blog angst: I have a number of blogs now. one I'm using for work. it's probably incomprehensible to outsiders, but it does nicely for storing links and allowing me to work from anywhere. another is related to the pub, which is getting the odd weekend tenant and a new fridge and stove. one or two are quite dead, having outlived their usefulness for studies and inquiries into internet life that I don't have time for right now. and maybe a coupla others I don't like to talk about here, as they're special spaces for special purposes. it's a pity in a way, as some of the names are cool and deserve use - I particularly like flaneur.blogspot.com

and there's this one here, which has faded in the face of all this specialised blogging, and my addiction to other outlets for expression, ie discussion groups, emails to actual friends. but I really am quite fond of it, and willing to give it another go. there might be a little cross-posting involved, but we'll see.

so in the great tradition of public diaries, I'll start with explaining what the hell has been going on with me lately.

Kylie and I now have two things in common: a birthdate and breast cancer. and like her, I'd like to say:

"I was so looking forward to bringing the Showgirl Jenny tour to Australian audiences, and am sorry to have to disappoint my fans. Nevertheless hopefully all will work out fine and Ill be back with you all again soon."

back from two weeks in Hong Kong and Thailand, and a week of jet lag and upset tummy (as you do after travelling in Asia). what do you say about a week on the beach in a gorgeous resort? boring to the outsider yet deeply satisfying to the participants.

in HK we went to Felix, where the duck ruined me for any future duck dishes I might eat anywhere else, not excluding Flower Drum's Peking Duck and the Peking duck I once ate in Seattle at Microsoft's expense. Felix reminded me of the restaurant - what was it called? Hades? in The Matrix. the most dramatic, and beautiful-person (aka Eurotrash)-filled eatery I've ever been to, as well.

back home in lovely autumnal Melbourne, a movie was being shot in our street, at possibly the only grungy student house left in North Fitzroy. I kept meaning to take my cute baby down there to chat up the makeup/catering types and find out if it was the Nic Cage movie, but I got too busy being ill and missed out my one chance at celebrity stalking.

a sniff of work has arisen, but may yet be snatched away. it's not often that fully home-based, internet-researchable, well-paid freelance gigs fall into the lap of the convalescent mother of a toddler. wish me luck with that.

and a memo to the drivers and pedestrians of Melbourne, who resemble the moped riders of Koh Samui (Thailands highest road fatality province) in their apparent death-wish: you are not immortal. it will not hurt you to walk 25 metres to the crossing and back. and the indicators on your brand-new Audi probably work, I imagine. you won't wear them out, I promise.

sorta like this, only darker and the windows are the wrong shape. I like the tin roof, though.

sorta like this, only darker and the windows are the wrong shape. I like the tin roof, though.

sorta like this, only darker and the windows are the wrong shape. I like the tin roof, though.

latest thing to dream about, just because I can't have it: the priest's apartment in the Fifth Element.

I want it. or something like it. a New York apartment with three high old windows for a south wall, a jumble of bookshelves, couches and beds covered with brocade throws. It should be somewhere in Chelsea or Greenwich Village, at the back of the building. just one room, but large, with a bathroom and kitchenette will be fine.

(off to check down the back of the couch for a spare $750,000 or so...)

and yes, I know I already own some charming old real estate.

everyone else is blogging about Terry Schiavo, so I will too.

the fact is, both sides are wrong. it's wrong to keep her alive in brain-dead condition with no hope of recovery. she has less consciousness than a mouse.

and it's really wrong to just stop feeding her and giving her water. no way would I want that to happen to me. if she was a mouse, or a horse, or a dog, there would be nice yummy floaty drugs to send her off. that's what should happen, if she didn't want to be kept in this state.

is it child abuse to supervise play and blog at the same time? is that DHS I can hear knocking?

ah well, so be it.

now, am I the only one who doesn't think Desperate Housewives is sheer genius? who is, in fact, a bit bored by it? I expect I AM the only one who is still watching it because her husband is. I dunno, it just all seems a bit easy. it sets out to subvert the dominant paradigm with all the originality of Bewitched, as far as I can tell. but I guess I'm alone?

otoh, this is funny.

there I was, innocently surfing Daypop for the first time in ages, when I clicked on a link labelled Hunter S. Thompson, expecting to see some new exploit of the wild man who invented gonzo.

he's dead. suicide. wow. I suppose it fits the profile, but he always seemed so full of life.

what is it with bike shops?

why, when you take your bike in with four days to do the work, do they ring you at 2pm the day before you were going to pick it up first thing in the morning, inform you of extra work needed, say that extra work is going to take longer and even suggest you'd be better off buying a new bike on some shonky payoff scheme they happen to have? like you'd be buying the bike from them. they don't even sell the type I like.

I know I'm spending too much on repairing an old bike. but I like it. it's set up for me, and comfortable. I've just spent (well, we've just spent) too much on a bike trailer to tow the baby in, and that extra couple of hundred for a new bike is a bit much.

in the end I had to say "this isn't working out, don't touch the bike, I'll come and get it in the morning" to get the workshop manager to suddenly come on the phone and say it'd be ready, with the extra work done.

the thing is, this happens at every bike shop I go to. I've lost count of the Saturday mornings I've stood staring at helmets while a repair is finished on a bike I left a week before. and I need my bike. I ride it whenever I can, and I'm hanging out to try out the new trailer.

was going to buy helmet for the baby, panniers, etc, etc at the new shop. now I'll just keep looking for one that understands customer service, I suppose.

more koh samui

a koh samui place

and nice but expensive

travel shopping ex hk: hyatt bali, assorted thai

monty python. because I'm not feeling very funny myself.

did I read right? did France really pledge $177,000 for the tsunami victims? surely there's a decimal point missing?

what is wrong with the world? and it was French India that was hit too. other nations have been similarly miserly, I'm just picking on the French. And yes, I have donated, since you ask. have you?

if you go to the end of the article, you'll see that the husband is 60, and had a vasectomy reversal so they could try for children.

as an infertility survivor, I have a view on this. for all her high-powered, Harvard-educated life, she wanted babies. and badly enough to squeeze two (fertile) lovers into her life. she'd deny it, of course. but motivation is a funny thing.

updates? you want updates?

how's this: we're not in Hong Kong any more. we're in Melbourne, where my life is currently filled with hospitals and doctors. although this is clearly a life-altering experience, I feel strangely disinclined to blog it.

instead, let me ask: How did she do it?

She was over 40. Publishing a major newspaper. Newly married to the publisher of a major, glamorous, fashion magazine (who, I have to note, probably has a range of young totty, as they call it in the UK, to choose from). And she not only managed to have an affair with the British Home Secretary, but also with a columnist on her paper. As if that wasn't enough, she had a child at, what? 42? and kept going. Kept going, in fact, to the extent that she is pregnant again at 44 with no clarity on exactly who the father is this time. Meanwhile, the husband sticks to her like glue instead of running off with Claire Daines or someone.

I am humbled. I'm only 38 and I can barely cope with one child and a bit of a medical issue. I am not working, and not planning to until this is over. I'm not even attempting to be anything other than dressed and occasionally upright (a condition I referred to as "horizontal" this morning). whatever she's on, I want some of it.

channel 7 are annoying me by going onandonandon about Makybe Diva and Vinnie Roe doing the old one-two at the Cup.

whereas, even though I queued for 15 minutes to bet on the winner ($2 each way, woo hoo), I want to know about #3, Zazzman, on whom I put $5 to win and $1 to place, based on a comment from a bloke at the storage place over the phone. it was long odds, and I've never heard of it. and they won't mention it. poor thing. anyway, I'm sure its connections don't care. I'm sure they're happy enough with third.