Really, really sorry Rachael

...It would seem reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated (I'm looking at you, Spanish Daniel). Yes, despite the best efforts of the world's deadliest continent to boil me to death, the flying crocodiles Jason and I encountered and the spider I found in my coat this morning, I am still entwined within this mortal coil.

But then why have I not been updating?!, you cry, because you're easily excitable; the answer is simple: I was saving it for a christmas present. I was gonna tell you all the exciting things I've been doing this holiday on christmas day itself, thereby rendering that day of days even extra specialer. But you all moaned and whined and lamented and whinged and cried and sneezed and wailed and shrieked and screamed and shouted (Jari was especially bad) that, like that new parent who just wants their infant to shut its freaking face, I'm letting you have your christmas presents early. Lucky you. (especially you, Jari.)

Firstly, apologies to Rachael Murray, who I honestly thought would never read this blog: at least it shows I'm thinking about you (more than what's his face at any rate- you know, the one with the hair). I imagine I'm banned from any Bedlam parties this year. Boo hoo.

Secondly, what have I actually been doing? Well, dear reader(s?), I've really only done one or two uniquely Australian things in the past few weeks. Oh, don't get me wrong, I've been having a ball, but in mostly very conventional ways (cinema trips, coffees with friends, toffees with enemies, banoffees with frenemies): however, I did accompany Jersey Shore (AKA Neato Duh AKA Jason) to the Victorian Parliament House for a tour that was nowhere near as lame as I was expecting. The building really is rather spectacular, with something ridiculous like $6 million worth of gold leaf on the walls, and is mercifully air conditioned: did you know that the Victorian Parliament still has a sergeant at arms present at all meetings in case someone tries to kill the speaker? They're armed with a golden mace: the current sergeant is a 5'1 woman, and honestly the mace is almost as tall as her. I'm not kidding. They also have brains in their street lamps, though they refuse to acknowledge this.
The other ozzie undertaking I undertook was to attend a pool party at one Milly Raso's. A pool party. In the middle of december. Try and get your head around that, ya bloody poms! It was very fun, cos we got to see Neato take his first dip into a pool. And I actually didn't try and submerge him at any point. I'm quite proud of myself for that.

Thirdly, I have been alluding to it throughout this post, and you've no doubt all been pondering on it, so I'll just go ahead and spit it out: it's bloody boiling. Christ on a bike, but it is hot. And it's gonna be hot for a long time to come. I now know why slow-cooking turkeys don't just up and out the oven: it's too friggin' hot to move. Like, seriously. It just saps your energy. I mean, I saw a flash mob the other day and I honestly woulda joined, if not for the forty degree heat. I left them to their sweaty fun and chilled in a lord of the fries (it gets mention on this blog just cos I love the name).
This heat has allowed for some relevations: a) it is fucking amazing that Australians are so unilaterally pale, b) air conditioning should not be a privilege but a RIGHT, protected by Geneva and all and c) Ozzie bartenders cannot prepare pimms to save their lives. One actually tried to serve it to me straight, no lemonade or nothing. I put her in her place. My antipodean pals have naturally never heard of Pimms, and think me a silly beggar for drinking it when there are perfectly good stubbies to be had, but they can suck a lemon. After they've put it in my pimms, which is served with lemonade, ya daftie.

There is more to tell, and I will do so in part 2, expected some time this evening. I will also post some time tomorrow on the advancements made by Blank Slate theatre, which I know you're all salivating to hear, and there is a video which I just can't wait to show you. Well, evidently I can wait, because I am. But, yes, fun times ahead. Get excited.

And Daniel, stop declaring me dead, please. It's frustrating.

The unbearable hotness of being

It's quite warm today: 30 degrees celsius, which is the inordinately high-sounding 86 degrees fahrenheit.
This is not unworkable heat- admittedly, it makes things more difficult, but I can still go about my business. This is, sadly, not the hottest it is going to get. I have heard differing accounts, but the range has been between forty and sixty degrees (I presume celsius, because otherwise...). If memory serves, which it doesn't always, the hottest I have ever experienced was forty five degrees in Fatima, Portugal. And that really was unworkable.
Honestly, I'm not surprised that people had 'visions' there; they were more than likely delirious from the heat. The thing I keep telling myself is that I have air conditioning in my room. This is all well and good, but what about when I want to leave my room? For example, if I go to work, or see a film, or just need to buy groceries? What then?
And, truth be told, I don't have an answer. I will just have to suffer through. Probably not in silence, as that's just not how I roll, but with what dignity I can muster. This will at least allow me to gage whether or not I can live in a hot climate in the future, but will probably also leave me dehydrated and grumpy. Alack.

Ice to meet you

I turned on the air conditioning last night. I felt bad (not just cos I didn't really know how to work it and ended up chilling my room to Morgue levels), I know there are horrid environmental impacts, but I was just so hot. It was giving me headaches. Sleeping with the window open is out since I've now had dreams where I've encountered a) spiders, b) rats and c) adders (why?) in my room, having let themselves in through the window. I'm still not sure if the spider one was a dream, which is concerning because the bugger was the size of my fist.

Meanwhile, my writing was compared to Joss Whedon, again. Someone in my writer's group compared my script to Buffy and I was over the moon. Sadly, it wasn't the doctor himself, but it was gratifying all the same.

You'll soon be mine, precious.

I met with Andrew again, and the theatre company (of which I'm secretary, don't you know?) has been officially created, so, yay! There was even a suggestion of putting something on; a very special something; something both ancient and modern all at once; something that has marked every single journey I've made since I started tertiary education. But more on that later. Or probably never.

I went back to Queery, and we discussed gender. It was...polite; I can't bring myself to 'interesting' or even 'informative' because we all just seemed to espouse different versions of 'gender is a spectrum' (is anything not a spectrum these days?) with a side order of 'aren't labels terrible?' (I kept oddly silent on this matter). As I've said, the people there seem cool, but I've found that trying to form a friendship with someone just cos you're both gay, or not heteronormative, in this case, doesn't really work. I'm sure I'd get along with these people if I met them in a different context, it's just that meeting in the queerspace dictates that we should talk about being queer, and I've been queer so long, it just no longer interests me.

Finally, I had a job interview yesterday- it was a group interview, which I'd never done before, and I was the best dressed there, which is also an unprecedented event, plus, I didn't make a tit of myself, which marks a turning point in human history, I think. Sadly, I was also the least experienced person there, so I'm not holding my breath- but, at least if I don't get the job I'll know it's not cos who I am but because of what I've done, or not, as the case may be and, in fact, is.