I walked into work today and just about fell over my boss, who was lying on the floor, flat on his back, eyes closed.

"If I pass out," he said, "call an ambulance. But for God's sake don't tell my wife. If I don't die of this, she'll kill me."

Ten minutes later, Dave walked in and stopped, eyeing the body on the floor suspiciously.

"Boss is dead," I reported.

"Did you do it?" he asked.

"To the victor the spoils," I said, posing against a majestic mountain backdrop. "I'm in charge now."

"OI," said a voice from the floor.

Exhibit A for the prosecution in the case of "Decreasing Dee's caffination levels":

Brook: i've decided that i like slytherins lots
Brook: this upsets me
Dee: Slytherins are the best!
Brook: they are politicians. the old time, real fun ones
Brook: like...bismarck
Brook: bismarck would be one
Brook: and i like that
Brook: bismark was great fun
Dee: Bismarck is fabulous
Dee: He's my hero.
Dee: I'd marry him if he wasn't, y'know, dead
Brook: are you being sarcastic?
Dee: No, actually
Brook: i love you lots
Dee: See, I'm all about the tactical application of force within a political context, and when it comes to surgical precision and using force as a simple extension of political means, he is the KING.
Dee: Seriously, the unification of Germany is like pure international relations SEX.

The bad thing about reading my news online is that I miss stuff through not having the "flip open the next page and read interesting headline" part. On the other hand (literally) I don't get ink all over my fingers.

There are also occasional moments when you see things like this:

She woke up with a terrible headache going, "Oh, what happened last night?" and then rolled over, and he was still there, fast asleep, and possibly sucking his thumb, and she went, "well Fuck."

I hope she then went back to sleep. 6:19am is far too early to cope with that sort of thing.

I'm taking yoga classes, through one of those strange sequences of events, similar to the sort of thing that leaves a band with the same name but none of the original members.

Anyway, this morning we're doing our salutations, and as I'm standing there all belligerent in Warrior pose, I look down my fingers at my reflection in the mirror and I go, "Oh my goodness. Look at her. She looks like of of those rap guy's girlfriends. What is this thing?"

Yes, apparently I have a butt. But I still don't have tits, so I suppose the world hasn't quite come to an end.

*

Never let me say that my work doesn't raise questions. From the manuscript I've just finished transcribing, the question of whether anyone can seriously propose a chapter title of "the Impotent Footballer who Came Good" without intending the pun.

On a much more esoteric note: is it actually possible to idealise God?

*

We have a new favourite place to eat. We were cruising down King Street (no, not like that) in search of something quick and easy, and as we sighed and moved towards Nando's, we got pulled off track by hilarious window dressing.

For starters, the place said it closed on Thursday nights at "1:01am". The other window had a list as long as the window was high, beginning with hawkers, moving on through truck-drivers, bussies, people with AIDS, Collingwood supporters and "that fat kid from Hey Dad", and concluding that they were "all entirely welcome here".

We were sold. We went in. The place is called BBNT, and it does good burgers, man. And really good chips. (All hail chicken salt.) Plus, I got to read a magazine that had a big article/interview on Johnny Depp. Fucking brilliant.

*

Have I mentioned recently that I have a soft spot for skater boys? I suspect I wouldn't like talking to them, but they're fun to watch. They do cool shit. Like ninjas. Except not that cool. Because they couldn't possibly be as cool as ninjas. For starters, they make too much noise.

*

None of these things are anything like the others. Except maybe my burger consumption is related to my butt.

Anthony and I have this tendency to start conversations that never get finished.

Mostly these happen in the kitchen, because three quarters of the time when we're actually both at home and awake is spent in the kitchen. There are usually things to be doing - toast to burn, coffee to fry, orange juice to snort, not to mention the new distraction of the polysyllabic magnetic poetry on the fridge. Not to mention the fact that we're easily distracted people, and both prone to witty remarks, puns, hurled imprecations and flights of whimsy. Combine all this, and it means at least twice a day conversations start with perfectly normal everyday matters - "I have a thing on after work tonight" - and end in madness - "And that's why ninja pirates wouldn't have parrots!" - without ever reconciling the matter at hand.

This leads to a great deal of email communication through the day - "When you said, 'Forensic accountants drinks tonight', did you mean, 'I'm not going to be home for dinner'?" Which also, inevitably, winds up in ridiculousness - "Yes, but that will only work if I write it on my hand after I shower."

Seriously. Ascertaining whether we need to buy more milk can take a whole week. But we make tremendous leaps in the theorising of ninja pirate sociology.

So what's your story?

Ever noticed how, as the silence goes on, breaking it seems to get harder? It's the pressure. You don't just have to say something, you have to say something that warrants all that time you've spent thinking about it. Never mind the fact that you haven't actually been thinking about it, except now and then for a fleeting moment when you realise that there's this silence, sitting there, growing into something palpable. Actually, you've been distracted by a hundred thousand totally insignificant things, like, "Are my toenails scratching holes in my socks?", and all the time there's this silence, starting to take on a life of its own. Until one day you realise that the silence is so big and so belligerent that it's going to invade Poland.

But hey, what the world needs is someone to stand up for the self-determination rights of awkward silences, and at least that'll give us something to talk about.

*

What's your real story?

So it's been a while, huh? There have been numerous times I've thought about blogging. Amusing Goths. (Honestly, I respect everyone's right to dress and live however they please, but there's that other rule. Y'know, IC actions = IC consequences. If you wear a t-shirt that says "I am the God of Fuck", you gotta expect to be treated like someone wearing a t-shirt that says "I am the God of Fuck".) Moments of honesty vs politeness in writing class. ("Frankly, the best piece I have for you with regards to this novel is to stop writing it immediately.") Teeth-clenching swoon-inducing moral dilemmas. ("Is this skirt too short to leave the house in? And why didn't I ask this question before I left the house?")

And yet a keyboard has never been handy at these blog-worthy moments. And somehow, when I return to safe bastion of computer, there's something more pressing. Like finding one cinema - ANY cinema - that's still showing Night Watch. (I would say it's the most fun one can have in the dark, but that would be unfair given that it's no longer showing anywhere in the greater Melbourne area, and by that I do mean Victoria.)

It's a dilemma. It's almost as bad as the skirt question.

*

Enough with the stories, just tell us what's going on.

The biggest development in my life is, I guess, that I've applied for a Masters in Creative Writing. Those of you who were present for the first episode of this issue might be laughing right now. I had decided that, since I'd been at various educational institutions for around 20 years (count 'em) of my life, it might be time to have a break. Try having a go at life without the student discount (although, when I put it like that, it was a stupid bloody idea right from the start).

Besides, I'd said, who wants a Masters in Creative Writing?

Me, apparently.

I think perhaps the deciding factor was this little thing called an APA scholarship. It's 19k a year, on top of fees paid. And I have this first-class honours sitting around gathering dust, and I don't really intend to ever go back to that whole International Relations business (mostly because it still makes me laugh hysterically, and I don't think that would be conducive to serious employment in the area).

I could handle, I though, being paid nineteen thousand dollars a year to write 50,000 words of my novel. Considering I'd like to be doing that anyway, and I find deadlines very useful.

So I applied, basically. (And I'm into field hockey players - 5 points.)

*

Smug little wossname, aren't you?

Yep. And I swear a lot in front of children and drink too much coffee. But I have cool new white pants.