Burning Questions

I realise this is of national importance, but...

Why would Hyundai make a 'Lantra' and an 'Elantra'?
Are they selling virtual cars now?

And what does the McDonald's in Runaway Bay actually SELL?
Every ad I see has 'not available Runaway Bay' in fine print down the bottom.

Not Even a Pun

Let me assure you that I mean this in a strictly non-anorak-wearing sense:

I am SO heartily sick of being touched by people I can't touch back.

I'll have to give up live performances if this is going to keep happening.
If you get the opportunity to go and see the man responsible, do.
He's extraordinary.

And thanks again, Bern : )

Chris Pickering

The hands that opened the case last night to sell me a CD are the hands picking away at the gentle guitar that floods the car this morning, and the humble voice from the speakers is the voice that sounded surprised and said thank you. I am insulated from the exhuast, from the rumble, from other people's hurry. I can't feel the road beneath the wheels. There's the faintest trace of red wine still on my lips. The dams glisten tantalisingly through the haze, and I could drive forever.

The Holy Trinity

I found it really amusing when I was growing up that as my dad left for work in the morning my mum would chant down the stairs after him,
"Got your wallet? Got your lunch? Got your hanky?" Dad was, after all,
a grown man - surely he could be trusted to leave the house fully equipped for the day ahead.

Ha. If you know me even slightly, you'll know that I suffer a strange detachment from such extraneous things as wallets, arms, legs and so on. I frequently whack myself on door frames as I walk through them because I'm not really paying attention to where my elbows are. They seem to belong to someone else's body. This vagueness also applies to my personal effects. Once I've put it down, I can't remember where it is. I should some time ago have had rings attached to my body from which I could hang all my essential possessions, and if you've seen inside my handbag you'll know there are HUNDREDS of those bastards.

Consequently, 10 minutes before I'm due at work I'll be screaming around the house trying to find my keys, which will usually turn out to be located somewhere logical like in a pot plant, in one of my shoes, in the fridge or - once, famously - still dangling from the car's tailgate after locking it (oops) the previous evening.

"Don't put down, put away," says my grandma. I don't seem the type to go quite that far, but leaving the house this morning I caught myself chanting under my breath as I sorted through my bag. "Keys, wallet, mobile."
Thanks, Mum. But perhaps the trinity needs to be a...thing with four parts.
Keys, wallet, mobile, security pass. I looked, I swear it was there - blue lanyard, check. What did I try and swipe myself into the station with?
The cat's new leash.

Memento Mori

You shouldn't assume from the sequencing of these posts that Lily Prune is in any way a dangerous flyer. I've had some experience with sky boys and girls and I'd say that she's more conscientious than your average bear in a world of already pretty responsible people. I'd be lying, though, if I said that being in a light aircraft doesn't make me contemplate my own demise - in fact, that feeling of fragility is the pay-off for the exhilaration of whizzing around at 3,000ft in something you could park in my front room.

I think, though, that I'm more than usually aware of my own mortality. I can feel it there ALL THE TIME, along with the whole, "this is ridiculous, we don't even know what we're doing here" phenomenon. This isn't a morbid thing, mind you - quite the opposite. I hope that I'm a better person for always knowing that I could go under a bus tomorrow morning. I am trying to live according to how I would like to be remembered whenever I die.

(By the way, if I DO go under a bus tomorrow morning, it was an accident, dammit! Just because I'm thinking about it doesn't mean I'm in any hurry :)

A friend of mine tells a story about being on a spectacularly unsafe piece of funfair equipment in her teens with a friend of hers. "We're going to die! We're going to die!" her friend is screaming. "And I'm the only one who knows your funeral songs!"

So, lest I find myself on a rollercoaster to early disaster,
this is DJ Magnifico's Funereal (Burned to a Crisp) Remix:

- Flute theme from 'Scheherazade' by Rimsky-Korsakov
- Flower Duet from 'Lakme' by Delibes
- Brahms Lullaby
- 'We're All in This Together' by Ben Lee
- 'Blackbird' by The Beatles

It's not an exhaustive list, and I'm sure as soon as I post it I'll think of something else, like some completely inappropriate head-banger to horrify my mother. I think I need at least one of those. I'd be interested to hear your picks for your own bon voyage.

My Little Sister Is Still Cool

This is terminal information Charlie.
Runway 28 right for arrivals and departures.
On approach contact Tower frequency 123.6.
Crosswind heading 250 at 10 knots.
QNH 1017 and steady.
On contact with Tower acknowledge receipt of terminal information Charlie.
This is terminal information Charlie...

Really Something

The man from our real estate agent's wasn't half as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He stared through the security screen at my midday pyjamas and dressing gown, my hair flattened into a bed-ridden shark fin, my glasses askew. He was carrying a clipboard...and a camera.

"Can I help you?"

He stared past me into the living room as Ziggy, waking from his perch atop a dismantled clothes rack and sensing a media opportunity, stretched out his splinted leg and yowled pathetically in the special voice he reserves for eliciting pity from strangers. I shut the door behind me.

"I've come to do your inspection."

I have never been the tenant of a decent estate agent. Our current hosts address mail to us by combining my first and my flatmate's last names, forget to tell us when the person looking after us resigns, ask us for maintenance requests then get irritated when we chase them up and, after no visits for a year, have just scheduled inspections for three consecutive months. They stop just short of pretending not to speak English when we call them but it really wouldn't surprise me. Fortunately for the state of our laundry, which has been temporary hospital ward to the Desperate Housecat for the last three weeks, I managed to fend off the man with the camera by finding the latest piece of paper, which promises no more visits until June.

But it didn't end there. I think they've started training spies. I answered the door yesterday to receive a very nice electrician, just coming, he claimed "to check the safety switch was working" on behalf of the agent. These are the people who can't organise for our toilet to be fixed or for the drunken palm tree which threatens to flatten their investment to be removed. How the hell did they know we HAD a safety switch? THEN, later that afternoon, I took a call from the pest control people. They're paying for spraying next week. Hmm. I wonder if they're bringing a camera...

Something to Smile About

It's our neighbourhood's turn to have its kerbside rubbish pick-up, and suddenly our street is a parade of sofas with the bottoms dropped out, disintegrating outdoor settings and...abandoned pedestal fans. Tons of 'em. Whither the humble blades, we're all air-conditioned now. Look out at two in the morning and it's quite creepy, like we're being watched over by a row of overgrown sunflowers. Walking home from a job at the uni this morning, though, it was quite cheerful - as I came down the hill all the blades were turning in the breeze like an underwatered wind farm.