Monday, July 28, 2003

A diary entry

As every good office slave and student knows, nothing makes time fly like a deadline. I leave Melbourne on 30 August (and the country on 16 September) and I have the unaccustomed sensation that my sedate little life has strapped itself in and dropped a heavy right foot to the floor.

So, before I forget everything that’s happened recently, I’m going to step back in time and cover ten eventful days in twenty sentences.

Sunday 27 July. The ineffably camp Shaana warned us yoga would be strenuous, and man did he deliver; the combined sense of tranquil relaxation and rampantly surging endorphins at the end, though, was divine. Also bought THE backpack at the Mountain Design factory outlet on Smith Street for my upcoming adventures.

Saturday 26 July. Kicked off having brunch at the Vegetarian Café, 273 Smith Street with Canberra mate Faye: not only was the food excellent, but it’s great speaking to someone going through much the same stuff – we now do the same type of work for different organisations, both escaped corporate jobs in Sydney, and are both doing a Masters overseas next year (she’s going to Columbia - the University, not the country).

After that came, loosely: Smith Street window shopping where I saw THE backpack, collecting MIFF tickets for “Shaolin Soccer”, lunch/a snack at the gorgeous patisserie Laurent (“to the white place!” we cried) with Beth and Nichole, picking up comics and buying “Promethea” vol 1, dinner at Beth’s and reading “Promethea” (sound effects: jaw hits floor, laughter, wailing that I’ll never write like Alan Moore), and seeing “Bad Eggs”.

Friday 25 July. After work with a dozen colleagues and their spouses I enjoyed drinks at Scubar (where the floorplan and décor have morphed from post-disco to ‘Nam movie brothel), dinner at Nudel Bar (never wear a favourite shirt and order laksa), and ten-pin bowling/cocktails at Crown Casino. My lesson for the night, do not run up and bowl just coz everyone else does it that way; relax, breathe: step calmly to the head of the lane and release the ball firmly and directly – this way you will hit something.

Thursday 24 July. A night of beer with “the boys” (broadly defined) in front of the famous/infamous portrait of “Chloe” at Young and Jacksons.

Wednesday 23 July. A light yoga class, where we were warned what Sunday would be like.

Tuesday 22 July. Dinner at home with a flatmate: stupid jokes told to way past bedtime.

Monday 21 July. Nothing of note.

Sunday 20 July. The end of the Ruminator’s visit: dominated by Yum Cha at Shark Finn Inn City where I disgraced myself by refusing to try the chicken feet on the grounds they looked like Fraggle limbs.

Saturday 19 July. Brunch and morning papers with the Ruminator at the Comfortable Chair, Lygon Street; checked out a seconded friend’s pad behind the Casino; discovered the perils of Kahlua hot chocolate after a long day’s walking; had dinner at the Vege Bar, Brunswick Street; and then went to check out some jazz at Dizzy’s that was fine, but too sleepy for our sedate and sleepy mood (we should have gone to see Cat Empire, dammit).

Friday 18 July. A dinner at Ondine, mentioned over here.

I also appear to have been doing my job adequately, getting on with preparations for the overseas move and reading “To the Lighthouse” for the Book Club of Intestinal Fortitude.

No comments: