So there we are, there are fuck all ideas in my head and I don't know what to do about it. The old life story might be a place to start, or some part of it. I could call it "What happened when I didn't grow up."

It's been on my mind a bit lately how FUCKIN PATHETIC my level of output has been lately. All I've done is made a feeble start on one story, a page or two and then there's the meagre contributions to this lot here. You have to ask yourself why and what happens is that I work the 12 hour days on Monday and Tuesday then it's a standard day on Wed and a wind down easy work day on Thu. Then celebrate my survival of another gruelling teaching schedule with as many drinks as I can fit Thu evening. Then recover Fri. Then do my domestic chores Sat. Then do nothing Sun. It feels set to continue this way til I roll on into the grave. Something has to happen but I don't feel anything out there.

John Howard is out, Kevin Rudd is in. The old grey suit was getting a little ratty and tatty. Time for a new grey suit.

It was one of those afternoons in Sydney. Lead-crystal blue skies, a slight rustle of leaves from the hint of a seabreeze, warm but not hot, or somewhere between warm and cool there is no adjective for it in English. Well maybe heavenly, ideal, sublime will do.

The disturbing thing I've found lately is that I have nothing to write but an awful awful lot to talk about.

These aspirations that people have. Why do they do it when it drives people apart from each other?

Sorry, sorry sorry. Been absent, in body and mind.