Share accom. project

The weekend after next I'm participating in a reality television project. There'll be a live webcast and i'll give you further details as they become available.

Here's a summary.

1980’s house - a pilot

A group of middle aged former housemates, neighbours, friends and drunks reunite in Bellingen to celebrate yet another 21st birthday of a French woman who burst into their lives over 20 years ago. Join the friends and their offspring for a weekend house party of laughs, lachrymation and liquor. It’s guaranteed to be one weekend that you and they would rather forget.

Working for the weekend

You’d better watch out if you’ve got ringletted strawberry blonde hair

Tonight catching C.R.A.Z.Y. at the fillum festival.

Tomorrow 7 am catching the dentist for a check up.

Then Target for goods for the following weekend's reality tv show.

1 p.m. check tent and other fixtures and fittings at NnK's secret wedding location.

4 p.m. Pledge the shelves and floors.

8.30 p.m. Hot Ploddy, Hot Ploddy

Sunday Fillum festival – attending lecture and viewing film by the great Australian auteur, G.H.A.

Sunday 5 p.m. Pamela Rabe IS Mother Courage.

Sunday 9.00 p.m. NicnKeith's wedding reception.

Sunday 9.05 p.m. thrown out of said wedding reception.
You think that joke's old, wait till you clap your eyes on me, fella.

aah, aah, aah, aah
Vulture, vulture, Culcha VulCHAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Hot Rod

Drawn to a halt at the Stanmore Rd and Liberty St traffic lights was a zippy white 2-door sedan with the number plate

WOTEVR

This sexy sporty package is for sale, $4000 ono. Not sure whether cool daddy the driver is included but an air of hot nonchalance is guaranteed.

I’ve noted the mobile number if you wish to realise your dream or just fang it with cool daddy.

Fruitless

Was my search for dried figs at Woolworths this lunch time. Not one to be found and I could not be bothered walking to the David Jones’ food hall for the joy of finding fig and shelling out an outrageous sum, no matter how efficient the ticketing system has become.

The search for dried figs was necessitated by a change in my palate, it's become positively puerile and I’ve developed a sweet tooth. Fear not NSRs I’m not gonna start simpering about cravings for chocky wocky, just sugar in general. I must confess greedy old bel could quite easily devour a cream bun, a honey jumble or even scotch finger, well actually all three if they were offered right now.

While am renowned for many things, 65% of which are probably quite unfavourable, a sweet tooth has never been one of them. Don't get me wrong, I do love a bun, a biscuit and relish a self-saucing pud, but generally not every day. That is until I stopped having my daily snifter of medium sweet dry sherrrrry while cooking dins followed by a a glass or two of wine with dins.

A friend once merrily observed, while sucking on a tube, how kiddies went so beserk about sweets and cakes and that us adults didn't as we got all the sugar we needed from our alcohol.

But without the daily tipple I don't, and at this rate I’ll have to start worrying about my interesting factor levels an’all. I guess I could do Toastmasters, oh, but that would require a tipple and muck up my important health project which bans imbibing at home during the working week. Perhaps i should just go out every night.

Oh what a to do. And the sugar buzz from biscuits and kyke, while fuelling an enjoyable frenzy, the sight and sound of a group of 5 or more people proceeding down the street has been known to thrill one beyond reason, Mistress Bel Petersen, is unfortunately followed 30 minutes later with a rather nasty thud and feeling of exhaustion. And frankly a daily intake of kyke and buns would probably give me diabetes and counteract the entire point of this new health project.
So I’ve opted for the dried figs - ever since Cyclone Tracy bananas have become soooo expensive. Figs are sweet. Figs are crammed not to mention jam packed with fibre and nature’s goodness. Figs extend your life by 50 years and are economical.

And to think I’d been lamenting how dull Neighbours had become.

Sydney by night

In between bagsing seats and pitching tents and portaloos at the two possible locations for NicnKeith’s wedding, I’ve been getting on with my life, it’s odd to have one, and gadding about.

Last night a friend generously treated me to an excursion to the film festival. I caught the bus into Market Street. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a bus on a Saturday night and it was entertaining to see the bus’ corridor being used by the younger passengers as a catwalk which they strutted down, sucking in their cheeks, looking kind of sour but beautiful, of course, and displaying their Saturday best before swinging around and taking a seat. My mind’s soundtrack alternated between Girls on film and Vogue. Being easily amused has been such a passport to happiness in this life.

The State Theatre was its usual glamorously gaudy and magnificent self. We had champers upstairs and our conversation about BB 2006, work, pollies, kiddies, and mutual friends, was often interrupted, I mean enhanced, by a very toey not to mention chatty 20 year old barman who leapt over the bar to come and talk.

The barman told us that he found his job very boring and that this year’s festival was very quiet. In between talking in this fashion he would turn and do a pirouette and then yammer about something else and twirl again. He was rather light on his feet I must say. Private dancers must be a Saturday night special at the State. His shift was about to end and he told us he was off to Newtown. He was disappointed that the Bank Hotel, home to the salubrious Sleepers and exorbitantly priced Thai restaurant, was still being renovated. We were kind of nonplussed. He then twirled off back to the bar and then Newters, I suspect, as he did not return to our table. So we analysed him a bit and then took our seats in the theatre.

No real celebs spotted at the festival apart from a very minor one, and it’s pathetic that I recognised him, hey, that’s what I do, to be so talented is a veritable curse. He is an Aussie actor who played a love interest to one of the gay guys in Secret life of us but his biggest claim to fame was playing Stanford’s rival for Carrie Bradshaw’s friendship in Sex and City. He came and stood by the empty seat next to me and jumped up and down and waved as though he was trying to get someone’s attention, perhaps he’s become an expert in semaphores or works at the airport, I hear there’s a dearth of acting opportunities at the mo, or just recognised me from my time on 90's morning tv shows, Ernie and Ding Dong a particular high point. No doubt the latter, and I was happy to lend him a bit of my limelight. I feel for the Norman Desmonds and am happy to give 'em a break every now and again. Of course, I'm equally sympathetic to those celebs at their peak, and that is why I always make an effort not to disturb them. Fame and notoriety is such a bitch. And let’s not talk about those pesky paparazzi, tsk, tsk indeed. Such a hard life those celebs lead.

Anyway the dude left without asking for my autograph and I’m really touched and grateful for his respect. Nice to have it reciprocated.

Now why was I out on Saturday night? Oh, yes for the film festival. We saw two films, neither of which were much chop. A short Welsh one and a long, turgid French one starring France’s Judy Davis, Isabelle Huppert. A drama set in the 19th century about a very grim and unhappy marriage that made Madame Bovary seem like I love Lucy. We couldn't wait until it ended, too bored and sleepy. It was 10.30 after all.

Workaholics anonymous

The buzz of excitement is positively electric in Sydney at the moment. Forget your world cup; Sydneysiders have been barely able to sleep for feverishly thinking about the upcoming wedding of NicnKeith.

Meanwhile little Renny Zellwellegger is casting quite the pall over proceedings, the satisfaction of trumping Nic out of an Oscar for Nic’s biopic, Cold Mountain, has evidently worn off.

Renny has warned Cold Mountain that the writing is on the wall for lasting happiness with Keith. Gasp. Renny claims that Keith, like Renny’s former husband of four months, also a country singing sensation, Kenny C, is a “workaholic”. Oh my. And Nic’s last husband was also a “workaholic”. When will the Mountain ever learn?

Oh Renny, hush your mouth. How could you dispute the everlasting love of NicnKeith’s coupling, it’s like Caesar and Cleopatra, DicknLiz, Charles and Diana cos they won't part and it won't turn bitter. Nothing like the Curry Kenny nor Renny Kenny fiascos of Woman's Days gone by.

Now the wedding guest list is of course going to be silver, um, star studded, and probably liberally sprinkled with happily married models, actors and musos, some of whom could well be "workaholics". Guests will include the Bronte Carlo set, the Murdoch-Heirs, the Wattsanames, the Hugh Jackmans, the Baz Luhrmanns and the Crowing-Spencer-Crowes.

Renny really should stop worrying about the “workaholic” factor, it’s rife in Hollywood and wherever showbiz happens, theatrical one day, married "workaholic" the next.

More contentious could be the frostiness between Baz, Russ and Hugh, given that Baz replaced Russ with Hugh when casting his latest film. Russ no doubt dismissed them as a pair of "workaholics" and I can’t wait to hear his song about the betrayal, diddled by two workos and now i'm feeling blue.

It’s just so exciting to have such a delicious piece of that Hollywood pie right here, almost now. A decade of Howard Jones, I mean John Howard, and now this, Australia is indeed a nation blessed.

Dignity takes a tumble

There was a big, exciting sounding demonstration proceeding down Castlereagh Street at midday. The clamour was so loud my colleagues and I could hear it despite our office building's thick glass windows and lofty heights.

It provoked much interest. We all got up to have a look out the window. I suspect the past two weeks of isolation heightened my excitement, well that is my excuse, for I climbed onto my desk, to kneel and crane my neck to get a better view as did another colleague, we were still ten feet away from the window.

The general tone of professionalism and decorum was topped by the bellowing of our names by another staff member, an Aussie cop show D.I. manqué, as he emerged from his office yelling at us to get down and scolding us for breaching occupational health and safety rules!

Oh my godfather.

I still don’t know what the demo was about, against officious safety wardens and rampant inner children in the workplace perhaps. Needless to say lunchtime was spent on detention and this evening I am on emu parade.

On the street tonight

Ooh nanna hiya and good evening non sequitur risers.

One’s health has been fully restored and today was my first full day out after two weeks of being sick, the last week felt more like quarantine, and my is it grand to be out and about.

It was great to do the walk home from work today. I’d been feeling fairly poopy and sorry for myself, somewhat isolated from society, which is hell on earth when you're a proactive , dynamic, teamplaying people person, so it was good to get the limbs moving for an hour and that feel good vibe happenin’, as a character from the past, let’s just call him simple si the rockin' guy, would say, while digging and checking out my fellow pedestrians. Lord, am still channellin’ simple rockin' guy. Oh 80’s good times, long may they continue to roll, straight by.

Back to the present and this evening’s stroll. Not that much has changed in a fortnight, still loads of people, young and old, wearing Ramones t-shirts, how many have you seen today, despite the chill. To compensate for the cold they sometimes wear open leather jackets but always sport black or pastel coloured beanies, thus transforming themselves into Ramone t-shirt wearing googie eggs. Wack but strangely hot and almost Big Brother 2006 southern hemisphere style.

Speaking of popular t-shirts, I frequently see people wearing one that features a portrait of a man, kind of Jesus like without the crown of thorns. For ages I thought said t-shirt was promoting a revival for Godspell but it turned out it was for Powderfinger. The band on everybody's lips. Even the octogenarian at the Cat Protection Society Op Shop has asked me about Powderfinger.

Tonight I saw quite a few billposters for that Countdown revival live show. Hmm. While i have a a lot of affection for that show, and still do enjoy seeing the occasional episode of Countdown, particularly the one I watched last January featuring Cheetah doing a very steamy mime to their recording of one of vanda and young's raunchier ditties, it must be said, no, look, really, um seriously, i draw the line here, all must be revealed, that as an adolescent watching Countdown I generally felt dissatisfied after the majority of shows, the Nauts had disbanded after all, you hadn’t seen enough of what you wanted, and how many times could you see daryl and JPY getting annoyed with Molly or get excited about Squeak going fishing or being "in the top ten in Rhodesia". Curiously you continued watching every week, even the repeat on the Saturday as you’d forgotten how disappointing it was. Still i guess that was part of its charm, disappointment in unison, a collective ohwuh from the nation's teens and young adults, as the credits rolled and the olds came in to watch the news. However as a child it tickled me no end. Fancy being dissatisfied as an adolescent.

On tonight's walk I also learnt, and i know you'll be surprised, that i've plum lost my street smarts . When I went to withdraw moolah from the atm/handybank/cashpoint, like whichever , handybank has always been my own personal preferred fave, I took the receipt and the card but forgot to take the money, had a lot on my mind couldn’t decide whether to go straight home or to Leichhardt, it’s high time I hired that fricking Life Coach, and didn’t realise my error until 20 minutes later when I went to purchase something, no, not a ticket to Leichhardt, gasped aloud and informed the shop assistant of my folly. Fortunately he didn’t say “whatever” or "shit happens" so phones remained on counters, doors on hinges and Jack Marx in that stylish hat and on retainer. Needless to say when i returned to that atm the sizeable sum was not waiting patiently to be collected.

Hey, that's big city talk and it's great to be back, if not quite with it.

Napoleon Polo

Still convalescing and wish you were here to entertain me as I recline on the divan taking a sunbath in the afternoon’s western rays.

Evidently the virus has knocked me for six and while convalescing, apart from feeling like Roger Moore with a dash of Robert Vaughan due to the sportage of polo neck jumpers to keep the chill off the neck and larynx, slightly more stylish than those brightly coloured knits that family fun TV show hosts used to favour, my time has been spent coughing, sleeping, reading, and watching DVDs. Pretty good really but enough is enough.

The bout of sickness has given me the opportunity to get acquainted with six feet under. When it started being broadcast I decided against getting into it as I was watching the Sopranos and had to restrict myself to one show?!, boundaries are so essential in the hustle and bustle that is is the new millennium. So I’m currently watching series 2 of six feet under which indicates that I’m enjoying the show. I am, particularly the characters Nate, David and Ruth, but I think I’m going to have a break as the continual utterance of “whatever” and “fuck you”, sometimes coupled, is getting kind of tedious, and as for the Juliette Lewis Syndrome suffered by Lauren Ambrose and Rachel Griffiths in their mannered portrayals of sad, mixed up, shook up, wisecracking, vulnwable, alternative girls, well, that is positively grating and provoking horrid flashbacks to that terrible film clip by the Cars for their equally terrible song Drive, the 80's losing my religion perhaps?

Curiously I can never get enough of “fuck you” in the Sopranos, singer not the song I guess. Still perhaps I should get to series 3 of six feet under as it would be good to see if Lauren Ambrose’s range can extend beyond eye popping, clenching and jutting of jaw and fish popping mouth, fortunately not as much finger biting and hair twisting as practised by Juliette. It’s funny to see that the Juliette Lewis technique is still being employed. I hadn’t seen it so masterfully implemented since Janeane Garofalo’s performances in the Ben Stiller Show, and they were parodies.

Clearly I haven’t been mixing in the real world which for someone who loves to keep herself real is rather hard. Can’t wait to get out and attend the film festival.

Have a good Queenie’s long weekend.

A word from the sanatorium

There has been an overwhelming outpouring of concern, nay, grief, regarding my health.

I cannot thank you enough but please desist from laying those delightful floral tributes outside the apartment building's entrance and adorning my letter box with those darling crosses and miniature ribbons. While the mistress is indeed unwell she is not quite yet on her way to hell.

So, ahem, why, the clearing of the throat is such an effort, the voice still has not returned and the coughing continues, consequently Doctor Foster confined me to bed all week.

I have really been enjoying this impromptu mid year break. To be told officially to stay in bed, rug up and rest, and awarded a certificate saying so, is my greatest achievement to date.

Next week I trust that I’ll be sent away to the mountains or the sea to get fresh air and convalesce in the style of a Somerset Maugham character.