It hasn't been an eventful few weeks.
The bathroom proceeds apace - we have tiles on the walls only wanting grout and before too much longer we will be able to enjoy the luxury of a shower without running the gauntlet from the backdoor to the shed. With barely any clothes on.
It's three a.m. in the neighbourhood and Jim has given up cardigans for cowboy boots and blue paint. In odd positions.
At home I am re-reading some of the In Death series by J.D. Robb (also known as Nora Roberts); at work I've been re-watching True Blood, Serenity and Resident Evil Extinction (Even More Gross Things Invented For Arse-Kicking By Teenage Boys). Of the three, Serenity is still my favourite.
It's three-oh-five a.m. at the airport and the cleaners are getting restless; the poker game has turned strip and no-one wants to see Big Matty naked.
The new job is going swimmingly, if I do say so myself, month three and no-one has run screaming from the room. I keep having to adjust to the idea that I'm on the ground floor. This morning when I went to leave I was thinking about having to wait for the lift. Which is odd, because when I went in to work I was thinking about how much more stuff I was taking with me these days. I can park just outside the lab - less than a minute to walk in and I'm carrying an arsenal of entertainments.
It's three-ten a.m. in the backyard and the hidden vodka has leaked into the soil.
I've signed up for a creative writing course again. This time it's through the Sydney Writer's Centre and it's online, so I am really looking forward to it. Now that I have decent sleep patterns (if not terrific - after all I am still working night shifts), I may be able to front up without falling asleep at the desk. And since I'll be at home it won't matter if I drool.
It's three-fifteen a.m. at the petrol station and the drunk man weaving along the driveway has started reciting "Do No Go Gentle Into That Good Night" flawlessly. His audience consists of a flatulent cockroach, a chip packet and fourteen cigarette butts.
I always thought the sonnet was my favourite form of poetry until I met the villanelle; having the form and its rigid structure explained by someone who knows their poetry was just icing (Mark Treddinick).
It's three-twenty a.m. in the Botanical Gardens and the vicious plant wars shower green stalks across the paths; by morning they will have dried up so their human servants will never know.
I had a plan to simply vent and vomit about some issues I've been having. Not necessarily in this blog, you understand, just to let some of it out. Instead of making myself miserable I had a chat to one of the lovelies here at work and came back thinking about a blog entry instead. So here I am. Even better that the 3G is now working again on my iPad. It was a bummer without it, especially when I was trying to finish crosswords.
It's three-twenty-five a.m. in the kebab shop and the chillies have invaded the chickpeas; they've had problems ever since the hilariously-shaped felafel became pride of place over the counter, displacing a jalapeño.
The rest of my plan for this morning (aside from the doing of work and the completing of aforementioned crosswords) is to build a fort from the empty boxes from Red Cross. Donate blood today! It's all in a good cause.
It's three-thirty a.m. in the warehouse and Big Matty is wishing he could remember where the airport, his left shoe and his underwear went. His trousers, shirt and right shoe are right where he left them.
Thank you, and good night. It's been a ripping good fun half-hour.
