do with it? And how? The sudden flick? The casual wipe? The sneaky smear?

Will you be quick enough? Can you get him out the door while he's still concentrating on the rolling action? Before he suspects you're on to him?

You smile. You make inconsequential chatter, all the time trying to steer him outside. It's a desperate gamble.

You feign casualness as you look down at his hand.

The rolling has stopped.

How long ago did it cease? And to what end? What has the tradesman standing in your living-room done with his big ball of ear wax?

You reel with shock. Your mind attempts reassurance: Maybe he wiped it on his trousers. (Ah, but did it adhere?) He hasn't touched anything. (Except for the mains controls and god knows what else -- these guys can move quickly.) He's probably waiting until he's outside before he disposes of it. (Do you really believe that?) At least he hasn't offered to shake your hand. (Shut up, brain. You hear me? Just shut up.)

Your once-safe living-room has become a place of squidgy terror.

It could very well haunt you for the rest of your life.

|