Andrew Barnett: random muttering

Drinking

Fri, 09 May 2003 12:30:14 GMT

It's time for a non-drinking update, mainly on account of I can't think of anything else to write about.

This week, being the fourth, has been different in that the habit of not drinking is mostly established; I haven't spent the whole of each evening wondering why I don't just open a bottle. I forget about it now for hours at a time. That's some relief, as I was beginning to wonder exactly how much willpower was required to go the six-week minimum I've set as a target.

Physically, I'm finally starting to feel some benefit too. Well, I would be if not for this sickness. Yeah, I'm basically cleaner and healthier. I'd guess I look a couple of years younger, although there's a sad corollary to that: in 2 years I'll be right back where I was a month ago.

But the best bit is that I've suddenly started to lose weight. Nearly 2 years' back, I managed to drop quite a bit of weight -- from 78kg to under 70kg -- in a short time. It stayed away for a year, but has slowly crept back in the last few months. I am slightly mystified by the gain, however I remain unconvinced by a friend's assertion that my predilection for Katsu Don has anything to do with it; I can only surmise it's more likely to be due to something in the water. Anyway, even though I'd not grown quite to my old size, I was still larger than I wished to be. Well now, if I tense hard enough, I can actually suck in the old tummy to something approximating flat. My, who is that slim fellow in the mirror? Golly gosh, could it be? Groovy!

Against all that, I have to say I'm still alarmingly placid and woolly of mind, as evidenced by the rather haphazard construction of this prose. Also, the killer headache persists. I'm beginning to understand that I may be in for a long process of relearning how to do things like think, create, relax and actually deal with my demons.

Finally, there's something else that's changed. I want to explore that some. I tried to write it all in one go and, 3 days' later, have gotten nowhere, so here is the first bit -- others to follow.

I suppose many people who drink more than we should, myself included, tend to wear it quietly, but openly, as some kind of badge, tattoo perhaps, that sets us apart from everyone else; a badge that says we don't live entirely in your oh-so safe, square, clean, nicey-nicey little world. We dance with the devil, we abuse our bodies every night, we live on drink instead of food and sleep, we go places the rest of you don't, we can shock the pants off you just by casually mentioning how we live, so don't go thinking we're the same passive conformists that the rest of you are. We're not. We're different. Rules? Hah: they're for everyone else, not us.

Which, essentially, is a complete crock of steaming bullshit.

Or, then again, perhaps not at all when you understand its motivation. If anyone cares, I'll carry on to explain over the next few days.

Tripping

Tue, 29 Apr 2003 12:15:02 GMT

Well, the headache from hell is sort of back in its cage, but it's rattling the bars and looking for a way, any way, out. The right side of my face is sore to the touch and I can feel the tension hovering there, waiting to strike

I won't take any more drugs though. The Mersyndol did some interesting things to me: about half an hour after taking them, I became quite tired and woozy, typing 2 letters forward, 1 back. I gave up and went to bed. But all I could do was doze for the next hour. I couldn't fall into a proper sleep and every little noise woke me. Then, of course, I couldn't wake up so well this morning until my excellent wife bounded out of bed and brought me my morning mug of filter coffee. OK, it was probably her turn but it was a nice thing to do.

Where it got weird was when I hit the city at about 8:30. I was standing at the lights, waiting to cross, when I turned and looked at the lady next to me. And nearly fell over backwards. Her face was in my face, if you get me. Like huge and crystal clear and almost as though through a wide-angle lens. Everything I turned my gaze on would slowly come into crystal-clear focus and appear to grow in size slightly, and it would be the only thing really in focus. The effect was very much like the Dock on Apple Macs, where the icons grow as you mouse over them. It was odd, but the effect was pretty mild, so not too worrying and actually rather entertaining.

Digging

Mon, 28 Apr 2003 12:53:37 GMT

I vaguely remember a bit from Thoreau's Walden where he enthusiastically writes of having dug a sizeable cellar, in which to store his food, in a single day. I even-more-vaguely remember -- and it'll stay vague because I can't be shagged walking to the study and actually finding the passage in question -- that he offers this as part of evidence for the proposition that farmers could manage quite well without the use of animal labour.

Much as I agree with the principles of that proposition, I can only wonder if Thoreau would have been quite so enthusiastic had he been faced with the kind of clay soil that I must deal with. It's soul-destroying stuff: the pick literally bounces off it when it's dry in summer -- I swear I've seen sparks -- and in winter it becomes heavy, sticky and almost impossible to dig. I should mention too the novel experience of growing taller with each footstep until one looks down and sees that one's boots have turned into a pair of snowshoe-sized platform soles a foot thick. Frankly, I reckon Thoreau wouldn't have been able to dig so much as a grave for a dead cat in one day.

Hot, Wet & Naked

Mon, 28 Apr 2003 12:26:29 GMT

I got hot, wet and naked on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Oh yes. It was delicious.

You see -- and apologies to anyone arriving here by way of a Google search on "hot wet naked" -- I spent about 3 hours in a light rain slowly digging a new garden bed of about 4 metres each way, breaking the rock-hard clay with a pick, digging and raking through the bags of chook poo. It wasn't too cold and I worked in t-shirt and jeans. I'm way out of condition so the pattern was a few minutes of frenetic work until my arms started to wobble and the pick wander out of control, then a lot of minutes stood still pondering and stuff as the rain fell on me and I slowly became wetter and wetter. I should explain to any women reading that doing this kind of thing makes men quite happy and is to be tolerated; do not attempt to rescue your man or persuade him of the hopelessness of the situation.

Anyway, job finally done, I came inside wet, cold and muddy, my arms and back and torso aching. And then I had a shower -- a long, steamy, hot, soaking, decadent shower. I have to say that a hot shower on a rainy afternoon, body filthy and tired and sore, is among the most sensual things I have experienced.

I topped it off with a yummo double-strength coffee made on my espresso machine (Solis SL70), which I love. I read a feature in the newspaper last week on home espresso machines and it said that of course you'll never be able to make a coffee as good as the ones you buy. Crap! I can make a decent flat white or cafe latte or macchiatto better than all but the best of the cafes around work. And I'm talking proper coffee here, not that luke-warm, mocha-tasting, insipid muck proffered by the major coffee chains. Ugh!

Bah?

Sat, 26 Apr 2003 12:30:16 GMT

Following on from that last post, I had the uncomfortable thought that maybe my writing is an all-too-accurate reflection of the real me, that it's actually revealing the real me to myself. Perhaps my inner thoughts are as discontinuous and halting as the words that fall onto the page? Perhaps I really have no great rage or passion? Perhaps my perceptions and values are so disappointingly white, middle class, conformist after all?

So why don't I feel that way?

Kids

Fri, 25 Apr 2003 14:09:36 GMT

We're driving in heavy traffic yesterday, a bus in the lane next to us. The bus is close because the lanes are narrow. The bus driver honks, nothing too agressive though; I took it as sign that I'd drifted a little close and corrected slightly. No problem.

Then Nat turns around and gasps in horror. Emma, all 2-1/2 years of her, has unclipped her harness and is kneeling up in her child seat, happily leaning half out the window. Aha: that would be why the bus driver honked.

Emma manages something like that every few days to amaze us and scare us witless at the same time. I'm not sure whether I'm more astonished at the things that she does, or at the fact that she's managed to avoid doing herself any major damage.

On Holiday

Fri, 25 Apr 2003 13:27:53 GMT

I've been on holidays of sorts for most of this week. Good Friday and Easter Monday are public holidays, so a 4-day weekend. Back to work Tuesday for the all-important get-timesheets-and-invoice-approved-and-submitted-so-I-can-have-money exercise. Then Wednesday and Thursday off, and Friday is another public holiday: ANZAC day.

I rarely take proper holidays; rather just a few days here and there, and a whole week once a year or so. Actually, that's all people get in the US isn't it: 2 weeks' leave a year? But don't get the idea I'm one of those sad, wedded-to-my-job types. Oh no! I work relatively few hours and spend as much time as I can with immediate family and close friends. This is obviously why I never have enough money but, perhaps one day, I'll be able to look back and know I got the balance roughly right.

This break though, has been long enough to seem like a proper holiday. I've been off for 8 days now and have 2 to go. The day at work hardly counted as there were very few people in and I only worked a short day. The holiday feeling is strengthened by the most-amazing autumn weather, the kind of thing that would pass for a hazy, balmy summer in much of the world. The temperature has been 20 - 22C (70F) day after day. Mornings are foggy and cool, but not frosty. We've yet to bother with the central heating.

Anyway, the point of all that is to explain to my audience of 2 why I've been quiet.

It's this: when I'm on holiday, away from the office, I totally de-intellectualise (© Andrew 2003). My thoughts become less and less explicit. Er, bad choice of words, cos in some ways they get more explicit. Try again. Perhaps I meant less conscious? I feel more than I think. I do spend the day lost in thought, become very reflective, but less and less do I put my thoughts in words. And what am I thinking of, besides the aforementioned less-and-more-explicit stuff? Life stuff. Elemental stuff. Gardening, landscaping, building, cooking, walking, soaking in the sun. Trees and rocks and grass and water and sky and sun and bread and wine and paintings and myriad other things that are all about a sensual life, about the business of actually living, and not about things like relational-database design.

And I find myself spending hours reading digital camera reviews. As ever, I want to express my emotions and visual means seem more apt than words for my current state of mind. Unhappily, though, I cannot make a decent photograph despite some years of enthusiastic efforts, and now leave that side of things to my rather-more-talented wife. I hafta remind myself -- frequently -- that the mere acquisition of a digital camera will not suddenly release the genius photographer within me; I took crap, boring images with a succession of 35mm compact and SLR cameras and so I would with any other kind of camera.

Naturally I shall still go ahead and buy a digital camera, play with a bit, become upset with my efforts and then give it to my wife.

Graffiti of Note

Mon, 07 Apr 2003 07:02:12 GMT

Graffiti seen on a stationary goods wagon in a railyard, on my way home:

dis train am bound for glory dis train

Remembering that this is suburban Australia, not the deep south of America and, bearing in mind the intellect exhibited by most practitioners, this one is happily incongruous and novel.

Back on Deck, Almost

Sun, 06 Apr 2003 12:31:19 GMT

I've been quiet for a few days, mostly because I've been tired.

I don't write for a living, so blogging is a slow, deliberate activity, and one that has to happen after the kids are done with of a night. That's never before 9:30 and, since I get up around 6:20 of a morning, by that time of night I'm getting tired enough to be fit for little more than reading the short and funny blog entries for the day, perhaps posting the odd (very odd) comment. Writing, for me, don't come easy.

Last week, too, I was preoccupied with things personal. Us introverts tend to withdraw at such times.

BUT, he said happily, this morning I struggled to consciousness after a miserable, broken night's sleep -- autumn is the worst time for allergies and I can't sleep when I can't breathe. And behold, my pickled brain was buzzing, albeit sluggishly, with things to say.

Except that, being Sunday, I filled my day with kid stuff and cooking and a short sleep and sitting in the garden and thinking, and now it's late again, and I'm tired again.

Gaping Void

Wed, 26 Mar 2003 11:57:28 GMT

Last year I stumbled across Gaping Void: "cartoons drawn on the back of business cards", by Hugh MacLeod. I spent a happy hour reading some of the funniest stuff I'd seen for a long time. I sent the link and selected cartoons to anyone I could think of and then, in the manner of all people my age with kids, promptly forgot all about it. Until I stumbled across it again last week.

A sample:

The META tag description attribute from the HTML source says:

"Edgy, urbane, deranged hysterically funny and very unsuitable for children or the mainstream, the cartoons were all drawn on the back of business cards and portray a cynical but intensely honest view of the modern urban condition."

I receive a new batch each Monday and I'll post my favourite up here.

An Echo Forward in Time

Thu, 20 Mar 2003 07:17:49 GMT

Yesterday was a strange one, here in Melbourne. Weatherwise that is. I left home before dawn. In the half light, the wind was warm, strong, gusting; the clouds dynamic and rendered in blood-red and black by the sun about to rise. I'm an elemental person, strongly affected by the weather. I felt alive, exposed and apprehensive.

Later, 40km from home in the city centre, we had a bit of storm: a flash of lightning and, half a second later, thunder that shook the office; then rain, which was whipped horizontal by the wind.

By midday, the entire city and suburbs was blanketed by what I think was a mixture of smoke from nearby fires and dust from hundreds of kilometres north. It was like a dirty, brown, smog, visibility was perhaps a bit over 1 kilometre and it was dark in the same way as when storms come in winter. Back home last night it was still the same: warm, gusty wind and irritating brown air.

None of it was spectacular enough to suggest the end of the world, but it was deeply disquieting, being mindful of what was about to transpire on the other side of the world. It didn't seem so much an omen, as an echo forward in time, synchronicity at work. Was this the kind of sky those poor people would be waking up to, filled with fire and smoke and soot?

And then this morning it was all gone. The rain had come and gone, the air was moist and clear and cool. I felt better too, after my first semi-decent night's sleep in a week.

Is today too an echo forward in time? Or was yesterday a flash, a vision, that's now gone?

Erk!

Fri, 14 Mar 2003 14:06:16 GMT

My shoulders have gone to sleep. I mean they're tingling and crawling slightly, and they're asleep. Truly. This last happened nearly 3 years' back at Changi airport Singapore. I'd been up for over 24 hours. "Time for bed.", said Zebedee.

Nothing to Add

Thu, 13 Mar 2003 14:17:37 GMT

It's near midnight already. I've been reading and reading today; so many blogs, so many lucid, eloquent, thinking dudes. I have one or two grand thoughts in a year; these people are dishing them out on a daily basis. Maybe I should be reading instead the outpourings of teenagers and offer worldly advice from 20 years in their future. Instead, I feel as though I'm wandering through a coming together of giants, me looking up in astonishment, almost keeping up with what's being said, but not knowing how to begin to enter the conversation without looking like a prize yokel by compare. Actually, it's not dissimilar to the mildly-drunk-at-the-party feeling.

At these times, I try to remember to trust my guts. I see things that most of my peers don't, I know what is universally true when I hear it and what isn't; I can do that. But I can't articulate very well the why of it.

Anyway, I've been writing comments on other peoples' blogs today. Liz, you were right: "commenting is much easier than creating original content". And maybe even these super-clever, A-list dudes like some genuine, personal feedback too:

"Hmmm, 4,321 hits today. Well happy with that I suppose, but nobody commented. Oh well, obviously the mindless saps all agreed with me totally."

Erk, midnight! And I'm rambling.

I did have some stuff I wanted to talk about, mostly this whole inexorable movement to ubiquitous networks, P2P, WiFi, Emergent Democracy, etc. And an astonishing paragraph in Dee Hock's email to Joi Ito:

I wonder if you realize that a dozen or two people like yourself with the right combination of communication, technological and organizational skills could design and implement a global government without the consent of any present form of organization and provide it with the neural network to insure its success. A government that could continually evolve to ensure that no matter affecting the public good or the health of the planet fails to be disclosed, examined and understood. Or that any existing organization could escape being confronted with synthesized opinions and alternatives that would swiftly emerge. Such an organization based on rights of participation and withdrawal and consent of the participants could be something entirely new in this tired world. Now that would be something truly worthy of the best within us and the best among us. And a great deal of fun in the bargain! It would, in the fullest sense, be far from democratic since the Internet remains largely a tool of the privileged and technologically savvy. That, we can hope, will change in time. One must always begin somewhere, remembering that the sages tell us our responsibility is to succeed in the world as we find it if it is ever to become the world we wish it to be.

But it's been another day of rather more elemental existence, of being with my children, the eldest off school with chicken pox, while my dear wife sleeps off whatever viral nasty is making her feel so sore and tired. I have nothing intelligent to say right now. Perhaps tomorrow. I have good vibes about tomorrow.

Sick Children

Sun, 09 Mar 2003 23:03:55 GMT

8:50 Monday morning. A public holiday: Labour Day would you believe. My 8-yo boy, Sam, has spots all over his face, inside his nose and mouth, and they're spreading to his arms. He's miserably uncomfortable. It would seem that after being exposed 3 or 4 times, he's finally managed to contract chicken pox. And little Emma is sick too; we wait to see whether she develops spots. She did have a few isolated spots about a week back, so perhaps she's already over it?

Nat and I are facing at least a week of kids at home to cover between us. I don't get upset about the lost income; I figure that's just one of the costs of parenthood.

I need more coffee.

Sunday Morning

Sat, 08 Mar 2003 22:56:18 GMT

8:50am Sunday. I'm the only one awake, though the restless noises I hear from other rooms suggest it won't be for long. It's just started to rain. After months of drought, rain is still a happy novelty. And there's something lovely about the sound of rain on a metal roof. I have a mug of good filter coffee, I'm scanning a dozen or so blogs, I'm looking out at the rain.

Struggling a Little

Wed, 05 Mar 2003 22:29:40 GMT

I introspect far more than most people. And I mostly don't cope so well with what I see. Living with myself, with being me, is hard, sometimes too hard. It's taken a lot of years to be able to say, "Yeah, I'm an OK person." And it's not as if I haven't had the most wonderful support from friends and family. This is my private struggle. Some days I feel good, today I feel a little the other way. It's almost balanced but tipping slightly towards the precipice. Most times now I can drag it back fairly quickly and easily, and that's how it'll be today I think. So, I'm OK. But I do wish sometimes I knew how to stride confidently out into the world, drawing quiet power and comfort from the knowledge of being A Good and Happy Man.

Writing is a Private Thing

Tue, 04 Mar 2003 07:14:54 GMT

I've already commmented on Halley's inspired piece, though perhaps adding my clumsily expressed thoughts on art like that does nothing to praise it. Whatever.

Anyway, for a few days now I've been pondering why I'm so reluctant to pull the Powerbook out on the train and write. I won't do it when the person sitting next to me might be able to read what I write. Not even when that person is my dear wife, though I fully expect her to read the finished piece. Recently at work, I was typing a chatty email to a colleague when she wandered around to see me. My reaction was to quickly hide the open window so she wouldn't see the very words I was about to send her. Why?

Well, I know this seems utterly obvious and unoriginal, but I think it's because the act of writing is a deeply private experience. This is not something I'd ever really thought about. Here's the bit Halley wrote that let me see:

...in a friend's back room on a Saturday early evening when everyone else was drinking beer, but you politely explained to your already tipsy hostess that you'd pass on the beer, but was there anywhere you might slip into a private room and ... Christ it was dirty and hot and almost as fun as stealing her husband for a few hours to fuck while no one was watching ... could you please BLOG a little in private?

We pour out our feelings, express our emotions, for an audience, be it one or many, but we don't want them to see us doing it. Are painters similarly sensitive? And potters and sculptors and architects? Or is it just me that's sensitive?

Emma

Sun, 02 Mar 2003 12:18:52 GMT

Today marked several milestones for my little girl, Emma. She's 2 years, 5 months -- almost. Perhaps if I record these events here I'll be able to look back some years from now. Who knows.

Lately each Sunday morning, we head off to the swimming pool for an hour or so. Nat swims for a while and I splash about with the kids. Emma has quickly developed a love of the pool and is quite fearless most of the time. Normally we don't worry with swimming aids for Emma beyond goggles, but today she was kitted out with blow-up floaties on her arms and a strap-on, polystyrene bubble on her back. And she swam :-) All on her own, she lifted her legs and floated and slowly waggled arms and legs and swam 10 metres or more at a time. Little people are so funny when they do things, and watching her happily paddling along, declining assistance, was just priceless.

Toilet training has been a little bit of an issue with Emma. She's actually quite in control of her bodily functions, but using the potty or toilet seems to be a power struggle of some sort whereby she doesn't want to let go in the way we ask her. She'll hang on for hours without a nappy (diaper for US readers), then either have an accident or desperately request a nappy. She's piddled and pooed on the carpet, kitchen chairs, couch, table, you name it. But today, 3 times in all, she ASKED to sit on the toilet. Yay! Yeah, we still had a few nappies too, but this is a big step, the one that means we're more there than not.

And finally, Emma pedalled her tricycle instead of scooting with her feet. Way to go little girl.

Good Night

Wed, 26 Feb 2003 13:22:58 GMT

The whisky glass is empty, again. The battery on my PowerBook is down to 38 minutes. It's 11:20pm and I'll be up at 6am. I believe the universe is gently hinting that I should go to bed.

Down

Sun, 23 Feb 2003 04:33:58 GMT

Sunday. I feel OK. Yesterday I didn't. I don't know whether the depression reasserted itself for a little while, or whether I was unwell. Tired, lethargic and only partly there mentally. It's like most of my non-essential faculties shut down, rather like when one is tired and a bit drunk. Words are hard to put together, actions clumsy, thoughts the same. The here and now isn't too bad but what happens 5 minutes' ago disappears into the soft-focus distance. I can remember OK what I did earlier in the day, but the mental images are more like visualising a narrative from someone else than remembering for real -- like when one reads a book and "sees" it happening.

It might be the change of seasons, or the constant smoke pollution. I don't know. I hate those days.

When kids are sick

Tue, 18 Feb 2003 00:38:57 GMT

3 days a week, Nat and I take the kids to their respective child care in the morning and catch the train together. I get to work about 9:15. I leave again at 4:15 to begin the long journey home, picking up the kids on the way.

Annyway, I got in this morning as per normal, made a cup of tea, sent some emails and began work. Then my mobile rings; it's Emma's child care. She's a little unwell, which we knew, but they've picked up other symptoms which they feel are worrying and should be seen by a doctor.

OK, pull up the train timetables on the web; there's one I can make in about 20 minutes. Pull up the 'phone directory and call the medical centre; yes, I can get her an appointment late morning. Shut down the PC and leave. Total time at work: 40 minutes. Nat's on a field trip today, so she can't do anything to help. I call her to let her know, but she doesn't answer. I send a text message to let her know what's going on.

And now I'm sitting on the train, worrying needlessly about my little girl. I'll be OK once I get to her but I hate the sitting and waiting. When kids are sick it tugs on your heart like nothing else can.

Tired

Fri, 14 Feb 2003 05:53:30 GMT

I'm tired. It's mid-afternoon Friday and I'm sitting at my desk in the office. Half the department has left for the day to go fishing. Truly. It's quiet and what work I have to do is uninspiring. I'm leaving in a little while anyway to catch the train, pick up the kids, go home.

So, I have a perfect opportunity to spend some time planning my enterprise, the thing I call The Grand Plan. Or perhaps to download some software and play a little.

But I'm too tired after a week of getting up at 6am and managing kids and a long commute and all the rest of it. I have no energy, no inspiration.

So, I've bought a strong, half-size coffee and I'm sipping that and watching the clock tick by. And writing this.

Airshow

Mon, 10 Feb 2003 11:35:42 GMT

Next weekend is the big airshow -- the Australian International Airshow or something like that. I'd like to go. I love aeroplanes and flight in general, which of course explains why I've never learned to fly. I went to the very first airshow in 1993 (I think it was 1993) but have managed to miss every one since. I enjoyed myself hugely, except for about 3 hours in the middle of the day when I was stricken with some of the worst hayfever I've ever had. I sat almost motionless with a handkerchief held over my streaming eyes for an hour or more, unable to see anything very much

The traffic was so bad at the first one -- not that it worried me, for I travelled by motorcycle -- that many people including me stayed away the next time in 1995. I was all set to go in 1997 but Nat's cat suddenly required an $85 operation to stitch a torn ear. That was approximately the amount I had budgeted to attend. We were poor enough that I couldn't conscionably spend yet more money. I didn't mind at all (note for American readers and animal lovers, this is an example of irony). After that year, I gave up for a while. My son, Sam was too little and not a keen walker, and airshows demand a lot of walking. I didn't mind at all

Finally, I tried to go in 2001 but the rest of the family decided to come too, and we left a lot later than I had planned. We never even got close to the airshow: the traffic was so bad it was going to take hours. We were covering a few hundred metres every few minutes and had 30km to go. This with a 4-month-old baby on board who was gearing up for a feed. We sighed, pulled off the freeway, accidentally got back onto it going the same way, screamed, eventually pulled off again and went home. I didn't mind at all.

Anyway, it seems as though I'm quite free to go this year. I'll take Sam, now 8-/12 and a fair walker, with me. The only issue is whether Nat and my 2-year-old daughter Emma come too. Emma is a keen walker and she also shrieks with delight every time an airliner goes overhead. I think she'd enjoy it.

Of course, if she instead was scared witless by the sound of an F16 on a high-speed pass, we'd be leaving the airshow about 5 minutes after arriving. Not that I'd mind. So, in an effort to find out how she'd cope, we drove 10 minutes to a parking area near the end of the north-south runway at Tullamarine airport, otherwise known as Melbourne International. When the wind blows from the south incoming aircraft fly directly over the parking area at about 100 feet altitude or so, seconds from landing. This is cool with the little turboprops, slightly alarming with 737s, slightly more alarming with 767s, etc., and downright awe-inspiring in the case of 747s. I love it (no irony).

Anyway, we stayed there half an hour and Emma was pretty spun out, though she quickly worked out a system of needing to sit in the front seat as the aircraft appeared in the distance, then me having to pick her up and hold her as it flew directly overhead: "Put me there!", "Pick me up!", "I can cuddle you, yes?"

I was feeling quite positive about taking her along to the airshow until this evening, 24 hours later. We were outside about 6:30pm and there was the distant sound of an airliner climbing, perhaps 5,000 feet high. Emma ran over to me and hugged me tight and announced that she was scared of the aeroplane. Oh great :-( We'll see what happens on the weekend.

Sigh

Mon, 27 Jan 2003 22:29:11 GMT

Tuesday morning after a long weekend, and it's back to work. I'm looking forward to catching up with people who have become as good friends as anyone else in the world. I'm looking forward to my mid-morning coffee, a lunch-time walk, continuing email conversations with a handful of other friends.

I'm dreading the tedious, pointless, painful, ultimately boring work that awaits.

Coffee

Wed, 22 Jan 2003 23:25:31 GMT

The received wisdom, here in Australia at least, has it that Americans drink their coffee from something the size of a bucket, lukewarm and as weak as dishwater. Our trip through England and Scotland in 2000 did little to disabuse us of this belief, as one after another B&B proffered appalling, weak coffee, which we assumed they did to satisfy the taste of the largest element of the tourist population: Americans. Each morning I'd beg for something stronger but to no avail. Melbourne, in particular, has a strong Italian coffee culture; we all love our espresso and cafe latte and machiatto. We recently bought a home espresso machine -- a Solis -- and I LOVE it.

For this reason, I have strictly avoided the recently arrived Starbucks stores, though my curiosity may yet get the better of me. Imagine then my delight to see Chris Pirillo's take on Starbucks. I laughed until I wheezed.

OK, maybe Chris thought the coffee was too small, hot and strong, but it was funny.