I nearly spat my lunch when I saw this at Melbourne Uni. And the most alarming thing was that there were some cute one's amongst the group. One's you'd never pick. Those you would sleep with, oblivious.

Apparently, I made myself unemployed

I threw a wobbly at work this week and I finished my assignment today. I kid you not. Over. Twelve weeks to indefinite reduced to one week.

What can I say? I'm not sure why? Well, I have my suspicions.

Mum had some kind of seizure on the weekend and the nursing home called saying they were very concerned about her, with the consensus being that this could quite possibly be it, that she could well die.

I guess that makes a boy a bit unsettled?

She had lapsed into unconsciousness and there was some thought that it was possible that she may not regain consciousness.

So we did the rush over thing. The nurse felt that we should. My brother flew down from Brisbane.

Mum was lying in her bed staring at the ceiling, when my sister and I got there. Her blue eyes were crystal clear. She was conscious, but not much was going on in there.

She responded to me when I asked if she was hungry, or if she was cold. She said no to both. She didn’t say anything else. I don’t really know what she was responding to, was it what I said, or was it just that I'd said something?

I didn't think I was stressed out but, apparently, I was. I threw a turn and called Jack and told him the assignment was no good and that he had to replace me.
Okay, he said.

Today was my last day.
And now I am, essentially, unemployed. Or as Sam said, on holidays again.
I haven't spoken to Jack since, I'm thinking he won't be thinking kindly about me.
Mum came out of her stupor yesterday, apparently, and is sitting up and eating again. Although, let's not kid ourselves, she isn't going to recover.
Shake of the head. OMG! What the fuck did I do? I have never done that at work before.
I hope I haven't blown it with Jack and ABC Finance? Imagine if Jack said to me, Well Christian, I can't give you any more work.
I didn't tell him about mum. Maybe, Bevan will tell him. Maybe.
Oh well.
I'm on holidays as of Monday. Lovely.
If Jack calls me Monday morning and tells me he has a new assignment for me, I'll be none too please. No, I'll be pleased. No, I wont. I'll be pleased to know he is going to give me work. I won't be pleased if he does, though.

What The Hell Did Melbourne Uni Do To These Terrace Houses?

I guess some idiot architect thought he was being awfully clever

Let’s Look Bizarre

Tum di da

let’s go to a bar,

in high heels and a bra,

let’s look bizarre.

We can go far 

in my big red car, 

follow a star 

singing tra la la.
Don't tell ma.

Some lovely Trees, sweetie

What is actually a crime?

I would rather Schapelle Corby got 3 million dollars for an interview than Rupert Murdoch getting 800 million dollars for paper shuffling. 

I think Schapelle doing an interview is more honest than Rupert’s complex shuffling of assets through local and overseas businesses in 1989 that netted the company an AUS2 billion tax deduction, according to The Australian Financial Review.

Schapelle is telling her story, which really can’t be considered proceeds of crime, such a classification is a very great stretch made by conservative thinkers. She is simply being paid to tell her story, there is absolutely no crime in that.


But what can you call a deliberate complex shuffling of assets to gain the biggest tax rebate in Australian history which involved taking 800 million dollars from the Australian tax payer?

Lying in the park

He always had to lie with his legs apart as he had enormous testicles

White Night

The White Night, what shall we call it, Festival, Experience, Light Show was jam packed full of people. So many people. So many people heading some where, every where, at the same time. There was a crush of many currents at every intersection, jostling for position. Old young, walking being pushed, drunk sober, they were all there. It is kind of good, getting out from in front of the TV, the computer screen. Of course, I am talking about me, more so than every one else.

So many people taking photos. So, so many photos. If a digital photo actually weighs something the planet is going to fall out its orbit under the weight of them sooner than later. Some people just hold their camera above their heads and take shots seemingly indiscriminately. It made me think of all of those photographers in history who'd pose the photo and wait hours to take the shot. We take photos at an incredible rate, as though they are important, as though all of them are worthwhile. As though we are trying to capture every part of our lives. Surely, they can't all be for Facebook?

Here's what I took.

Just a drummer in a band

White Light

People, people, people

Shiny blue balloons

A sea of people looking down Swanston Street

Religion has never been so colourful

The leader of the Australian Liberal Party mocked

Stephen King comes to Flinders Street?

Life is a side show

So many people and such a good feeling amongst them

Did you get it? Did I get it? Did we get it?

Flinders Street Station looking grander than usual

Flinders Street Station even looking a little menacing

My favourite derelict building is being restored

The amazing buildings that Melbourne has lost is gobbsmackingly criminal. Melbourne once rivalled London and Paris for its architectural beauty. Melbourne was once more beautiful architecturally beautiful than both of them. But we were to prosaic to understand that. I think, in some ways, we still are that ignorant colony down under. We let the property developers pull them down. We let the property developers destroy them to make a pathetic buck.

The idiot politicians bulldozed the Melbourne Fish Markets in Flinders Street just to make Melbourne look more modern for the 1956 olympics. That was one of the most incredible building you have ever seen. That land in Flinders Street then lay vacant until just a few years ago when that awful bronze monstrosity was built there.

So it is good that we can save one gazillionth of them. The Argus Building is nothing compared to what we have lost, but still it is good.

My Sick Mum

Roz called this morning, she was nearly crying. The nursing home had called and mum had had some kind of seizure and they were concerned about her with the consensus that she could quite possibly die.

She was unconscious and there was some thought there was a possibility she may not regain consciousness.

Roz asked the nurse if we needed to rush over. The nurse felt that we should. 

I hate this current assignment, and was keen to leave. Fuck it. Why should I feel the call of duty in a job I don't like, in such circumstances, I ask you?

I said to Bevan. “This may sound a bit dramatic, but I think my mum is about to die. And the doctor’s said we should go and see her now.”

“Yes, okay,” he said. “I am comfortable with that.”

I think he meant the exact opposite, but whatever.

Mum was lying in her bed staring at the ceiling. Her blue eyes were crystal clear. She was conscious.

She responded to me when I asked if she was hungry, or if she was cold. She said no to both. She didn’t say anything else. I don’t really know what she was responding to really.

We both chatted away. We were terribly amusing, well, we thought we were. You've got to laugh... We asked mum why she wasn’t responding when we were sooo entertaining, but she said nothing. Not a thing.


We stayed for a few hours. Then we went to have lunch. We came back afterwards hopefully to see the doctor. The nurses got the doctor on the phone and Roz talked to him. The doctor agreed with our course of action, keep her comfortable, don’t let her feel any pain, no resuscitation.

Sooky bulldog

What's Work Got To Do With It?

I started to stress in the kitchen about work. I am just nervous. And despite how laid back people may think I am, I do tend to stress. It will be fine, it will all work out, I know. But, with no handover and literally nobody really knowing what it is I have to do, it is not so comforting when you have to work it all out yourself.

To use that jingoistic expression that I so hate, used by uptight HR chicks with bleach blonde hair, cat’s arse mouths and cunts tighter than rusted nuts, hit the ground running. Work it out myself? I am allowed to stress a little, I reckon.

Oh god, maybe I am just the whiny baby that Sam says that I am?


I had no muesli, so we were both having toast. I hadn’t finished the dishes from last night, which I was surprised about. Damn! sigh. I was making coffee and the toast popped. When I tried to hand Sam the cooked bread, he said, “My hands are dirty.” He then proceeded to fluff around blocking my way washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

Tum di dah. Tum di dah. (I'm still not sure if it was deliberate)

Sam said he’d make the Ciabatta toast, but Buddy headed off up to the front of the house, so Sam then went to retrieve him. Sam called and called, but Buddy just kept walking, as bulldogs do. Then Sam was back in the kitchen with Buddy’s squeakers, one in each hand squeaking them, calling Buddy’s name.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buuddy. Buddy, Buddy, Buuddy. Buddy, Buddy, Buuddy.”

Sam was doing the equivalent of a dance with castanets, as Buddy took no notice.

I was already stressing about work. No breakfast was being made. I had to wash dishes, make coffee and make the toast, so it would seem.

“Oh for goodness sake,” I said.

I marched to the stairs, straight up to the bulldog. I scolded him who was just making his way around the curve in the stairs to the second floor and to our bed. I picked him up carried him to the lounge room, put him down, slapping his arse in the process.

I stood in the middle of the lounge, pretending to have a squeaker in each hand, swivelled my hips, twisted on my feet and said,

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy. What do you think that is going to do?” I rolled my eyes and headed back to the kitchen.

“Make the rest of the toast.”

Sam thought it was very funny and he started to mimic me.

Really? I wanted to break something, not the boyfriend, or the dog, although it was tempting, just something. I needed a punching bag.

Meanwhile, Sam was still laughing and still imitating my dance in the middle of the lounge room.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy,” he sang.

He was still laughing when we were in the bathroom together.

He was still laughing when we were getting dressed.

He, apparently, could no longer recognise my filthy look.

Sam and I both had on white shirts and black pants, we looked like waiters, as we left the house. 

One laughing waiter. One scowling waiter.

It was a lovely fresh morning this morning, just the kind of morning that I like. The fresh breeze was blowing. Sam said that it was more like winter. I think the thing was that there was no humidity. The air was fresh and clean, not wet and sticky in which you are, I am more likely to sweat.

I flung my office window open as soon as I sat at my desk. And the lovely cold air blew in behind me. I am a bit of a fresh air nut. I love cold, crisp, clean air. I gulp it in in great big lung bucketfulls.

Good morning baby. Don’t forget this Saturday in Melbourne CBD event, White night. Sam

What? Christian

See never pay attention to me :( So sad! It’s the light show, project to the building. Sam

Sometimes, I am a little miffed by Sam’s criticism, even if he is kind of joking. You know with boyfriends, sometimes you have to pull them up...

You know something pumpkin, I think you are the nicest guy in the world, there is nobody who comes even close to you. I love spending all my time with you and if I only had to listen to your voice and what you had to say for the rest of my life I’d be a very happy man. Christian

Lovely. Sam.

I still didn't have much of an idea about the light show he was talking about. :)

The biscuits today were Butternut Snaps and Oreos.

Bevan didn’t even seem to be there today. He is away on study leave. Lovely. Clearly this is a stepping stone to somewhere else for him. Really? Study leave?

I’ve got the whole day to do as I like, fists in the air shaking, which usually means I do all the work I can and then I do as I like. That is what I have done.

It is midday. Oh, I did read the online news just a bit. Ha ha.

I was meeting with one of the new employees at 12.30. But, I was hungry before then so I headed over to the café and bought a ham roll and a chocolate muffin. Yum, yum. I still had no money in my wallet, shake of the head, so I had to pay with my card again. The roll and the muffin came to $9.20.

“Is that enough?”

“I’ll have to put it through as $10,” said the brown uniform. She looked like she should have been a plumber, I decided.

“Oh, okay then… um?” I quickly picked a nut health bar from the counter next to me.

“$12.50. Cheque or savings?”

I could see the nut bar had almonds on it. I was squinting, I didn’t have my glasses on, despite having them in my pocket.

“Pin number and okay.”

“I can’t eat almonds, can I swap this for something else?”

“Sure,” she said. I punched in my pin number.

I chose a yogurt cover health bar, so I wouldn’t buy anything with almonds on it again.

“Is this okay?”

“Oh…um…?

“I really must stop thinking I can see without my glasses on.” I laughed.

She laughed too. “Sure.” Shrug.

“Is there a price difference?”

“Yes, but never mind.”

“How much?”

“50c.”

I looked in my wallet but I only had 20c, which she declined.



I tried to get motivated during the afternoon. I did a few things, but not much. I was bored. I was even bored writing my journal. I kind of need to be under a bit of pressure to get myself up on the aquaplane of hard work. Otherwise, I so easily settle back into the nice, warm water of comfort and tread.

I have never had a great need to prove anything to anybody.

Sister Roz rang during the afternoon to say that the nursing home had called her to say that mum was, in their opinion, going downhill and that, perhaps, we might want to go and see her sooner rather than later. Apparently she is not sleeping, maybe she is in some sort of pain. They have consequently upped her meds. There has been some kind of black substance in her mouth, that may, or may not, indicate the presence of blood.

Poor mum. My smart, stylish, interesting, bold, adventurous, world travelling mum reduced to a sad husk of her former self.

I felt kind of sad.

Sam and I walking home

Hot Cold Dry Wet

I’ve lost a kilo. Yay. I haven’t really done anything to accomplish that, except walk to work instead of drive. I was 2 kilos over my maximum weight, now I am ½ a kilo… over. I’m nearly back under my maximum, never to be gone over, weight. Yay for me. Pat, pat. Of course, that is a long way away from my optimum weight, but, pat pat none the less.


I've ridden my bike twice.


I thought about my weight as I sat in my office first thing this morning, with my coffee, today’s biscuit was jam fancy. (we have different biscuits each day) I picked up two.

Bevan walked to his office with a hot young man. Nice, I thought. A new staff member, I assumed. He didn’t come into my office to introduce him, as he introduced him around to the guys in the main office. I was pointed at through the glass wall of my office. I’m not exactly a staff member to be committed to memory, I know that, I didn’t care.

I was starting to twiddle my thumbs. I don’t know if I have missed anything, but I didn’t seem to have much to do.


A little while later, after introductions to the team, I realised what he was all about. Oh, I see, he is a work experience boy, so I guess that means he is young. His name is Travis and he’s quite a strapping lad. Very cute. This office is such a maze of structures and windows and cubicles and partitions, that it is hard to get a good look at anyone. Still, it is probably best, so as not to perve on a 17 year old. He doesn’t look that young, but he could be conceivably 17 and I’d already been gazing at his arse.

Is that legal? I’m sure it is.

“I’m sorry officer, I had no idea.”

Is it wrong to imagine a seventeen year olds jocks stretched tight across his sexy rump?

I sat for most of the morning and wrote my journal. Surely, I should be doing more than this, I thought. What does the regular girl do?

Look around. Shrug. I shouldn’t question it. I think it is one of the few advantages temporary roles, those in charge are just pleased that they have a potential problem sorted, someone filling the seat. They are getting the basics of the work done and they don’t have to think much more about it.

There must be more to life than this?

I’ve just been reading an article about James Lovelock, a crusty old environmental scientist from Cornwall, who says the time to save the human race is over. It is just too late. We were passed the time for action in the early 2000’s when the world first started thinking that it needed to do something to address climate change.

Apparently, all the Liberal voters have got their wish. Let's dump the concerns about the environment because it increases household bills to a level that none of us want.

Yeah, we might as well, because it is now too late.

By 2020 extreme weather will be the norm.

By 2040 much of the world will be unrecognisable, Europe will be a desert and much of England will be under water.

By 2100 most of the environment we know will be destroyed and most of the population will be wiped out.

It is now too late to stop climate change, we pissed around too long, as we are still pissing around.

Enjoy your life, hugs your kids, you have roughly 20 years left before the world really turns to shit.

He says we have roughly 20 years left to enjoy our lives.

Hmm, what to do?

Do I want to be sitting in a pokey uninteresting office doing boring and uninteresting work if we effectively don’t have much time left?

I don’t think so.

Now think about what you had just decided? The decision should still be the same no matter how much time is left. We should all live each day as if it is our last. Life should be your bucket list.

Oh, my head spun! Whir! Too many thoughts!I wrote my journal. I pushed my USB right into my work computer and typed away unashamedly. Fuck it!

I kept doing mental calculations about what I had to do. I kept rechecking those calculations and they came out the same. I could do it all in a day, two days tops and I had a week, more than a week.

Later in the morning, a cute gay boy came into our office. Shiny, groomed, presented “just so”. Smiley, gelled, walking through as though he owned the place. He smiled very gayly to me on the way in. And then on the way out again.

He came back a bit later and repeated the process.

He smiled his “look at me” smile. And off he marched, full of gay confidence. The confidence had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his perception of his own beauty. The fact that I smiled made his narcissism vibrate. Any male looking would have the same effect. Eighteen to eighty years old, I’m sure it would make no difference.

I did nothing all afternoon. Zip. Zilch. Niete. I wrote my journal. I added a lot of those details that sometimes I miss. I headed out into the main office and when I got to the main door I pretended that I had forgotten something and when I turned around I subtly checked that nobody could see my screen through the glass wall, they couldn’t. I went back to my desk and sat down not worrying any longer about the pretext.


I text Rachel later in the afternoon. I wanted to hear what she had to say. She makes me laugh with what she has to say about the drudgery of life.

New assignment, just as bored, I wrote.

I’m at school pick up, it’s a larf I tell ya. So much wasted money.

Don’t worry environmental change will kill them all, that should cheer you up, I replied.

But that means it will kill us too.

Well… yes… there is that.

They are funny. I laugh a lot. Let me describe one to you. Blonde hair in a ponytail. Trout pout lips. Black tank top. Black leather, I kid you not, short, short running pants. Black runners and black leg warmer type things. She has black tennis socks on. Ankles visible. And then these compression (?) things from ankle to knee.

Her son hasn’t worked out she’s a freak yet. He’s in grade 2. He’s on the verge of working it out, I’m sure.

She’s 30 to 35, it is hard to tell. She could be Joan Rivers in disguise.

She’s the black Maserati mum.

She’s got it worked out. Her husband is a lawyer, but is a pom. She can’t find work here. Oooh so sad.It must make you feel better as you work away knowing there are unemployed people driving around in very fast, expensive, Italian cars. I know it does me. It just made the day disappear. Tra la la. 

Oh, good for her, so she has to prostitute herself to some old fart lawyer, constantly reinventing herself with more and more invasive plastic surgery until she looks like some grotesque Hollywood diva, fearful that he will trade her in on a new, faster, younger model. She deserves to be compensated for turning herself into a freak.

I wondered if she ever went to school pick up with a bandaged face?

I wondered how many kids got school pick up from a bandaged cadaver behind the steering wheel of the Mercedes.

“Mummy can’t get out of the car today, sweetheart.”

The afternoon slid away. Sam messaged me and said the day had gone dark and it was about to pour with rain. I turned and looked out my window and I was somewhat surprised that it was black outside. The day I remembered had slid completely out of view and was now grey and desolate, the sun shine had been replaced by sheets of water falling splish splash from the sky.

Sam worried about Buddy. I was worried about myself.

I walked to work sweating when I got there, having to stand under the air hand dryer to dry my sweaty back. And… I was going to get wet walking home by rain.

Melbourne weather.

I grabbed my bag and headed out the door at 4.30pm. Sam broke his black, collapsible full sized, umbrella sometime back at a time when I was driving to work, so he took my dark brown, collapsible full sized, umbrella, amid much protesting from me. He eventually replaced it with a regular sized black folding umbrella covered in yellow Pokka Dots.

“Really?” I looked at the umbrella. I looked back at Sam. “This is the best you could do?” I remember holding it like it was something diseased. You know how straight boys look when they are forced to use their girlfriend's floral umbrella, that was how I felt I was going to look.

“It is lovely,” said Sam.

“Give me back my brown umbrella back.”

“No!” He shook his head. “I bought all three umbrellas” – it was true – “so I get to pick which one I want.”

“But…”

He moved his finger in the air from left to right, his mouth pursed, his eyes burned. That’s all. No more correspondence will be entered into.

I popped my itsy bitsy yellow pokka dot umbrella and walked home. I should have swished. The umbrella would have indicated a swish. But, I didn't swish.