Last night, I had the worst night's sleep known to man. Tipsy on half a bottle of celebratory champagne (after dinner at a nice restaurant that wasn't quite where we planned on going but seemed to be in the same place and had duck, so what did I care?) I fell into bed and couldn't keep my eyes open.

At 2am, I couldn't keep them closed. My brain was rolling around nothing in particular; I've inherited my father's trait of worrying at things when I should be sleeping, but last night there was nothing bothering me. I just couldn't sleep. I had never been so not-tired in my whole life.

At about half past, maybe three, the Male got sick and tired of me and bailed out. I turned on the light and read another section of The Scar, hoping I'd get drowsy. At five, I gave up on that and tried again with the sleeping. I was moderately more successful. Infected by Mr Mieville's weird storytelling, I had odd half-waking dreams, about fake sleep being a substitute for real sleep, and such.

I'm such a happy camper today. Oh yes.

Plus, last night I flushed my bone ring down the toilet. And don't ask me why I fucking did that, it was a fucking accident, all right?

Double-plus, I just burnt the coffee.

Fuck it all.

I'm still going to drink it, though.

I think we own a flat.

Excuse me while this blows my mind.

My mother promised me a wet season when I go home to Queensland for Christmas this year. I am very, very happy about this. Weird, huh, for the girl who's bitching about Melbourne's propensity to rain? But you can't possibly understand unless you've experienced a wet season just how different it is.

For starters, it's at least twenty degrees warmer. For a little tropical hothouse flower like me, this is important.

My mother confirmed me vague memories - that the last time we really had a wet season was back in about 1990. Which places it in primary school for me, and I remember vividly the walk home from school. Having been hot and sunny all day, it would cloud over after second break ("Big Lunch") and by 2:30, it'd start raining. When school let out at 3, the world would be drenched.

I'd take off my shoes and socks, shove the socks into the shoes, and tie the laces together and sling them round my neck. Then I'd walk home in the pouring rain, paddling in the gutters with my bare feet (hardened to this sort of treatment by the tomboyishness of my childhood). It was warm, it was glorious.

I miss Queensland.

Spam-to-make-you-spit-cornflakes award of the day goes to: "YOUR COLON! CLEANSE IT!! NOW!!"

"would you happen to have a remedy for a feeling of nauseating aloneness?"

First impulse: My left boot.

I admit it: my life is boring. That's why I rarely blog. I bounce, pinball-like, between class (Monday morning = boringest computer class of doooooom), work and fangirl squeeage. I write. I read. (Harry Potter and the lost art of brevity finished, The Scar begun. And I swear I didn't see the link between those two until right this very minute.) I horribly slaughter demons from the pits of hell. I sleep.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

My withering scorn is withering for want of exercise. The only people I belittle these days are Adam and Will on the Triple J morning show, and that's really a cheap shot.

Obviously I should get out more. Meet new people, see interesting places. And then bitch about them.

A third of the way into Identity (tell me John Cusack's in a movie, and I'll usually toddle along...), I turned to the Male and said: "This is going to be one of those movies where they all die one at a time, isn't it? Why did you bring me to this?"

Two thirds of the way through I forgave him. And then some. Fantastic premise. Just great. And well - uh - executed. Pardon the pun.

Plus, John Cusack. Doing his slightly-startled mind-blown squirrel impersonation. As he does so well.

(Earlier today, I was accosted by a man-sized green koala bear. It was on the footbridge over the river, narrow space, nowhere to go. I thought I was a gonner, but I managed to hip-and-shoulder a businessman into the oddly-coloured marsupial's path, and made a run for it.)

I thought today: "Oh good, I'm not running late; the Hare Krishnas are only halfway between Little Bourke and Lonsdale."

I maintain there's nothing wrong with using vocal religious sects as an indication of time.

Don't believe these publishing firms when they say it takes months to put together a book. I did one more or less entirely this week.

Of course, it drove us all to distraction. To whit:

Boss-lady: Is sage a word?
Me: Yes. Why?
Boss-lady: It's describing that diary thing. "Quotes from lamas and sages."
Me: It means a very wise man, like Confucius.
Boss-lady: Lamas?
Me: With one L is fine. Like Dalai.
Boss-lady: Not furry then.
Me: Maybe. I'm not discriminatory.
Boss-lady: I thought sage was a herb.
Me: Confucius might be tasty.
*pause*
Boss-lady: What about "calligraphy lettering"?
Me: As opposed to calligraphy ugg boots?
Boss-lady: It'd have to be... calligraphic lettering?
Me: Yep.
Boss-lady: ...I was just joking.
Me: Well, you're brilliant.
Boss-lady: Calligraphic. Is it even a word?
Me: It's a great word. It's a fabulous word. I don't know how I've lived my life without it. (Other Boss-Lady, Di, walks in.) Isn't "calligraphic" a fabulous word, Di?
Di: What does it mean?
*Boss-lady dies laughing.*
Me: It means we've had too much coffee today.

Good Dee: I'll just have a cup of coffee, then.
Bad Dee: Or! I could have a yummy mocha-latte thing with the hot chocomalate and lots of milk, yessss.
Good Dee: Or I could just have normal coffee, with water and a little milk.
Bad Dee: Why would you want that?
Good Dee: Well, no chocolate, and less milk, and less indulgence and...
Bad Dee: *laughs uproariously* C'mon, next you're going to be saying that it's better for you. This is coffee. It's a vice. Der!

Score check - Good Dee: 0, Bad Dee: 1

The huge billboard on the corner of Swanston and Lonsdale used to sport a huge semi-naked couple, connubially involved amidst advertisement of "Australia's favourite libido-lifter".

Now there's a huge tin of spaghetti and the motif: "Get stuffed".

I have no further comment on this matter.

A Chorus Line, the DVD version, is so big-hair, high-cut-legs, skin-tight-lycra, headbands and legwarmers 80s bad, it almost rendered me unconscious.

That was my weekend in a nutshell.

Oh, and we almost bought a house.