At some point between the Shopboy calling me and asking if I wanted more shifts, and me walking into the store (say, an hour and a half), he was held up at knifepoint.

Knifepoint. In Melbourne. On Swanston Street. At ten in the morning. Fucking hell. That could've been me. I work a morning shift. It doesn't so much make me scared as it makes me angry, and that worries me, because it suggests I might not react sensibly should it happen to me. Then again, there's a world of difference between a knife in someone else's face, and a knife in yours.

*

The actual point of updating again was that Nards called me the other day, and scolded me a little for not keeping up to date. I have to stay on her good side, or she'll sic her zombie kidlet on me.

I didn't get the scholarship I applied for. This means no Masters for me next year. Yes, I'm aware there are other funding options available, but actually the point of the exercise was to be paid to write. That point is removed if I'm the one what has to do the paying, ye ken? So I shall work, and I shall write, and I shall do my utmost to be self-motivated.

I've been trying that for years, of course, and it hasn't happened yet, but maybe she shock of no longer being a student will do it. It's been some twenty years. It was probably time to leave school.