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.