There was a sign up on the noticeboard advertising the inter-college public speaking. I had to go back and look again because, at first glance, and with the funky font they'd used, I thought it said "public spanking". And I suddenly thought that college had got a lot more interesting overnight.

But no, I was wrong.

My monitor exploded. In a very restrained way, but there's no mistaking the smoke and the horrible smell of ozone. I am currently subsisting on a very crappy alternative, skived from the box room where it's been lolling for years. There's a reason for that. The screen's squidged in an inch on either side. It makes my eyes go funny.

However, on the up side, my hair, which was dyed by Jen on Saturday night, is so fucking cool there's practically a law against it. I have the coolest hair in the world. And lots of modesty. Oh yes.

I just love it when my monitor makes little sizzling noises. Love it, I tell you.

Cryptic update: I pretty much finished the Australian cryptic today (getting by with a little help from my friends). A couple of clues elude me.

• 8 across: "A veil is lifted and we are sensitive to it." (5) which I think is alive but that seems too piss-weak easy.
  
• 10 across: "It takes nothing to dare this nymph in the mountains." (5 - blank, blank, E, blank, D) which I have no idea about.
  
• 1 down: "Prohibit nothing if you want to catch something so noble." (7 - last letter T). Also no idea.

But hey. I got all the rest. I'm feeling pretty good about myself.

(PS: Cyberwings is rebuilding. Soon, people other than just myself may be able to read this. Rah.)

I need to stop hitting Ctrl-Z (undo) instead of Ctrl-S (save). It's like word-processing for adrenaline junkies.

For the record, the difference between the 'Australian' cryptic and the 'English' cryptic (the Guardian one) is that the Aussie one is easier. Much. I got five answers out in about ten minutes (Kate's all out to look beefy! = Steak) but stared at the Guardian in increasing despair for a good fifteen, without getting pen to paper.

Sugar daddy, come on and sugar me.

What Goth Are You?
Kiss kiss.

New player in the game of life - let's call him P^h. He gets his own initial immediately because I know him of old (that long, mad summer when everyone was friendly and insane and I laughed a lot) and I have a feeling he'll be cropping up again. He's that sort of guy. He could have been in the Brute Squad except he wasn't here when it existed, and... well, he tries a little too hard. (Yes, we are all arrogant. Did you only just realise this?)

Anyway, the point of the story, is that he's a New Zealander. Specifically, he was living and working there three years ago, when three movies of no consequence whatsoever were being made. He regaled us (me and Bec) with stories last night. PJ in his bar. Knowing the guy in charge of Lurtz. Stuff like that. I was briefly, blindingly jealous. P^h was saved from an untimely, grisly end by my realisation that it was, actually, all three years ago and assuming his identity now would get me nothing but a Philosophy thesis to write. Since I already have a politics one, I decided to forgo the slaughter.

Greater restraint hath no woman, eh?

Oh, cool. (Yes, I do have a weird and varied collection of pretty obsessions. This is an old one. But still oh-so pertinent.)

Oh yeah, just for the record: I go away for two weeks, and they burn the sodding Moose down. You can't trust anyone. Didn't I specifically say not to set fire to anything while I was away?

Actually, having just checked, no, I didn't. Whoops. I guess this is all my fault, then.

If I had the time or the knowledge, I'd create a "Which Wench Are You?" quiz, so everyone could find out which of the wenches they resembled. Then I would gather up all the people who managed to get me, and form them into an elite fighting force for terrorising the world (not taking it over; that's Jen's job). This, of course, need only come about if my plan for ultimate power via the channelling of the world's lust didn't work.

And yes, I am continuing to post to this, even though it cannot be seen. Eventually, it will be, and then you'll all be sorry. Be sorry, already.

Selected highlights from my online palm reading:

You are intelligent and practical, very likely to have a good memory...
Don't mind if I do. Practicality is my most prized trait, and I got through high school on my memory alone.

You are naturally charming and inclined to be flirtatious.
I deny everything.

You have a basically strong constitution, and should enjoy good health most of the time.
Hell yes. No one who eats like I do should be as healthy as I am.

You were probably given a good start in life by your parents.
Amen. I was given a fantastic start in life by my parents. They made me everything I am today, and I am thoroughly grateful for it.

Despite the best efforst of:

• Virgin Blue
  
• QANTAS
  
• midnight taxis
  
• boot shops (killer boots! Killer Boots!)
  
• Russ (keys in the car, with the car running)
  
• art galleries
  
• commercial television (who wants to get on television and make an idiot of themselves?)
  
• public library computers that only let you book in for half an hour, yeah, yeah, I'll be finished in two minutes, I swear...

I am still alive, well, and kicking. Sometimes more than others. I'm also in Queensland, enjoying myself, and I met Elle who is very, very cool. We consumed chocolate. It was great.

Rock over London. Rock on Chicago. I am a goldfish.

In the next two weeks, I plan to:

1. Formulate a Plan of Attack for the Big Scary Thesis. This will involve much reading of associated texts, a lot of thinking, some sheer luck, and a great deal of swearing, I imagine.
   
2. Read as many of the following as possible: Viriconium by M John Harrison. Tigana by Guy Gavriel Kay. The Novice by Trudi Canavan. Perfume. The Book of Shadows. The Zelator. I might be getting a bit ambitious here.
   
3. Write numerous fics.
   
4. Get back into my novel. I really want to do this one. Maybe it should be higher up the list, but things get tricky like that.
   
5. Meet up with interesting people. Consume pop culture.
   
6. Relax. Given all the above, this one could be difficult.
   
7. Last, but not least, see my parents. Hug my father. A lot.

Whatever you may be doing in the next two weeks, I wish you well. See you when I get back.

I just explained most of the backstory of my novel to Bec. I feel faintly more energised about it, which is good, because academia has really sucked all my concentration for the past few months. Maybe I can get back into it over this two-week break. I'd like to. I really would.

Because it needs to be recorded for posterity...

Jen: "I'm not cheap, I'm good value."

I hate packing. With a passion. I hate having to cram my life into boxes and cupboards and then cut off the bits that don't fit. I'm a squirraler. I hate having to throw away my nuts.

However, come this Sunday, I'll be in Brisbane, where it's warm, and there's my parents and family, including the cousin who's just a younger, male version of me (needless to say, we get on fantastically). I love Brisbane. It's a fantastic city, that just doesn't take itself as seriously as either Melbourne or Sydney. It has a more relaxed atmosphere. It feels like Queensland. What a coincidence.

Anyway, I'll be out of internet contact during those two weeks. Sorry. Just getting you used to the idea.

Meanwhile, there was practically an old-school convention last night. Both J² and J¹ on the premises. A JAFFY Trap was rigged up in my doorway in the form of a shoe on a string, there were shower shenanigans for the first time in a good couple of years, and I haven't laughed in a long time like I did when the 'aeroplane' that was J² crashlanded on Jen's floor. Serves him right for trying to wrestle me into submission. I know his tricks of old.

I miss having the Brute Squad at college. It just ain't the same without the random shit.

I've just seen two of my most inspiration-filled movies - namely, Plunkett and Macleane (for style, filth and characters with bite) and An Ideal Husband (for sleek urbanity and civilisation). There are so many ideas currently churning around in my head that there's simply nothing for it; I shall have to go to bed at once.

PS: The exam went quite well.

I imagine it's something not often seen in the Pol Sci department. Student stops in the middle of the corridor, essay in hand, and then raises both clenched fists to the sky (OK, the ceiling) and shrieks: "Yes!" at the top of her lungs before frolicking - complete with giggles - the rest of the way down the corridor.

That student was me.

That essay got an H1. That's the highest band of marks. That's an HD. That's above 80%.

And what's more, the lecturer wants to talk about publishing it.

Ohmigod, I rock so much! (And am humble, as well.)

Personally, I blame Diane Keaton.

I mean, she's got to be behind it. There's no other reason why people who know perfectly well what my name is - who, in fact, have a plethora of damn forms that I've filled out myself with my name on them - would willfully continue to call me 'Diane'. The goddess is Diana. The princess was Diana. So am I!

Twits.

"This test is telling me I have a great personality. Is it trying to pick me up?"

(First time: Legolas, Second: Celeborn, Third: Froro... I'm still not satisfied.)

H^m: I was the Picasso of soldering iron.