Crazy dinnertime topics of conversation #2:

Punctuacted equilibrium, as it pertains to environmental change.

Discussion included the obligratory references to Spock and Professor X, not to mention the line: "I am going to refute that on the very scientific basis of having put ice cream in my coffee."


...sounds like a good idea, actually.

Crazy dinnertime topics of conversation, #1:

Using only the technology available in the 18th century, is it possible to build a one-person device for the accurate projection of sulphuric acid?

Personally, I don't see why you wouldn't just put the stuff in fragile glass and throw it, but there's no reasoning with some people.

We were on holidays last week. (I didn't mention this because A) I wasn't organised enough; and B) I always wonder about the wisdom of announcing in a public forum that my house is going to be vacated for an extended period. Of course, even if someone inclined towards larceny or just plain breaking and entering were reading this blog, chances are they wouldn't know where I lived. Of course, in addition, St Lisa was in and house-sitting, and the idea of her putting out her cigarette in a would-be burglar's eye fills me with what would probably be called a feeling of well-being if it weren't so blackhearted.)

Anyway. We were on holidays last week. We went up to Mount Buller, most commonly known as a ski resort, and thus rather quiet in April. One night there were five people in the hotel (we asked). It was exactly what we were after - a week of complete vegetation with occasional bouts of energy during which we did amusing things like climb to the top of the mountain, or pop down to visit some wineries.

And in the evenings we got to play the fun game: "Let's find an open restaurant on top of a mountain in the off-season!"

The place must be amazing in winter. There's accommodation for thousands, and amenities galore. Eateries and bars and more pubs and let's have some more alcohol. A cinema and a supermarket more ski shops than you could poke one of those pointy pole things at.

But are they open in autumn? Are they bollocks.

Actually, the most fun we had was trying to find hats. We'd stupidly come up without ours, intending extended somnolence, and then thought we might do some walking. But full sun with fragile Melbourne complexions is not a good idea.

The hotel reception couldn't help us. The sports shops were closed. The supermarket had no headgear (not strictly true, but I was entertained by neither the suggestion of showercap, nor that of jerry-rigging something with a frying pan). Finally, we slogged up to the pubgrub hotel and they opened their souvenir shop for us. All the woolly beanies you can eat, but was there anything with an actual brim? For children older than five? Wait! There in the corner!

So we ended up with matching XTM! hats, in stylish militaristic black with a red star on the front. Obviously these are too good to waste, so we're considering a "revolutionary" theme for our next party.

If nothing else, it'll give us a chance to mock everyone for their fucking Che Guevara shirts.

A tree just threw a squirrel at my head.

I sense a great decrease in the productivity of the Force.

My feminity is taking an alarming turn recently.

No, I haven't found myself reclining on couches inexplicably befeather'd and fluttering various frilly things while saying, "Oh sir." I haven't even found myself wearing a lot of slinky satin (much to Anfy's dismay) and leading men to their doom. I have, however, found myself the unhappy owner of some amazing period cramps.

(Whoops, watch them flee - not the Dreaded Women's Business!)

It all started a bit over a month ago, when (thanks to St Lisa) we found ourselves watching the snappy (ho ho ho) Ginger Snaps. In it, there's some slightly spectacular menstruation metaphoring - rough premise: teenage girl gets 'the curse' and then gets attacked by a werewolf; it's all a metaphor, and by metaphor, we mean schlocky good time. She has some cramps.

Now, I don't want to blame celluloid, because that way lies unpleasant Japanese horror, but that night (I had 'the curse' myself) I suffered some truly righteous cramping. For a good half hour I was rendered entirely and uncomfortably sleepless. Much as I hate to resort to the typical hysterical female wailing about the subject, it was surely not dissimilar to the sensation should someone actually be wringing out my uterus by hand.

(That's torn it! Now she's mentioned the U word!)

This came as a surprise, because I've always escaped fairly lightly from the whole business. I know girls who mainline analgesics for a whole week, and girls who can't actually leave the house on the first day. I've sailed through with unpleasant break-outs and the odd bit of weepy PMS.

But now, all of a sudden, the 3am Cramps of Doom. Yes, they showed up again this month. This time, we'd been watching Children of Men, featuring what is possibly my irrational on-screen couple-crush of Clive Owen and Julianne Moore - I could not love them more together. ALSO featuring a somewhat portentious labour scene, by which I do not mean there is a strike. As I lay awake at a quarter-past-three, I did wonder if one could "breathe through" cramps. Or maybe one could get an epidural?

Anyway, I'm upset and dismayed. There is no punchline to this post. It is delivered purely on the grounds that if I have to suffer, so does everyone else.

(OK guys, it's safe to come back now.)

Anfy's first law of conservation of thermal energy: Stick it in your pants.