Have been too depressed to blog – I didn’t get to see The Breeders on the weekend. Drank large amount of red wine to try and drown my feelings of guilt…it did put me to sleep so I suppose it did work. Goddamnit. Christine and I worship The Breeders, but by the time we had money to buy tickets they’d sold out. We are the only band in Melbourne that had a track on the Breeders tribute compilation…however, we weren’t considered for a support slot because…well, because either people hate us or we don’t have the ability to schmooze. *sob*
That’s all I have to say on that subject.

Took Friday off to concentrate on thesis (and because if I had not had a day off I would have been arrested for turning in to a rabid Alsatian and terrorising inner-city Melbourne with my foam drenched fangs). So – I did my little research bits that I’d been putting off, I am within 500 words of the total (20,000) and I am waiting to look at the edits that my friend, the lovely Pegs DeLeur (that is what we agreed her pen name should be - click here to see her with the Marching Girls) has done. Meanwhile I have begun my 3000 word essay on writing family history *gags* and my aim is to have all finished by the end of this week. On Friday night my friend Jock turns 30 and is having a rather large bash – which I am hoping will double as my end-of-thesis celebration.

I am in a quandary of psychology. My theory on women who nag is that the majority of them are created by men. Let me explain this theory by saying that until I had lived with a member of the opposite sex (I hope this is very clear) I DID NOT NAG. It was only when there was someone around who chopped up my beach towel to polish his boat, ‘borrowed’ and then lost my maglite torch and my bicycle light (which I had kept, unassailed and unsullied for at least ten years previously) that I began to have an insight into the creation of a nag. I intend to try and deflect my morphing-into-nag knee-jerk reaction and instead try a different approach. I just haven’t figured out what that is yet.

My first idea is to just go and buy myself a new torch and bike-light and just present my beloved with the receipts and demand he pay up. I did learn from the beach towel experience that waiting…then mentioning the demise of the towel and demanding a new one….then waiting…then getting more and more angry is probably not the best approach as it could (and did) end in a wall kicking argument (not the intended result) and M throwing a crumpled up thirty dollars at my head (the intended result minus the throwing). Obviously he could have tucked it in my garter, but I happened not to be wearing one.

I will end this diatribe by saying that I am a crap correspondent at the moment and for this I am sorry. I was feeling good about finishing the Bidston Moss artwork until I had the realisation that woke me up at about 4am on Saturday morning that I hadn’t done the disk artwork or the back cover. Crime Factory has finished as a hard copy magazine and this is both a great loss and a disappointment. Mustn’t grumble. Must just crawl briefly under desk and take on foetal position whilst breathing deeply….back soon.