The city at the moment is rife with gaggles of embarrassingly dressed JAFFYs, herded by shouting oiks in "Kiss me, I'm running O-Week" t-shirts and hats.

They're hollering at trams. They're wearing rubbish bags. They're walking through Melbourne Central singing what sounded like some sort of heaving offspring of an unholy union between "Mickey" (you know the one - oh Mickey, you're so fine...) and the All Black's Haka.

They're making me nostalgic, is what they're doing. But they're also making me laugh, rather too hard for walking around in public.

Two o'clock, Valentine's afternoon. A girl walks into a restaurant.

"Can I make a reservation for tonight?"

"Sure," the waiter says, setting down his cutlery-and-napkin rolling. "For two, I presume."

"Ah, four, actually."

I don't, honestly, get the Valentine thing. Then again, I don't get birthdays either. Every day I am a day older; my birthday is no different. Every day, I love the people I love. If I need one enforced day a year to show it, then I am doing a poor job.

The four were me, Anfy, and my aunt and uncle from Wyoming, who I haven't seen in fifteen years. We chatted about various things, and I was struck anew by just how strong the women in my family are. Generations back, on both sides, are women who are firm, who are self-possessed, who simply are. It's nothing special. There are no girl-power affirmations passed around amongst us. Maybe it's just an example thing. Maybe it's in our genes.

I didn't have a chance. I like it that way.

There's something of a family gathering going on in a few weeks, something of a feat for my all-over-the-world family. I will, unfortunately, not be there. As time goes on and the guestlist mounts, I do wonder how this came to be.

An aunt in Wyoming, an aunt in Provence, an aunt in England. An uncle in England, cousins dotted across the US. Parents and grandparents and aunt and cousins in Queensland. Anthony sees his family every week, and I honestly don't understand it.

Boring old world if we were all the same.

Surprising absolutely no one, I discover that it's fun to be the random in other people's day. Today's iteration: walking two rush-hour city blocks home from the supermarket, tossing a shiny red capsicum from hand to hand.

It's the little things that count.

The capsicum was because tonight was supposed to be me cooking Mexican. Anthony's advice on cooking Mexican: Go at it like you're making a bolognese, but wear a sombrero.

Fortunately for many peoples and innocent hats of the world, dinner failed to happen for complicated reasons involving flowers, Anthony being a ratbag, the World News, and Wes.

Hi Wes.

Basically, my life continues boring. Today I was supposed to write, but decided on "a quick game of Jardinains" before I got to it and two hours later was still at it. (Those bloody gnomes. It fills me with ire when they all giggle at me. IRE, I say.) Anyway, about that point I remembered I had a writing date with Kate, and scampered off to meet her. SO I DID GET SOME WRITING DONE, MUM.

Today was 35. Yesterday was 22, and tomorrow will be too. Obviously if I wanted consistency in my weather, I wouldn't have left Queensland.

I'm having patches of memory loss. Like I look at my thermos, and I can't remember putting the lid on it this morning. Clearly I did, as there is not coffee all over my bag, but I have absolutely no memory of it.

Likewise, I can't remember cleaning my teeth yesterday, but that might be because I didn't, thus proving myself a feral.

If I were in a movie, this (memory-loss, not feralness) would incidate that I was a deep-cover operative whose mindwipe was slipping. Or I was in imminent danger of turning into Brad Pitt.

As it is, I think it's just a sign that I need more sleep.