A cherry-picker investigates a tree from the inside. Click for a larger version on the ABC website. Photo credit: ABC News: Karl Hoerr
See the open window at the top? That’s my office. Read the full story here:
http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2008/05/27/2256870.htm
The boom arm on the cherry picker, which is essentially a steel I-beam about 80cm square, bent in half on impact. […]
The LaTrobe Reading Room at the State Library of Victoria is possessed of such a tranquil, scholarly ambience that, in order to remind the reader of the perfect serenity he or she is privileged to enjoy, it has had to be randomly seeded with unoiled chairs which scream at the lightest touch like a bed full of climaxing banshees.
‘The thing is,’ says Oscar, draining his coffee, ‘is that the British one pound coin is very thick, and around the edge it has something written in Latin.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘Or Welsh.’ He orders another latte. ‘One of those two. Which is the one with lots of ‘w’s?’
Outside the window, through the girlie grey steam, the autumn weeds are waving in a distinctly springish wind. I think I could almost qualify as a perpetual motion machine, infinitely running a distracted loop between the untended garden and the untended computer, if it weren’t for the midpoint between the two, which is the television and which is being tended just fine.
I stopped doing creative things three months ago. What happened?
There’s a man coming to fix my TV, which tried to neck itself last week after inadvertently being left on for a whole episode of Threshold, and the repair company is only able to give me an appointment time accurate to the nearest geological epoch.
So I’m forced to spend a whole day stuck inside the house waiting for him to come, a job made much more difficult by the necessity to avoid the fact that it’s a normal work day and I should be inside the house anyway, actually working. Here’s how it goes:
“Everyday girls with kinky fetishes”
JERRY — How do you feel, Meathead?
MEATHEAD — I think I might have just won the lottery, Jerry. Tell me, how can I become a more particpative element of this shabby pornographic burlesque?
There isn’t really an effective way to describe it: I woke up Monday morning feeling positive, went through my normal Monday morning ablutions and habits in a perfectly normal Monday morning kind of way, sat down at the computer, turned it on, opened the correct file, and seized like an oilless motor.
The following post will contain no transitive or intransitive verbs. Any resemblance to an extract from Bridget Jones’ Diary is purely the result of massive holes in Helen Fielding’s education.
And then, of course, in the second week the novelty wears off and the lazy blogger begins to post lacklustre material with decreasing punctuality, losing what few readers he had to the Herald Sun website, where Andrew Bolt can always be trusted to edify.
Fortunately for the reader, I am not that blogger.
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