My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

I shall tell you about the philosophy class I went to on Saturday. They're held every so often and I usually don't disciuss them as they're a bit of private fun for me but as I had to give up my ticket event due to extreme ooginess, philosophy it is. I love these classes. I really do. I love the tutor, who has something of a cult following, but he's reallt good, and I love the way we discuss the text before having to read it, which is so much easier than the other way around. I love that,because these are only like community college courses, we only have to read selected extracts and not whole books, because, personally, I don't have the time (would that I could) so while I only get a surface view of the issues, at least I've been made aware of their existence.

I love the use of film to illustrate points, because it really helps clarify obscure ideas, and it also flips films I've seen before and makes me look at them in entirely new and thoughtful ways. There's a reason why I chose these instead of any writing courses. I couldn't do both (the tyranny of time and money) but I think these help more, they remind me of or introduce me to grand themes and concepts that run through so many media forms these days (films, books, comics, tv, etc).

I also love the films he picks, introducing me to films I've never seen before, but should have, especially the older films, which I often only recognise through later shameless ripoffs and homages. It's certainly made my Amazon purchases and recommends list more able to be seen in public - grin (yes, I buy the dvds, still no broadband, sigh).

I also enjoy meeting smart people and having conversations that don't involve the latest cricket scores (kill me now). I am so lonely and starved of good conversation that these courses are like a feast or fix for me. I feel like I've taken my poor, shrunken brain out for a run, even if it does return panting like my old dog.
( more: game of thrones, game of remotes )

It's oh so quiet. Or it was. Just got overflown by a half dozen planes all at once. Which caused a sudden downpour and a hasty decamp indoors. Damn, I was enjoying myself, typing out in the quiet, with falling petals and brightly coloured parrots. It's still sprinkling, but from a clear blue sky. Harumph.

It's especially quiet as my ears are still blocked up. I do not know why my ears only block up when landing at Sydney, the only airport in the world where this happens, but there it is. Maybe I'm just miserable to be landing back in this hellhole, the only city on earth engineered to be soul-sucking misery and torment.

Anyways, painful, but at least I can sleep because as far as I'm concerned it's quiet. And there was no ten forty to Tokyo last night to rattle the windows and bookshelves.

Not that I was asleep, mind. I'd flicked around the channels in search of Fassy and found him. Hunger again, but it was still Fassy and it'd be churlish to refuse this gift of the ever capricious scheduling gods, so I watched. Besides, I like it. It's a bastard story but the film has an odd dreamy quality that sucks me in every time. I try to remember the news stories as I remember them, but mainly I'm just watching Fassy, being mesmerising.

Also watched Fish Tank again. Still mesmerising.
( more: zippers, honey prawns, bananas and silly hats )

Thurs: So, last night I toddled off to hear a talk being given by some gentleman travelling from England. Oh, alright, it was Mr Stephen Fry and I was in heaven, absoloute heaven.

And toddle isn't quite the right word. Bent over against driving gusts of rain, more like. It was so miserable a red double decker bus trundled past and it had gone a block and a half before my poor brain twigged that something was out of kilter, and I can forgive the poor old brain for thinking trudging in the dark and cold driving rain naturally goes with red double decker buses, from past experience, but this ain't London. No idea what the bus was about but it bemused and set the scene.

Then, just as I arrived at the Quay, enormous fireworks burst forth from the Opera House forecourt. Full on, for about fifteen minutes, and so very pretty. I stood, clung to the railings in my mittens and scarf, ooohing and ahhing at the unexpected show. No idea what that was about either but it sure blasted away the work merde with bright sparkly pretty so I was happy.
( more: fry and chocolate )

Well, I'm gutted over Malcolm McLaren. That's a not inconsiderable piece of my childhood gone. Ah well. I don't suppose there's any other clip I could play but this: ( more: blowing up a canyon )

Not the most exciting weekend, aside from battling the giant tarantula and the giant wasp that went after it. Yes, there were girly screams. Gardening, such genteel fun - not. I was planting a few refugee trees back where the other trees had been lopped/removed (a few pot bound palms and frang cuttings). And the new banana tree. "It will always be the second banana," intoned the Peanut Gallery.

Also tried to turn a fallow bed to make a further herb garden but the ground was so cement-like it twisted the tines on my bigarse garden fork thingy. Whoops. It may take longer than an afternoon to get that bed ready. Man, but the garden has dried out rock hard. Any ideas?
( more: shall I shove a broom up my bum and sweep the floor as I go? )

Okay, so, me, running away from home again (and with any luck I'll finally get some pics off my camera, which is holding up posting my August travel diary because yes, I went Bunburying in August). Actually, it's my own version of Bunburying where I turn up to a town where there are folks and entanglements I wish to avoid or they've blown me off and I'm supposed to be at home wallowing in my unworthiness so I sneak around and boy, last time I did that it was so much fun, doing my own thing, but pretty soon I'll have no one left speaking to me to avoid but it can't be helped. Sometimes, a gal just has to go off and do her own thing (and visit Tesco on her own terms).
( more: no dioramas, alas )

"...the university is Cambridge, long a hotbed of righteous tolerance, spiritual heavy-petting and homo hysteria." - Stephen Fry

For no reason whatsoever, I swear, this made me smile.

Meanwhile...

Ever tried to swim upstream at Town Hall station at peak hour? I am bruised. If I were an American football player, I'd be crying big wet girly tears right now.
( more: what's up Doc? )