Pie-eyed ostrich on toast

So. So. I obviously haven't been here for a while. I could lie and say that was because I am now doing two and a bit jobs and going for an interview for another on Wednesday (newsagency, telemarketing, tutoring and in a pizza cafe) oh and studying. But yeah, no. Haven't been studying much really. I am however *drumroll* moving out which is exciting. It's close to uni, one and a bit of the jobs and the cbd, a huge park for the dog and two friends live in close proximity. I am moving in with another lady, so it's like a share house. She's vegetarian so I'm considering trying that for a while and seeing if it sticks. Poetry is going gangbusters at the moment too, but I'm a bit unsure as to what to hand in; some pieces are quite personal, and some were just written as a bit of a lark; there's one entitled 'I don't trust black toilet seats'. Over the holidays I intend to write mass amounts so that I can try and contribute to some journals/ enter some competetitions and see if I can get anywhere with it in a professional sense. Which would be totally awesome.

 

Also on the list for the holidays- exploring the city. The new house doesn't have much of a garden, but we do have a massive nature strip and park bench right down the center of the road, so I'm going to be doing some guerrilla gardening and watching beady eyed to make sure no one steals the plants before they have a chance to settle in and take root; if anyone's up for a bit of green thumbing, come on over :D   

 

Also I'm meant to be reviewing a book of poetry for 1000 words which is due today at 4pm. I'm sitting on 468 or something. *sigh* I would much rather just write my own!

Wake up later than yesterday but earlier than necessary. Realise this, then snooooze. Put on my new orange and white chequered, 70s style golfer pants. Everyone needs golfer pants. Decide what top to wear. Every single colour clashes fabulously with orange. I decide on black- three layers because its freezing and I'm still getting over my cold from Saturday. Ask what time mum has to leave for work. her work is along the tram route to uni; riding with her means I can save a bus ride to the stop. She's leaving in twenty minutes; ARGH! Panic stations! Straggle out the door and open the gate for the car to drive through, with my hair combed but flowing behind me (plait it in the car on the way) and shrugging my jacket on. Realise once we get to the traffic lights that I have left my purse at home- have no metcard for the tram, no student or concession cards and not much disposable cash on me. This is still better than the day last week we shut the gate, got in the car, and mum realised I didn't have my glasses on. I also don't have the box of tissues I've taken to carrying around with me. Scab change off mum so I can buy a tram ticket. Arrive at uni early for a change- buy a raspberry muffin (brekky) and a box of tissues (for the sniffling), and pick up my copy of the Age. Amuse myself waiting for my poetry lecture by starting the sudoku, realise that I've stuffed it up and stop- can't find the nine letter word (tres annoying) but work out that puzzle with the four four letter words that all line up and cross over each other like a condensed four word crossword puzzle. Realise I've picked up two copies of the Age by mistake. Will have to return one. Joined by a friend and we sit on the lino floor and chat about Paul McDermott, Ross Noble and Rove until the lecturer swoops by and we all troop in. Lecture is somewhat interesting (Baudelaire and Bukowski (yay!) mentioned) as are the note conversations occurring between us and another friend who's arrived. End lecture. Am introduced to someone who's in my poetry tute by a friend who is friends with him, who knows him through his friend. Yes. He's polite which is always nice. I love people. Head off with the first friend to meet some people for what is initially planned to be chai, but turns into reclining on a weird modern art sculpture on the lawns. Take layers on and off when I feel hot and cold respectively. Temperature is a delicate balance, young grasshopper. Eat biscuits, finish muffin then pasta (rip-off), migrate lawns and meet more friends and have a good old chat about things from embarrassing encounters to the merits of belting in big shirts. Layering comes up. I realise I can remember assorted Chemistry formulae; n=m/mm , PV=nRT, (P1V1)/T1= (P2V2)/T2. Excellent- I'm sure that'll come in handy. Check out the band playing- they're pretty good but there's less people around than usual which is odd. Get bored of feeling like a loner and head back to friends on grass (lawns not smoking). Realise class starts in a bit so return paper, check in with the lovely student media peeps, go to the library with a friend, then head off to a Developmental Psych lecture. Scintillating stuff- language is localised in the left hemisphere. This is obvious to me and seems a bit ridiculous that we're been told again after it's been drilled in so many times. Realise that that was in Behavioural Neuroscience. That would explain it. Get taught. Monkeys and apes only ever reach about the 'language ability' of an 18 month old and don't have syntax, so are not recognised to have language. See video of a child applying 'language rules' such as formation of plurals to prove that we dont just store a massive memory bank of words- we can work out the appropriate tenses, plurals etc from rules we learn. Meet up with a friend on the way out. She's just had a birthday and is way younger than I'd thought. Awesome. Computer lab. class for Quantitative Methods (the maths part of psych.) boring and tricky, but the tutor's nice. Somehow the hour flies really fast. Finish and trot off to the Quant. Methods lectures- two separate hours taught by two different lecturers. Both are really into their subjects- shame I'm not. The first hour lecturer is exceptionally theatrical. My friend and I agree he would be right at home on stage in Shakespeare. He has that short greying beard-y look to him that would totally suit a ruff and breeches. Its freezing in this lecture theatre and it always is; I layer up again. Slimy haired blonde pretty boy sits in the row in front. We see him all the time. He fell of his front row chair in a lecture last week. My friend suggests he was seeking attention- he's just that kind of person. We must keep the confident types down! Second hour starts. Sleepy, so sleepy. Start imagining my day with a Bridget Jones style voiceover and it reminds me of the cat food ad where the cat says "resolve never ever to eat leftovers" in a pretentious voice before its favourite food is brought out. I hate cats. Lecture over, friend leaves but lasso another who's catching the tram with me. Chat about the Sidney Nolan exhibition (my, how cultured) and what we learned in Dev Psych (she was in a later lecture than me). Tram it. Walking home I spot a family friend and person I went to primary school with holding hands with what I assume to be another person I went to primary school with. I wave, they dont see me. Not bothered. if it is her, she loks quite different. he doesn't. What a difference eight years can make. Am ravenous. See people doing lunges in the park. Suckers. I really should be doing some; haven't been to the gym in ages. Get home and discover nice note from mum- got a job I had a trial for yesterday and boss wants to know if I can work Thursday arvo. have uni 2pm-6pm Thursday, so um, no. Call him and deliver message to that effect.

Apologetically.

I've been on a mission this holidays. To acquire knowledge? Perhaps. To keep up with the Jones'? To an extent. To broaden my experience? Certainly. I've been on a quest to get, well, not quite 'informed' but 'up to speed' on certain things. Sometimes I feel I just don't know enough about things. Now 'enough' isn't exactly quantifiable, and 'things' is a rather nebulous concept, so I'll provide some examples.

 

Art: something I'd love to know more about; I knew Picasso was a slightly dotty dude, and that Monet created magnificent works with waterlillies and bridges, but there's an entire world of art lurking in the ether to be revealed to me. I want to know MORE! I did what most people would do and checked out the art gallery. 'Modern Britain' to be precise. It was amazing. I don't know that I learnt much factually speaking (though I now know that Stanley Spencer was quite awesome and religion obsessed, but painted lovely landscapes to get by financially, and am wishing I could nab that bleak brown painting of elongated diners eating bright fuschia watermelon with their hands, to hang from my ceiling), but it was an amazing afternoon, spent gazing in awe at creations that in some way or another gave an insight into how another person saw the world for an instant. The artists may be, and some of them will be, long gone, but a breathtaking snapshots of their perceptions are still around to educate poor saps like me in need of a culture hit.

 

Literature was another field I've been feeling sorely deficient in of late. Yes, I can read, and in my defence have read quite widely; just seemingly not the texts that come up in conversation. Where people discuss Hemmingway, I've read Frank McCourt. Where someone brings up Raymond Carver, I've read Allen Ginsberg. Luckily I'm a literate person, so it's not an incredibly difficult problem to fix. Reading is good, reading is fun, reading helps you think, and over this holidays, read I did. Pride and Prejudice? Check. Interview With The Vampire? Check. Five People You meet in Heaven? Check. Lord of the Flies? Check. Knowing my luck these books will never come up in conversation and I'll be left in the dark, while someone debates the merits of a central character's impassioned dialogue in 'To Kill A Mockingbird' (it's on the list), but really this crusade probably shouldn't be about what is going to help me sound well-read for a fleeting instant before the conversation moves on to 8th Century Impressionism. If you care to know, I can tell you that I loved Pride and Prejudice, but thought Lord of The Flies was overrated, but more than that, I've read these now and formed my own opinions. And it feels nice.

 

I do like to be able to contribute intelligent things to conversation, after all. I've started reading New Scientist. It's interesting AND educational. So sue me.  

The funny thing about people is that the more you know about people that you like (like as in their company, not like as in like, necessarily, if you get my drift), the more attractive they seem to you (or at least to me, but then I'm telling the story). I've noticed it in a few instances now, and while the person's physical attributes may not have been akin to Colin Firth (speaking of which, Colin Firth actually got more attractive after I watched Bridget Jones...), or to Frankenstein for that matter, whence you first clapped eyes on their visage, they grow in estimation in this regard at the same time as they grow in your regard. And I don't mean that you end up thinking they're great, so you can ignore the hideousness- they actually look more physically appealing. Maybe it was just good lighting. Or the frame of mind I'm in at the moment. I see trees of green....!

 

 

For those of you keeping score, the newsagency celebrity scorecard count has been increased by 50%, yes that's right! We're now on a grand total of three. The latest notch in our broadsheet is none other than that most handsome of the Chaser's gang; Andrew Hansen. Behold (because I did this afternoon.:

 

The oh-so-hypothetical dude or dudette upstairs is testing me. My honesty as it were. Twice in a fortnight, I have been challenged, I have had my substance tested (that sounds like what they do at the olympics) and the light hath prevailed! In the first instance, I bought some towels- it's been getting on my nerves taking these giant freakin' towels to the gym. Eenormous. So I went and bought some smaller ones (2 for $4, get 'em while they're hot!), cushy, bright colours, all you could ever want and more from your gymnasium accessory. I get them home and discover to my shock an unwelcome stowaway. Right there, nestled in my gorgeous fuschia plush towel is *gasp* a facewasher that I haven't paid for! What would you do? Would you hide it away in your bathroom, enjoying the illicit pleasures of ill-gotten gains? Or would you trot straight back from whence you had come and hand it back to its rightful owners? I took it back.

 

Then this afternoon I be down at everybody's favourite Coles, I'm doing the requisite grocery shopping. You know, the essentials; cream, mushrooms and jersey caramels. The checkout spunk/guy/dude- male equivalent of a checkout chick was busy, stressed, flatout. He was in that aisle right next to the cigareet counter so it was also on him to serve the dolts who queue up there for their nicotine hits. He'd quickly whizzed through my selections, grabbed my money in one swift movement (while I'm thinking "hold on, too cheap, too cheap, did I only see two items on the screen?" ) and with that had evaporated off to go serve said nicotine addled bozo at the counter. I meanwhile scanned the reciept and realised that the caramels had been omitted from the payment total! Free caramels?! Score! Nope, only if you're dishonest. I waited and told him, being thanked for my honesty. Go me, I am just too angelic.

 

Though the world of checkouts does owe me- the other day the spunk on one express lane dudded me out of ten bucks a few weeks ago, with me getting confused as to what I'd originally handed him in the first place.

 

It serves me right for choosing lanes based on the attractiveness of the operator...   

Careful, this may surprise some people. Despite being the (mostly) intelligent, (almost) educated person that I am, I will own to still having a penchant for the chick flick; romance/ drama, romance/comedy, whatever. Just like airpport novels, chick flicks are a genre of their own. They're the bubblegum, pop productions of the cinematic industry. They are not meant to be feasible, or realistic, they're meant to be warm and leave you with a cheesy smile on your face. So I just watched the worst chick flick ever.

 

In 'How to Lose a Guy In Ten Days' Matt McConaughey wooed Kate Hudson after being found out to have been a jerk (well they both were) and it was cute and kooky. In 'Two Weeks Notice' Hugh Grant romanced Sandra Bullock after having a moral crisis and it was charming and sweet. In 'Maid in Manhattan' Ralph Fiennes waltzed back to Jennifer Lopez after kicking her to the curb when he found out she was a maid, and it was gratifying and lovely. In 'Wimbledon' Paul Bettany loves Kirsten Dunst and it sucked. It was so one dimensional. He loves her (but encounters aome half hearted opposition to their affection in an abysmally lacklustre performance by Sam Niell), she's temperamental, and a bit of a bitch, but comes round to loving him in about ten seconds, a bit of overly choregraphed tennis gets played, he wins tennis (oh the shock- the last match before he retires) , they live happily ever after. WHERE WAS THE COMPLICATION THAT SPLITS THEM APART? she throws a hissy fit and they don't talk for a bit. Wow, big deal. To be fair, I did miss ten minutes at the start, but somehow I don't think it would have mattered. Why would I watch a movie about this? There's Bec and Lleyton Hewitt, and they bore me to tears.  

 

'Wimbledon' only fulfilled one of the two (possibly three) crucial criteria that all chick flicks must have. It had a swoonworthily hot guy in it, I'll give it that, but I would not have wanted to be the female lead role. But besides that, the plot was flat as a dead man's heart rate monitor. There were no romantic obstacles to overcome (apart from her being a sulky cow), there was no internal charisma to the movie. Had it been a Ralph Fiennes movie (well they would've been in a golf tournament for one- he does rich aristocrat too well, and perhaps in a slightly period setting), he would have bumbled around a bit, patted a dog, been nice to a child and come round to the right moral standpoint. Had it been an Hugh Grant movie he would've been hated by the crowd and lost the tennis but made a humble, self deprecating retirement speech with his slow smile and floppy hair, won over the crowd, and hey presto, melted the girls heart. Matt would've done similar but with the aid of the female leads best buds (who secretly want them together and provide the contrast, because even though they are all feasibly hot too, he still only has eyes for female lead), and would've stripped off his shirt to wipe his sweat soaked brow before the self deprecting retirement speech, instead of the fringe business. 

   

What is expected about chick flicks is that they're somewhat formulaic. They always finish with a neat little ending where all the loose ends get tied up all glossily like curling ribbon on a proffesionally wrapped gift. There are only a handful of plot variations allowed (moral dilemma, opposition to romance etc) that can go wrong, and this movie made a mockery of the genre! They were pretty much 'in love' though even that wasn't believable, TOO EASILY. It comes down to the actors (it was an attrociously sucky plot, but exceptional acting can rescue the most dismal of plots) Dunst was flat, and not very enviable, despite being with Bettany, and Bettany was too soft. There was no substance.

 

Fiennes joined the mile high club in spectacular style with a flight attendant while Grant is known for his dalliances with those he 'employs', but you are still barracking for them, Matt gets by because he is a cut above in the looks department and has a bit of a kooky side in the naked bongo playing exploit department. Bettany is nothing. He is a nice, charming, adorable nobody, and he and Dunst, the spoilt princess (who you can't help feeling is probably quite similar in reality to the character she plays) should leave it to the experts. The ones that you probably wouldn't enter a long term relationship with in real life if it was a choice between them and a hermit crab. 

   

It's the new year, and I think I prefer to be kept busy. At the moment on holidays I am pretty much up to the tips of my cute little curvy ears in free time (no somebody didn't take a bite out of it- it's always been like that) and have realised, lo and behold, I actually like being run off my feet busy. Maybe it's the fact that while I am not busy, irritating things like possibly having to find a new job (don't ask) have arisen *grumble*, so I am spending (more) time (than usual) churning out screeds of information regarding how perfectly well suited I am to do anything and/or everything.

 
Lets turn this around and look at it another way, because although I have almost completely had enough, I do prefer to be optimistic. Tomorrow I'm meeting with my boss and will stick up for myself, which would go towards my new years resolution of being more loud (assertive counts as loud). I played pool with some of my friends recently (which counts as a semi new thing) and even though not being much good at it (though I did pot two in a row at one stage, as did the friend I was playing with) I bloody well had fun. I've reborrowed one of my favourite books from the library (it's still awesome), and had a lovely chat with (and finally learned the names of) the two lovely Vietnamese guys who I always buy noodles from for lunch.

 
Hey, even though I may end up leaving this job; where I'm fond of customers and seeing familiar faces (the occasional celebrity, Wolfmother-hair guy who had an average Christmas, Bass clef guy, the half goth who's into Chinese remedies, and shy Mr. Kmart), I've been associated with the place in varying amounts since 2004, and maybe this is another one of those instances where I get to try something new. Move on. And isn't that what this year is all about?

So I haven't blogged much of late. This is probably because a) I'm a bit disinclined to keep posting melancholy, self absorbed bits of trash (if it's self absobed, lets try and keep it upbeat and/or interesting shall we?) and

b) because I've been talking more to the people that read this and so am a bit loathe to repeat my own current affairs in different media as it were. How about I just do the cliched thing and come up with a few...well not quite new years resolutions as such, but things I'd like to get done or do this year.

 

Heh. So the last blog was a bit hard to follow, eh? I'll try and slow down the pace a bit shall I? Now. Any thoughts on Britney Spears? Can I actually spell Britney Spears? Does it have an 'e' after the 'r'? Hmm... lets google that...No it does not.

 

Maybe that's the reason she has so little class about her. Obviously 'Speares' is much more conducive of underwear wearage than 'Spears'. Why not just go with Spearz? I mean, it's a wonder she can even spell her own name herself. Ms. Spears, it would seem is not content with being the epitome of trailer trash, getting tatoo-ed, clubbing, getting smashed and getting married just as easily (all the while being so obviously a fan of the underwear optional manifesto), oh no, it seems she is dedicated to singlehandedly (heh, well not quite for obvious reasons) creating the populace of her own little trailer trash tribe. It would seem dear old Brits is pregnant again. Welcome back to the made for Jerry Springer (heh, I thought Jerry Seinfeld then, and the Springfield- what kind of Freudian slip is that?) telemovie that is the Britney Spears show. Starting at an early age, she sleazed up our TV screens, later being dumped by the much saner looking Justin Timberlake. She had the requisite quickie wedding in Vegas, like all classy girls, quickly anulled. Now, however many years later, the tabloids show us a picture of personal chaos. She's showed her style once again by chosing an eligible bachelor like the enviable Kevin Federline. And now the head shaving, alcohol swigging, drug laced lollypop eating irresponsible parent has lost both of her kids to a gold digging, pregnant girlfriend leaving wannabe rapper, who compared to her supposedly looks like a better parent. Now depending on who you believe, is adopting, or is ready to pop out another trailer trashette any day now. Don't you love celebrity role models? 

Poor Britney Spears. At an early age she was forced into showbiz from an early age by an overbearing manager, told to sing songs with an image she barely understood the meanings behind, and micromanaged into oblivion. Her celebrity star took off, but her personality development was left to fester in the pool of low self esteem that the raunchy lyrics and dance moves created. Years down the track she was finally free from her management, but with no solid notion of self to work from, no normal grounding, she was sadly open to the devious people that will use whatever they can for their own personal gain. So she had a quickie wedding. That's not a crime. How many people have done that? There must be a great many, or places like that would not be able to make a wedding simply off of shotgun weddings, day in day out. She was a girl out having fun. It's no crime. Her every move is scrutinised by the paparazzi. Get a new tattoo; it's analyzed and labelled yet another sign of her lack of style. She gets hair extensions, and the photographs are examined for any possible flaw- ooh there's an obvious join there- it must mean she's gone el cheapo! *collective gasp of tabloids everywhere* 'TRAILER TRASH' is the cry. Money/fame/whatever-he-can-get hungry, pregant girlfriend leaving, Sleazebag Kevin Federline, took advantage of a fragile person and did what he does best. Two sons later poor Brit was left holding the babies, until classy Kev realised that he could get more dough if the kids were in his custody and pounced on his freshly discovered newest meal ticket. Now, standing alone, with a tired, clapped out career and sans her kids, her life in tatters; in emotional turmoil, who can blame Britney for just wanting something to go right now. A fresh start. Perhaps you and I know that the best option may not be to have another child at this stage, but really, who are we to judge? She has her own life to sort out, and which of us is perfect? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Give Brit a chance.

That question is: WHAT IS POSTMODERN?

We could go with the boring answer 'the world as in the era post industrial revolution' (something like that, anyway). Or, I could give you the best answer you'll find anywhere:

I AM SO POSTMODERN!

(if you don't click any of the other links, at least click that one!)  

So it's the end of the month- the end of NaBloPoMo (it is, I just checked the calendar). And I posted once for every single day. And some of you read it. I hope. So thankyou for reading it. So now, one last ramble, if you'll accompany me down the convoluted, long and winding road that is a tangent of my own derivation (and Yosh's suggestion). 

So lip gloss- if you're to believe the advertisments if you wear a particular one you can halt traffic, suddenly turn into a strutting, 6 foot four waif of a catwalk-esque supermodel and find yourself attached limpet like to a hunk of a male model type. Here's news; they're not that accurate. Advertisments lie. And, lipgloss makes your hair stick to your mouth in windy weather. Not very attractive.

Most of the time lip balm's the way to go. Body shop peachmango, vanilla or pawpaw ointment do the trick- and they smell good too. Because you know, if I have a male model type attached to me limpet like, I'd like it to have been of his own volition- not 'cos of the 'shinyliciousness' of my pout.

 

Joey Chestnut of San Jose (do YOU know the way to San Jose?) can polish off 59.5 hot dogs in 12 minutes; Lani can eat 4/5 of a fishburger in 15 minutes. That's four fifths, folks, not four or five. No that's not my actual fishburger. What's this? I hear you say. Fifteen minutes? To eat lunch? That poor dear. Yes, yes I'm afraid it's true. *Sad nod* Alas, I'm restricted to a fifteen minute scarfing of sustenance (well I can take half an hour but then I don't get paid for it- you think I'd work for free?) My theory reads thus: My boss is secretly trying to prepare me for some sort of eating contest. Yes, contain your amazement. He'll get me used to shoving food down my gullet at breakneck pace, and then unleash me on the world. The new get rich quick scheme for newsagency entreprenuers.

 

Look out Joey Chestnut, Lani's in town.

 

And she still has a fifth of a fishburger in her bag...

I think its disgusting that someone could take a fruit and deep fry it and coat it in sugar and honey, and let people believe that it really is healthy for them. You know how you know you've spelled 'believe' right? Its got the word LIE in it. I think its awful that people that were formerly confident in their excellent abilities to judge the healthiness of a fruit snack can at some point be dismayed to learn that there are so many people better at it than they are. They're called nutritionists, it's their job. I think its attrocious that banana chips still look like banana so its extra easy to forget that they're bad for you. The person can still be bloody fantastic at gauging nutritional content; just because others can do it too, doesn't make their skillz any less awesome. Banana chips are sneaky like that; deceitful, illusive. Maybe the persons banana chip judging is simply temporarily unavailable and will soon return bigger and better than before.

 

Banana chips are evil. But yummy.

 

I just took a hammer and bashed the shit out of the nails in the back porch.

So I could tell you about the saga of the almost-tutored rebels. I could even make it sound interesting. You know I could. But I wont. Up until just then I felt about as soggy (metaphorically) as an Arnotts biscuit that you've left in your tea for a fraction of a second too long, so now it's just some blobs bobbing around on the top, and you just know that when you get to the bottom of your tea there will be gross little chunky bits in that last mouthful. Then I thought of that metaphor and it perked me up a bit.

So earlier this year as part of an overall not very satisfying Literature subject, yours truly visually consumed, perused, if you will, that most bildungs of romans, Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. As luck would have it, or at least the ABC programmers, the first installment of an adaptation of the very same was on last night (as you may have guessed from my hurriedly scrawled note).

 

I rather enjoyed it. Though it was a bit different to the book. There was a lot less florid explanation of the landscape, mayhap because we could actually SEE the landscape, and we didn't get a voice-over describing it as we could have done, therefore a tremendous thankyou must go whomever in production was involved in either not thinking of that, or rejecting the notion. I didn't much care for that aspect of the book- though apparently literarily it served a purpose (to er reaffirm the connection to the feminine mother Earth as opposed to the masculine 'God' figure? Something like that anyway...). 

 

The adaptation skimmed over a lot of the early novel events with great rapidity; Jane was belted around by her cousin and whisked off to Lowood, Helen Burns was met and dead in the same breath and Jane went from standing on a stool with 'liar' around her neck to an adult receiving an offer of employment in the blink of an eye. One can see why they did this of course- a la Lord Of The Rings, the material needed to be cut down, and a particular focus selected, in this case being the romance side of the tale. I suppose the whole Rochester affair is more 'interesting'- though that brings me to another thing. Rochester is meant to be quite unattractive, and he just wasn't enough so. Otherwise casting seemed acceptable; Jane was sufficiently plain, Grace Poole even more so (though she was reminding me of a Harry Potter character for a reason unbeknownst) and Adele was oh-so-throttleable as the vain, appearance-obsessed French ward. At Thornfield more changes were made- a Ouija board instead of charades were played with (unless I'm forgetting something) and waaay more flirty conversation was held, though perhaps I just didn't get that vibe from the novel's character dialogue.

The next part will be when we see the most deviation from the original text, I think. They simply won't be able to cover the remaining events in the two hours they have so we'll see what's been cut, altered, or skimmed over to meet the time-limits set.

 

So in summary, I liked it, though it is rather distorted. Framed as a romance, and dang, Rochester just wasn't fugly enough.      

Jane Eyre adaptation, 8:30 tonight, ABC. More details when I have time, ie tomorrow.

And so this is the end of Howard. He's out, Rudd's in and tomorrow there'll be a new caricature to put on the satirical cartoon strips of the newspapers. At least with an increased frequency. So what does this, and the new leadership mean for Australia? We'll just have to wait and see...

There's a lot of dodgy quizzes out there. So I thought I'd make my own. Et voila:

 

How many toenails do you have? 10.

What's your lucky number? 4.

What's a word you're fond of? Superfluous. And gargantuan.

Fly or swim? Fly.

Sink or swim? Swim.

Does pineapple belong on a pizza? Contrary to Mat's opinion, yes it does, absolutely.

Do you sing when you're alone? Or even not alone? Yes and sometimes.

What's a book that's within sight right now? 'Mathematical Methods 12', 'Introduction to permaculture', 'A Child's Organic Garden'.

What's the last colour your toenails were painted? Bronze, I think.

Ever sleepwalked? Yes. It involved fridge items and claiming to need to make a poster.

Are you going to the work Christmas Party? Most probably. It involves bowling. 

 

And last but not least;

 

Are you excited about voting tomorrow? I'm interested to see how other people vote tomorrow.

 

So they reckon that if you stop oxidation, you stop death. Oxidation=Ageing=Advancement of death (unless something else kills you first). I don't think I'd want to be immortal. Yes, you'd have time enough to do everything that you wanted, and then some. But then what? Sit around and watch Neighbours from here until the sun does whatever it's threatening and then hover about in space? Forever? For someone that gets tired of things easily, I'm thinking I'd get over it after the first, say three thousand years. And you'd have no one to share it with- friends would keep dying all over the place at annoying times. Another one bites the dust, and all that. But that's  supposing that immortality was a rare gift. Consider if everyone got to be immortal. Well, it'd solve the friends problem (assuming that you have the ability to make them to start with), and that of the ageing population, but think of the population boom if people suddenly stopped dying. Then we might have to stop people having kids (nasty little terrors, some of them, anyway) and we'd end up with a static group of inhabitants. Then what could you do with the milennia? Get to know the whole world. Maybe we could make that a goal for the week. Say hello (and smile like you mean it) to a random, this week, you know you want to; and now you have the perfect explanation- you're practising for when immortality is standard.