Back before the Dreamboat and I got married, I was asked a few times if I was planning to change my name.

Now if you're an impending bride, take note: people will only ask you this because they themselves have strong feelings on the subject. Their feelings are often so strong that they'll want to share them with you before you've even answered their question. You'll be expected to listen, and listen good. This is because when you're engaged, you become public property -- like film stars, or pregnant women back in the un-PC days when any old dickhead could stick a grimy paw on the bump and demand to feel a kick.

There was never any doubt that I'd change my name after the wedding. The surname I'd been using was a legacy from ex-Hubby #2, so it wasn't exactly, y'know, appropriate to hold on to it. The issue was more to do with what I'd change it to. Would I take the Dreamboat's name or would I use my maiden name? Either way, it was going to be a huge pain in the arse.

I've had a few surnames in my time. There was the one I started off with, of course. Then I married ex-Hubby #1 and adopted his moniker. And I kid you not, superheroes, when I tell you it was a shit of a name. I hated it but I took it anyway because I was nineteen and stupid and it was all part of the novelty of 'being married'. I thought running around and writing letters to change bank accounts and phone accounts and power accounts and every other bloody thing I could think of was fun. That's how dumb I was.

When we split up, I reverted to my maiden name and changed all the official stuff back again. A guy in the HR department at my work walked up to me one day and said, "Right, that's it. From now on, I'm calling you Smith. I can't keep up with all your bloody name changes."

And so it was. I was 'Smith' to him for the rest of the time I worked there.

Ex-Hubby #2 came along next. We tied the knot and, sure enough, I changed my name again. This was a very different situation to the first, though. The name was rare in NZ and it gave Your Correspondent something of an exotic edge. I had a sales job at the time and I'm sure a lot of the guys I scored appointments with only did so because they were expecting to see a sultry Mediterranean beauty. They always looked a little ripped-off when they saw the red-haired-and-freckled reality. Suckers.

The official business of changing names was more of a headache this time around because I owned property. There were mortgages and insurances to change and local councils to inform and lots of misplaced Boy, am I glad I'll never have to do this again! optimism.

When that marital machine ground to a halt, I decided to revert to the good old maiden name once more. It didn't happen. I moved to Australia after the break-up and my only ID at that time was my passport. It was in my married name and I was too broke to change it.

Which brings us to the Marriage To End All Marriages: conjugal bliss with the Dreamboat. In the end, I decided to take his name as well. It seemed a bit rude not to, considering I'd adopted the others. It's a nice name and a good fit. I think it'll wear well.

That doesn't mean the whole name-changing rigmarole is any less hassle, though, especially when it's compounded by all our changes of address. On Friday I took the first step and changed a couple of bank accounts. Now there's only the Tax Office, another bank account, two passports, a driver's licence, rewards programmes with two different airlines, the phone bill, the charity that administers my child sponsorship and lots of other shit I've probably forgotten, to go.

So listen up, all you brides-to-be, and listen good: keep your own name. If you must insist on taking his, make damned sure the union lasts forever ... lest you risk ending up like Your Correspondent: a Smith by default, in dire need of a filing cabinet to keep track of her former identities.

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We all know my polls are incredibly dumb. We also know I'm eternally grateful to everyone who's prepared to indulge me by voting. Thank you. When I'm famous, I'll mention you in my memoirs.

But when the results are tied it becomes awkward. It means I'm forced to think for myself. And that's diametrically opposed to the nature of my polls, which are all about abstention from responsibility in the 'thinking for oneself' department.

So on Friday night the Dreamboat and I made an executive decision concerning our beach volleyball team's new name. The choices, having each captured 34% of the vote, were "Die Screaming, You Muthas" and "Sandy Freckle".

Sandy Freckle won. The team was overjoyed. Sort of.

The other results:
Beer Barons - 9%
Eat Our Shorts and Low Slung - 6% each
Shoeless Wonders - 4% (This was the Dreamboat's favourite. I was going to write 'Yawn' after that sentence but thought better of it.)
Netsetters, Skillville, Schleptomaniacs - 2% each

Thanks to Betsy and Polywise whose suggestions ("Yeah, But We Can Drink" and "Attack of the Rogue Sherpas" respectively) were vastly superior to anything I'd dreamed up.

And Friday night's game? Well, one team scored 92 points. The other scored 21. Someone got reamed, but I'll leave it you to work out who. All I'll say is the resultant hangover kept Your Correspondent bed-ridden until 3 o'clock yesterday afternoon ...

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Today was the day I'd arranged to meet a woman from my writing group for coffee. I was really looking forward to it. Naturally, the morning obliged by getting off to a crappier-than-usual start.

I was terrified of sleeping in, so I overslept. Really overslept. And when I did manage to haul myself into a vertical position, I felt so hurlingly ill I was afraid to breathe in case each exhalation came out vomit-coloured.

I went through the check-list: hangover? No. Chain-smoking last night? Well, yeah. But only a little. Tired? Slightly. Ingested two contraceptive pills by mistake because I'd jumped out of bed at 3:30am, convinced I'd forgotten to take the daily dose, when in fact I hadn't? Bingo!

If you've ever tried to send a panicked text message on a mobile phone while attempting to get dressed, choke down a banana and psych yourself out of puking, all at the same time, you'll know it's a pretty ambitious undertaking. You need a damn good Skill Set to carry off a manoeuvre like that. I should be a fucking Navy Seal or something.

The coffee shop was situated in Townsville's biggest retail complex, a place I'd previously visited exactly once. The mall itself is pretty hard to miss but inside it's like a brightly-lit intestinal tract, infested with clumps of retail bacteria and hordes of vacant-looking human enzymes. My writer friend had tried to give me directions to the coffee place last night but I'd shrugged her off, saying I'd have no trouble finding it myself. (That's the problem with co-habiting with a man -- his testosterone shit rubs off on you.)

So after five minutes spent wandering aimlessly around the mall while fighting the urge to start bawling for my mother, I finally went to a "Customer Care Centre" and begged the woman there to tell me where to go.

The coffee session was worth it, though. It lasted three hours. We got our drinks, sat down and she started talking and I started listening. And somewhere around the time I was laughing hysterically while she told me about a holiday in NZ when she saw the movie Ghost World and realised Thora Birch's character Enid was her and she went slightly insane at the revelation and started yelling at the two people she was with because they didn't understand her and then refused to communicate by any means other than opening and shutting the car window at varying speeds while her companions played the same song over and over on the CD player to calm her down, I realised I might just have met a kindred spirit.

Either that or she's barking mad and makes me feel reassuringly normal by comparison. Whatever the case, I like her. She has a good heart.

There was tentative talk of meeting up again sometime soon, with alcohol and partners added to the mix. But even if we don't get around to it, I'll still be grateful to her for making me laugh more in three hours than I have in the last three months.

No expectations, see? That's wise and mature. I should be a fucking Buddhist Navy Seal.

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A bloke I used to know told me once that I was a Very Young Spirit.

"It's obvious you've never been here before," he stated.

This pissed me off immensely. I'd been hoping I was a Very Old And Wise And Special Spirit who'd been around the block a few times and was vastly superior to all the other plebian-type spirits in the universal 'hood.

"Why?" I demanded. It's possible there was a certain Very-Young-Spirit sort of peevishness in the tone.

"Because you're too impatient. You want everything to happen right now. That's the giveaway."

He went on to warn me that I "could fall off the chair of mental stability at any time", a pronouncement which I elected to take with a grain of salt. He was right about the impatience, though.

I thought about this earlier tonight because the Dreamboat, eyes glazing over with impending ZZZs, bless him, asked me if I was happy.

"I'm a lot happier than I was a month ago," I told him.

And it's true. I am. Yesterday I sent off a short story to a writing competition; the current work-in-progress has taken on a life of its own; there's the possibility of some radio work coming up; and tomorrow morning I'm meeting a woman from my writing group for coffee. The bases are a lot closer to being covered than they were four weeks ago. It just takes a little effort and ... time.

Sometimes, Very Young Spirits need to be reminded of that.

(P.S. Speaking of reminders, tomorrow is your last chance to play an active role in the humiliation of our beach volleyball team by voting on a name. Consider making your selection now, if you haven't already. And if you have, go all freaky on us and do it again.)

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You learn a lot when you spend most of your day at home. Believe it or not, there's an entire education to be had that doesn't involve either
a. gainful employment, or
b. trying to ignore that senile old crock who's exposing himself to you while you read him chapter four of To Kill a Mockingbird in the name of 'voluntary work'.

You discover the secret life of the phone, for instance. You might not realise this if you work or study or do anything remotely useful with your life, but during the day your phone rings constantly. The thing is, it's never actually for you. It's a wrong number or a bank trying to sell life insurance or a charity about to fall to pieces unless you buy a book of raffle tickets, or -- as is most often the case here in the Summer Palace -- some tool trying to send a fax.

Usually, I try to deal with these interruptions good-naturedly. But sometimes, if whatever I'm writing isn't going well and the wind's blowing from the wrong direction and the celestial bodies are slightly out of alignment ... I don't. Here's one from last week:

Niki: Hi, this is Niki.
Middle-Aged Male Caller: Er, yes. I've been trying to send through a fax.
Niki: Yeah, I know. I think you've got the wrong number.
MAM Caller: Well, it's the one I was given.
Niki: This isn't a business number; it's a residential one and we don't have a fax here.
MAM Caller: Look, my wife was just talking to Dick and he gave her this number.
Niki: Well, it's the wrong one. Sorry.
MAM Caller: So what's the right one, then?
Niki: I don't know. I don't know Dick or your wife or you.
(pause)
MAM Caller: Thanks. (hangs up)

He called back a few seconds later, obviously thought better of it and hung up after two rings.

Nice of him to thank me, though.

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Thursday
Here is Niki. She is at the gym. See her walking on the treadmill. Walk, Niki, walk! She is walking quite fast, isn’t she? Now she is holding on to the bar at the front. Why are you doing that, Niki? Aren’t you supposed to walk without holding on? Oh, we see. You have to check your heart-rate. For the full ten minutes. In case it stops, or something.

Look at Niki using the machines. Now what is she doing? Yes, she is increasing all her weights. Niki is very, very strong! Or maybe she is just showing off.

Friday
See Niki getting out of bed. She is moving very slowly. Do you know why? No, it has nothing to do with opium but that is a very clever and logical guess.

Watch Niki trying to comb her hair. Hurry up, Niki! Now she is trying to hang out some washing. Funny, slow-motion Niki! Why don’t your arms work properly? You’re feeling stiff? Maybe we can help you.

What should people do when they’re feeling stiff? Yes, that’s right. They should spend all day surfing the internet. Very good! What’s that? And try opium? Yes, that would work too. Excellent idea! Niki, we hope you are paying attention and stop moaning soon.

Here are Niki and the Dreamboat at the beach volleyball place. See them practising with their team-mates. They don’t look very good, do they? Especially Niki. Niki sucks. But that is OK because she warned her team-mates beforehand and now they’re not allowed to be mad or else they will be bad sports and un-Australian.

See Niki leaving the court. Why is she doing that? She is having a drink of water and bringing some back for the Dreamboat. Kind, thoughtful Niki! We know you’d much rather be practising with everyone else. Or having a ‘fucking beer’, like you keep saying.

Yay! Niki’s team has won its game because the other team didn’t show up. Bad, bad other team! You are losers and un-Australian and you probably have emotional problems and eat too many saturated fats and beat your kids and spend all your money on poker machines!

Niki looks very happy, doesn’t she? Now she can have a ‘fucking beer’. But here is another team offering to play hers instead. All the people on Niki’s team are really excited. Except Niki. She doesn’t look very keen. That look on her face is called ‘pouting’. Pout, Niki, pout! Now everyone knows what a moody cow you are!

See Niki falling over in the sand. Funny Niki! Now she’s doing it again. That part of her body she's trying to get the sand out of is called a ‘cleavage’.

Here is Niki’s team coming off the court at the end of the game. They got 35 points! Here is the other team. They got 71 points, even though it was their second game in a row and they were half-drunk! Poor Niki’s team. You will have to do better than that in future, won’t you?

Saturday
Look at the Dreamboat and Niki. They are both moving very slowly today. See Niki trying to lift a coffee cup. See the Dreamboat trying to get out of his chair. Hear them complaining about their stiffness. Silly Dreamboat! Silly Niki! You’re not stiff. You’re just old.

What is the Dreamboat doing now? He is carrying overnight bags and camera equipment and loading them into the fiery chariot. Brave Dreamboat! Work through your pain! What is Niki doing now? She is hiding in the toilet so she won’t have to lift anything. Devious Niki! You should be on a reality TV show!

See the Dreamboat and Niki eating pasta in a town called Ingham. They say they need the energy and they are talking about 'low GI' and nodding a lot, but really they’re just greedy. This is called 'nutrition'.

Do you know who those people in the pictures on the café walls are? They are very important figures in Queensland and soon a law will be passed so their pictures have to be on everyone’s walls. Have you guessed yet? That’s right. One is Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen and the other is Princess Diana. Did you know Princess Diana is dead? And Sir Joh has been in hospital recently? You did? Then you should keep your mouth shut if you ever go to that café.

Look at that beautiful waterfall. It’s called the Wallaman Falls. It’s very high, isn’t it? That’s because it’s the longest single-drop waterfall in Australia. See the Dreamboat and Niki walking down that steep hill to the bottom. Do you know how far it is? Yes, it’s two kilometres. Is that a long way? Of course not! Unless you’re going back up again.

Here is the Dreamboat climbing the hill. Look at his mighty thews pumping! Pump, mighty thews, pump! Where is Niki, Dreamboat? Further down the hill? How far? Will we need binoculars to see her?

Ah, there she is. What is Niki doing? She is resting. How many rests has she had, Dreamboat? You’ve lost count? Poor, poor Dreamboat. That must be very boring and embarrassing for you. You should have married a triathlete instead.

Can you hear what Niki is doing? She is counting her steps. When she reaches a hundred she has a rest. Look at her legs wobbling all by themselves. Don’t they look exactly like big, dimpled, epileptic jellies? Now she is resting after fifty steps. What’s that you’re saying, Niki? You haven’t had so much fun since the Gouffre de Padirac? Wait a minute! You only managed twenty steps this time. Lazy Niki! How will you reach the top if you keep resting?

See the Dreamboat and Niki trying to get out of the fiery chariot. They are at a place called Licuala Lodge at Mission Beach. Here is the nice man showing them their lovely room. It is at the top of that big, long flight of stairs. Niki is looking at the stairs. You remember what ‘sobbing’ means, don’t you?

Here are Niki and the Dreamboat in their room. They went out for dinner and now they are lying on the bed and drinking a bottle of wine and complaining about how sore they are. Listen! They have both gone quiet. That is because they are thinking. What are they thinking about? I will give you a hint: it’s to do with sex. Now they are both trying to stretch their muscles. They are thinking something else. Do you know what it is? I will give you a hint: “Nah.”

Sunday
See the legs in the bed. The shapely, well-thewed ones belong to the Dreamboat. The corrugated, cellulitey ones belong to Niki. What are all the legs doing? That’s right: they are doing nothing. Why is that? It’s because they don’t work anymore.

Look at Niki sleeping in the fiery chariot on the way home. See her rally briefly to have a mango smoothie at the Frosty Mango. See her fall asleep again.

Now the Dreamboat and Niki are back home. See Niki help carry the bags inside. That look on her face is called ‘reluctance’. Now she is going into the bedroom. She is not coming out. Do you know why? Yes, she has died! Poor, dead Niki. Will she rest in peace? Not where she’s going. Everyone knows that Hell is just one big interminable fitness program that never gets any results. Enjoy eternity, Niki! And put a bit of effort into those crunches!

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... on the last poll. A tie, in fact. Sixteen per cent of voters wanted Festus as the name of choice for the dog I'll one day never have. Another 16% opted for Goose. Perhaps we could alternate on an odd/even-numbered year basis.

Next up were the 14% who thought I should just forget about a dog and have a baby instead. The Dreamboat really loved you lot.

A three-way tie at 11% followed for Burt Lancaster, Baxter and Jesus H. Christ. It's reassuring to know someone out there likes good old Burt.

Then we had 8% who were of the considered opinion that this was the stupidest poll yet. I'm so glad I don't have sycophantic readers.

At the non-business end of the poll, there was a tie at 5% each for Hootie and Hogan. Whassamatter? Do you people have issues with the letter H or something?

John Smith came last with 3% of the vote, which is probably a good thing. I suspect there are enough John Smiths in the world as it is.

Thanks to everyone who voted, but please don't leave the theatre yet. I've been given the go-ahead by the Dreamboat to poll possible names for our beach volleyball team ... with the proviso that "Engineers AREN'T Boring" is not included in the options.

They're all pretty straight-forward but there's one I should probably say something about, for the benefit of the non-Antipodean contingent. "Sandy Freckle" is the name of a character in the Oz comedy, Kath & Kim. Sandy's a bit of a smoothie, in the worst possible sense. "Freckle" is also an Aussie slang term for "anus". Knowing this, the relationship between beach volleyball and "sandy freckle" becomes fairly obvious.

As we need a definite decision on the name by next Friday, this poll will only be up until COB (close of blogging) on Thursday. You've been given the power to affect six people's lives. Show no mercy. Vote now.

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I'm really glad those photos arrived yesterday, because yesterday was the 21st anniversary of my dad's death. I was in the middle of drafting a rather melancholy post about it for the blog when the courier knocked on the door, so it was great to have an excuse to write about something happy instead. We all got a reprieve.

I was still sad, though; it's hard not to be. I don't think you ever really get over the loss of someone you love, but I thought after so many years I had it pretty much under control. Then I went along to the writing group last night (despite my initial reservations, it's turning out to be quite cool), read out the short story I'd brought for critique and surprised everyone -- including myself -- by getting tearful at the end.

The story has nothing to do with Dad. It is one of my gloomier efforts but it's never affected me like that before. Ah, well. In the words of Big Chris from Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels: it's been emotional.

I'm not sure if sympathy got in the way of their critical faculties but the writing group people seemed to uniformly love the story ... so I'm kicking its depressing arse out into the world to see how it fares in a writing competition.

On another note entirely, the Dreamboat and I will be playing beach volleyball tomorrow night. The other team members are the Dreamboat's work colleagues and he sent out an email a few weeks back, calling on suggestions for a name. I put forward the same two I'd (unsuccessfully) pitched for our team back in Karratha. No-one else responded, so it looks as if "Die Screaming, You Muthas" wins by default. What else could better embody the true spirit of competitive sport?

The alternative is to list a few other suggestions on a new poll and invite you lot to decide for us. I'll check with the Dreamboat. Stay tuned.

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Our wedding photos arrived today.

I didn't elect to share this one with you because it was the best ... it wasn't. As you can see, I've cropped a group shot and sharpened it a tad and not done a very good job of either. (So much for my dream of becoming a world-famous photographer.)

No, I just wanted to show you what happens when a bride drinks four glasses of champagne on her Big Day and then, eschewing all offers of assistance from people much wiser and more sober than she, insists on arranging her train ... on the wrong side of her dress.

The Leaning Tower of Brisbane -- you saw it here first. And doesn't the Dreamboat look damned fetching in a skirt?

Update
Y'all were too kind about the first pic so I thought I'd push my luck a bit and put up another.

For those of you who were interested in the dress, here's a back view:

/ self-indulgent photo posting

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Be careful what you flash around, especially after a few wines on Valentine’s Day. Otherwise, there’s a good chance that that essay you wrote when you were ten could wind up on the internet …

All About Me

My name is [Junior Dreamboat]. My main interests are fishing and model making. I have many ambitions, one of which is to be an architect. I am keen on drawing buildings and maps. I would also like to be a cartographer which is a man who draws maps. I like swimming even if I am not a very strong swimmer. I like walking. I would like to try canoeing. An ambition I forgot about was to be an accountant. My birthday is on the same day as [some other kid in the same class]. I would also like to be a geography teacher. If I get into a University I would like it to be Strathclyde University. If I did not have any of these jobs then I would like to have a job in either Strasbourg in France or Brussels in Belgium where the head people in the Govt. of the Common Market work. I would also like to be a wine merchant in France, travelling around the French vineyards tasting there [sic] wines, to see whether they are dry (sec in French), bitter, sweet or plain.

The author of this piece wants it made known that he’s really embarrassed about the ‘accountant’ part. And I’m sure he now accepts the theoretical possibility that women can draw maps too.

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As you’d expect, the only valentine I’m giving with tongue this year goes to the Dreamboat.

God knows, he deserves it.

Not only did he buy Your Correspondent copies of Phaic Tan and the 2005 Australian Writer’s Marketplace, he also presented me with a bunch of yellow flowers (which I love, even though the Language of Flowers doesn't have anything very nice to say about yellow flora).

On a more general note, he listens when it counts, says nothing when he’s meant to, and encourages all ideas, no matter how subsequently embarrassing. Here’s this, from Friday night:

(After two beers)
Niki: I've got an idea. Maybe we should put on a drinks session for everyone in the Pocket; a kind of ‘meet the neighbours’ event.
DB: Yeah, I’d wondered about that too. We could have a Pocket Party.

(After four beers)
Niki: Yep, I could whip up a couple of salads and we could throw a few snags on the barbie and tell people to bring some beers.
DB : And their kids.
Niki: And their dogs too. As long as they picked up the dog-shit an' didn’t let their mongrels kill the cat.

(After six beers)
Niki: A Pocket Party. Thash cool. I like that. I can do some fuckin’ wee flyers and put them in their mailboxes. Innerestin’ to see who’d come … but wha’ the hell. We could play our music really loud an’ they couldn’t complain. Hey! We don’ have enough chairs.
DB: We could tell ‘em to bring their own.
Niki: Yeah … and grog and food. Ish our idea. We’re so cool. They should be grateful we’re doin’ this for 'em …

(After eight beers)
Niki: (Unintelligible)

(Next Morning)
Niki: (thinks to self) You had an idea last night. It was sad and pathetic and you are very, very lame. You see that now, don't you? You are also very, very unwell and it serves you right.
DB: (tactfully avoids the subject)

Maybe he just didn't want to be reminded that he originally went along with the idea too.

Other valentines of the platonic, tongueless sort go to:

1. Dave and Rat, who have recently given Your Correspondent invaluable feedback concerning her current fiction projects
2. Ken, who did a kind, thoughtful thing for another blogger and then, continuing in the 'kind, thoughtful' vein, sent all his resultant traffic my way
   

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Who: The Dreamboat and Your Correspondent
When: Wednesday night
Where: Outside on the patio
What: The Dreamboat has lit the gas-fired barbie and we're discussing the weather. Huge, dark clouds (the remnant of ex-tropical cyclone Harvey) fill the sky. It's very sultry but there's an occasional small puff of breeze to keep things bearable.

Niki: I think we'll definitely get a storm tonight. (nods sagely)
DB: Yeah, it looks that way.
(pause)
Niki: Hey! It's starting already! Did you hear that? Thunder!
DB: (listens)
Niki: There it is again! Yay!
DB: Er ... that's the barbeque.
Niki: Right. The wind blowing through it. I knew that. Shit.

I was going to tell you about seeing a very bright green light in the clouds a few hours later, and how it hurtled out of the sky and went somewhere behind a hill and it was the biggest and brightest and most incredible meteor I've ever witnessed ... but it was probably just a car headlight or a fluoro weather balloon or something.

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I must’ve been around nine years old. The Dowager Empress had dragged me, along with my younger brother and sister, into town for some shopping … and boy, did her eyes light up after entering the shop in question and seeing the sign: Free Half-Hour Magic Show at 2:00pm – Lots of Fun for the Kiddies!

She hustled us over to the Free Half-Hour Magic Show Room and then took off at the speed of light. Assorted haberdashery items followed, sucked along in the slipstream.

It was only 1:30pm. Or maybe it just felt like it.

There was no-one else in the room. The three of us sat on a long wooden bench at the back and quietly behaved ourselves. If we’d been at home, we probably would’ve ripped out each other’s hair and moved on to sustained beatings with the Doggie Chair*, but we were shy in unfamiliar places and tended to stick together.

The room gradually filled up with kids, all of them very young. I squirmed with embarrassment. Being stuck with my younger siblings was bad enough but I certainly didn’t belong in here with these babies.

The magician made his appearance. He was a nice enough guy, even though he apparently felt compelled to put on a ‘Lots of Fun for the Kiddies!’ voice while busily pulling numerous silk scarves and doves out of his pants.

Sorry, I meant ‘out of small boxes’.

After half an hour, he announced it was time for the grand finale: some lucky urchin was going to be sawn in half. He called for volunteers. His juvenile audience stared at him in terror and remained mute. Then he looked at me.

“What about you? Wouldn’t you like to be sawn in half? Come on up here.”

I acquiesced. Not because I’d ever really aspired to being sawn in half (I think I was more interested in trepanning at the time), but because I’d been singled out from everyone else there. Sure, he only picked me because I was the oldest and could probably be relied upon to not emit ear-splitting shrieks or wet my pants. I knew that even then. All the same, when you’re as hideous a kid as I was, being chosen for anything was a big deal.

He got me to lie down on a table, swung some wooden thing on hinges across my stomach and latched it shut. Then he picked up a saw. To be honest, I started feeling a little apprehensive at that point.

Next, he began sawing away at the wooden thing. It made a very loud, splintering noise but it didn’t hurt and I didn’t feel anything. So I started to enjoy myself. I tried a couple of experimental groans, just to add a little extra impact, but the magician frowned and shook his head slightly.

It was all over too soon. The magician unlatched the wooden thing, handed me a lollipop and whispered, “Don’t tell them how it’s done.” Yeah, right. I still don’t know how it was bloody done, but the experience made me a huge hero in the eyes of little brother and sister.

Siblings: He didn’t really saw you in half, did he?
Hero Niki: Yeah, he did.
Siblings: Did it hurt?
Hero Niki: Heck, yeah. It hurt a lot. I nearly screamed heaps of times.
Siblings: He really cut you? Did it bleed?
Hero Niki: Yep. Buckets.
Siblings: Can we see?
Hero Niki: No.
Siblings: Why not?
Hero Niki: You’re too young.

I kept them both going for years with that one. As they got older and more sophisticated, they started demanding to see scar tissue. I refused, of course, and always with that infuriatingly smug phrase so beloved by big kids when talking down to little kids: “You’re still too young.”

I don't think my sister has ever forgiven me for this.

* A wooden, toddler-sized rocking chair with dogs painted on either side. We'd all rocked away in it while watching TV when we were very little. It was solid as hell and quite heavy -- the perfect bludgeoning device for warring siblings. I think it was eventually handed down to my nieces, where it would've no doubt become an essential item in their own armoury.

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The Townsville Photographic Society meets once a month ... in the local Blind Association building, would you believe.

The February meeting was tonight and the Dreamboat and I, in our continuing quest to meet people with common interests and maybe, like, be friends with them, decided to go along for a look.

It was a sociable, chaotic sort of affair. Fourteen of us sat around a couple of tables and basically chatted to each other. Age-wise it was a mixed bag; we fell somewhere in the middle. The regulars had brought along prints and laptops and showed them to anyone who was interested. Some of the work was terrific. For all the apparent casualness, most people seem to really know their photographic stuff.

The group's nominal leader, a gregarious bloke dressed in Tradesmen's Shorts, did his best to muster everyone into welcoming the four newbies of the night, and then cheerfully subsided into the general anarchy.

The society has bi-monthly photographic themes and it runs monthly field trips. This month's theme is 'building/construction', so in a couple of weeks we'll be wandering around town snapping scaffolding and roofing iron. Your Correspondent is planning to go all arty on everyone's arses and shoot in black and white. That's when she's not wrestling the Dreamboat for the tripod.

So yeah, it looks as if the Townsville Photographic Society is a goer. Definitely a goer, in fact -- you can buy a beer there for $1.50.

The jury's still out on the writers' group, though. I went along last Wednesday night and wasn't too sure what to make of it. A big plus is that once a month they do a radio show on one of the local stations. There's also the fact that a weekly meeting is a great incentive to stay disciplined and keep writing. On the other side of the equation ... well, writers can be an odd bunch. I'll stick with it for a while and see what develops.

Alongside these fun and useful activities, the plan is to keep plugging away at the gym. As of next week, we'll be playing sport. When the weather starts to cool down a bit, we'll demonstrate further what well-rounded individuals we are by joining the local 4WD club. And if we still can't make friends after all that, I don't think we'll be overly bothered. We'll be far too buggered to care.

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If there's one thing Your Correspondent really enjoys, it's prattling on about nothing. You know how when little kids are learning to talk and they burble away to you earnestly and you can't understand a word they're saying but it's really cute and you play along so that you don't fuck up their development and somehow end up being responsible for their becoming crack whores in later life? Well, I'm like that little kid. Except for the 'cute' bit. I just never got out of the habit of babbling.

The Dreamboat, by contrast, is a laconic sort of bloke. Not that it matters; I usually have more than enough material to compensate. And when I run out, I can spin copious amounts of shit around nothing at all. Like this, from Saturday night:

Niki: I'm going out for a smoke.
DB: OK. (puts on movie)
Niki: (returning a couple of minutes later) Hey, has that film already started?
DB: Yeah.
Niki: Why didn't you wait?
DB: I thought you were watching it through the window, like you usually do.
Niki: I can't see it properly when I'm outside. I have to press my face up against the glass like a poor little match girl left out in the snow*. And then I have to open the door and ask you what everyone said.
DB: Like you have to worry about snow here.
Niki: That's not the point. I said, like a poor little match girl out in the snow. The snow isn't important. The poor little match girl pressing her face up against the glass and not being able to see or hear the movie properly is the bit we're concentrating on here. You've forgotten what it's like to be a smoker -- all marginalised and shit, made to watch movies outside, forced into being a poor little match person ... etc. etc.
DB: (starts movie again because by now we've both missed so much of it)

Yeah, I'm a pain in the arse, I know. It's because I've got thick ankles. I can trace many of my character flaws directly back to having thick ankles. They fucked up my development. It's a wonder I'm not a crack whore.

One of my favourite made-up conversational topics is Thinking Up Names For the Dog I Don't Have. The Dreamboat and I discuss this one fairly regularly because I can never make up my mind. And so, as we now know for sure that Your Correspondent's ongoing insomnia is the direct result of interference from Buffy the Cat (28% of you thought so and the little tart confirmed it herself) and the list of Non-Existent Dog names has recently grown, I thought it was time for a new poll. It's up now. Go for it.

That, my superheroes, is what this post was actually about. Told you I could prattle on for ages about nothing ...

* It's a Hans Christian Anderson thing.

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Nope, it looks as if I was meant to get three lessons in humility after all …

Lesson Three Proper: I am Very, Very Stupid

Yesterday, a guy arrived to replace a pane of glass in our bedroom. It was cracked two days before Christmas by the lying sack of shit who mows our lawns, but that’s another rancour-filled story.

Glass Guy removes the cracked pane and fiddles around and then announces he has to go away and find a thicker piece of glass. While he's gone, the room heats up, fills with dust and is rapidly colonised by assorted insect and arachnid life.

Half an hour later Glass Guy returns, pauses briefly to relate the story of how he once saw Johnny Farnham get hit on the head by a brick while performing in concert, and fits the new pane.

All well and good.

Shortly after he leaves, Your Correspondent is in the bedroom, vacuuming up all the grass he traipsed through the place, when she notices the blinds moving as if under the influence of a gentle zephyr. Then it occurs to her that the room’s still like a furnace. And she can clearly hear one of the guys on the building site over the road yelling various endearments like, “Ya fuckin’ moron!” to one of his colleagues.

She moves closer for an examination. There’s definitely hot air coming through and there seems to be a gap in the aluminium framework between the upper and lower windows.

Three phone calls are rapidly made.

Call Number One: The Dreamboat
Niki: You won’t believe this. That fucking glass guy didn’t fit the pane properly. There’s no sound-proofing at all, the dust’s coming in like you wouldn’t believe and it’s going to cost us a fortune in air-conditioning to keep the bloody room cool. I’m so sick of this. We’ve been dicked around ever since we got here … bloody fridges that never get made, fucking liars breaking our glass and then swearing blind they didn’t and now this … etc. etc.

Call Number Two: The Real Estate Agent
Niki: (rants for a long time without swearing)
Real Estate Agent: I’ll get straight on it and call him.

Call Number Three: The Dowager Empress
DE: How are you? You don’t sound very happy.
Niki: I hate bloody tradesmen. (rants for a long time with only minor-league swearing)

Then the Dreamboat comes home from work.
DB: How’s things?
Niki: That fucking real-estate agent didn’t call back. Friday afternoon, you see. Doesn’t give a shit. (rants for a long time with building industry-type swearing)
DB: I’ll take a look at it.
(exits and returns a couple of minutes later)
DB: Babe, did you leave the top windows open?
Niki: Of course not. Why the hell would I do that?
DB: Well, they were open …
(extended pause)
Niki: Oh shit.

Yep, Glass Guy's only mistake was to open the top windows and not close them again before he left. And in Your Correspondent's defence, these windows don't open out. They slide. There's security screening in front of them so they look the same whether open or closed. But still ... Ground. Open. Swallow. Now.

I really hate being wrong, especially when I've been spectacularly profane in my wrongness and particularly when quite a few other people have to be informed ...

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(For Lessons One and Two, see yesterday's post.)

This was made known to me yesterday during a phone conversation with my mother, the Dowager Empress:

Lesson Three: You Can Never Escape Your Past

DE: I've been dying to tell you this. Remember that guy you used to dance with -- C?
Niki: Yeah.
DE: Well, every week one of the newspapers here prints an interview with someone who's been successful in running their own business. This week, they interviewed C.
Niki: Cool! Good for him.
DE: Yes, but wait. Hang on, I'll read it out to you.
(Reads answers to general questions about favourite food, favourite film, most special moment, most admired person, etc.)
DE: Now, listen to this. The heading is "Most Embarrassing Moment". Here's what he says:

I was in a modern dance exhibition in the Dunedin Town Hall, many years ago now, and I put my partner into a lift and her breast fell out in front of hundreds of people and there was nothing to do but finish the move.

DE: Was that you he's talking about?
Niki: Yep.

That happened twenty years ago and he still remembers it.

This only goes to prove what I've long suspected: Your Correspondent has most excellent and memborable udders.

It also proves that I'm only good for two lessons in humility.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I must hasten away and listen fondly to the P.S. from The Ballad of Chasey Lain (definitely not for the easily offended).

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Apparently, someone or something has decided I need to contemplate the meaning of humility.

Lesson One: I am Ridiculous
The Dreamboat and I were talking last night ...

Niki: You know, I'm really starting to wonder what's happening to me. I'm averaging eight hours sleep every two days, I can't shut off my brain, there's all this stuff zooming around in there ... Maybe it's a sign something bad's going to happen. You know, a huge burst of frenzied activity before I find out I've got a brain tumour or something.
DB: Only you would say that.
Niki: What do you mean?
DB: You're getting all these ideas, you're being really creative ... and you think it's because of a brain tumour?

Lesson learned.

Lesson Two: I Need to Pay More Attention to Wall Fittings
Your Correspondent has burnt the toast and set off the smoke alarms. She's at one end of the kitchen, flapping a tea-towel underneath a plastic thing on the wall. The Dreamboat is at the other end, waving his hands below two plastic things on the ceiling. Nothing much seems to be happening at my end, so I join the Dreamboat. The smoke alarms stop.

DB: Babe, that wasn't a smoke alarm you were standing under before. It was the doorbell.

Lesson learned.

Lesson Three will be posted later today. I'm waiting for a phone call from the Dowager Empress (mother), to confirm the wording of a quote.

Update: I've had to put back Lesson Three until tomorrow. It's worth the wait ...

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At 2:30pm yesterday, our huge, enormous, massive, colossal, gargantuan BEHEMOTH of a new fridge was delivered.

At 4:30pm, Your Correspondent filled it with food.

At 6:30pm, electricity was cut to 1,800 homes in Townsville, ours included.

At 11:30pm, power was finally restored.

No-one seems to know why it went off in the first place.

Sshhh.

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