Postcard from Venice II
(An innacurate note on Venetian constitutional history from Doug)

I did really love the Doge's palace yesterday, not just for the architecture and history - but for what both said about the system of government under the Dogate and the Republic. Yes, the geeky constitutional lawyer in me came to the fore and dammit, I'm gonna share.

By the end of the Republic (ie Napoleon), the Doge - tititular ruler of Venice - was little more than a figurehead (think our governor general), though he was not allowed to miss a single one of a myriad meetings. He could not make decisions except with government members present, had very little actual discretion or authority, could not recieve ambassadors alone, could not leave Venice except on comission and could not go out in public without government minders. One wonders whether the poor guy was allowed to take a crap in private. Yet when he died, the business of government ceased for an interminably long, convoluted election process. (Think any of the models for an Australian republic not involving electing an Australian president by popular vote.)

Where later republics and deomcracies have had an entrenched separation of powers (legislative, judicial, exeuctive and ecclesiastical), Venice just seems to have believed in a proliferation of bodies with overlapping fields of power and responsibility. These polycentric and competing centres of power seem to have been the chief check on abuse of power, resulting in a web of inter-related judicial/administrative bodies with power to intervene in each others deicision making that would make Kafka, Focault or Centerlink proud.

A fantastic example is the Council of Ten, a temporary security body set up to thwart a plot to overthrow the dogate, which became a permanent "security council", with a counterintuitive seventeen members (10 councillors, 1 Dodge and 6 advisors to the Doge).

Anyway, while technically an aristocracy, it seems to have been fairly democratic. All aristocrat males over 25 (or something) - being between 1200 and 2000 people - met in the grand council and delegate power to various other bodies such as the senate and tribunals. There were an amazing number of jobs, including that of Public Advocates entrusted with upholidng the principle of legality. Really it was a magistracy, rule by officials invested with public power.

Also, one could inform anonymously by posting notes in "lions' mouths", carved heads on walls which had mouths that were - in effect - post boxes for tip offs for the magistracy.

Also, fascinatingly, Venice was almost unique in being ruled from a relatively open and accesible palace - not a castle. There is, in fact, no real defensive structure on the islands.

Postcard from Venice
(regular blogging from Doug)

When I was last in Italy I was five, and with a single masterstroke, I blew my parents food budget for three days.

Foolish, foolish parents, after the waiter had explained the specials - in English - they allowed me to order my own meal. I ordered the rainbow trout, the most expensive thing on the menu. They gulped, but expected I'd peter out part way through one side and that they'd get the rest. Nuh uh.

I steamed through one side of a huge trout and asked the waiter to turn it over for me.

As a commemoration, I treated myself to a decent dinner of grilled sea-bass, salad and house white this evening - as the Venetians are supposed to know their fish. It was a little restaurant between Campo Santa Margherita and the Accademia, and I stopped there because it had a crazy bric-a-brac filled courtyard and was playing jazz tunes I recognised. The fish was fine.

My time in Venice has been, by and large, poorly organised. This is in part due to the fact (which will surprise not one regular reader) that I have come down with a minor cold travelling. I have also found slugging round in an unseasonal mini-heat wave rather tiring. (A pox on everyone who said Venice was colder than Rome this time of year. I left my shorts and other sueful clothes at the hotel I'm returning to in Rome.)

Anyway, travel highlights, so far:

When strict planning falls down and goes "clunk"

Never back your interpretation of luggage rules against an airline. I checked the 25 kg wheelie-bag with my Cambridge winter wardrobe and expected to carry on my backpack at Sydney. Sure, it was a little large, but it strapped down enough to fit in the luggage-size tester if you took the day pack off. And the day pack didn't count, right?

Turns out it does if you're also carrying on a duty-free bag with a camera in it.

They checked the backpack for me, so at least I got round the weight restrictions (thus far - two flights to go).

However, I then had to collect the bag at Heathrow and make my connection to Rome. I did not realise on surrendering my bag that baggage claim was AFTER passport control. On panicking, and then assuming my best polite, befuddled young man deameanour I prevailed on a nice woman in a BA jacket to prevail on a nice woman from passport control to basically wave me through an empty EU-citizens only line so I could grab my bag, sprint for the train to Terminal 1 and dash up to check-in for Rome.

I was stressed, I was awash in an unsightly slick of my own sweat.

I was, in the end, over an hour early.

That's when the first nosebleed kicked in.

It pleasantly chose to return in the airport train-station at Rome (25 degrees, 80% humidity I tells ya, struggling with a big pack and wheelie bag). I was saved from utter humiliation by the donation of tissues by some Australian tourists, mind you I already had one hand that looked like it'd been in a knife-fight.

Still, I got weirder looks wrestling my luggage down Viat Ottavio, past Saint Paul's Basillica, to my hotel.

The desk manager at my swank hotel showed considerable sang-froid in allowing me into the place.

Rome highlights

My first afternoon in Rome I was a jet-lagged wreck. So I hit the nearest B-list attraction to my hotel, the Castel San' Angelo, once the Vatican fortress in times of trouble.

You expect fellow Canberrans to turn up in weird places, you do not expect to see a guy from high-school you've no desire to catch up with in the cafe near the top of the Castel San' Angelo enjoying what looked like a rather tense moment with his girlfriend. I slid anonymously by.

The Castel summed up my general impression of Rome. Rome seems to have the same attitude to its history as Australia did to natural resources in the 1950s - there's so damn much of it, no-one can see the point in environmental safeguards or proper maintenance.

Labelling veers from bilinigual, to erratic, to year 10 assignment paste-up jobs. Things are randomly screened off with orange webbing, or held together with extensive, ugly scaffolding.

That said, I loved the rooms restored by Pope Paulus III and the view from the top.

Day two was the absolute high point, where in a too-long line at the Colloseum a petite American woman turned to me and said: "Do you speak English? Okay, something is wrong here. I think we're in the wrong line. Hold my place while I find out."

She returned to tug me out of the line and save me half an hour of my life in getting to a line-free ticket booth. She was an architect from Georgia, three months into a long holiday. We teamed up for the day and blitzkreiged the Colloseum, Roman forum, Palatine hill, nearby piazzas and took a self-guided walking tour via the Pantheon to the Spanish steps area, where we stopped for dinner and too much Chianti. Great day.

The Vatican and San Pietro's basillica the next day were mind-boggling, but more of that later. My room at Hotel Columbus, for an internet fire-sale special, was a dream: small, but quiet, comfortable and terribly atmospheric. Cluttered with just the right amount of old dark-wood furniture and a new (if teeny) ensuite in white tiles with a shower head virtually over the hand basin. A five minute stroll from the Vatican, perfect.

Venice impressions

Venice is like everything I loved about Melbourne, but multiplied and folded in on itself endlessly - alley-ways upon allies in a thick gorgeous tangle of history, canals, palaces, decay, gondolas, beautiful Italian women and loud American and German tourists.

I some respects, much like "Castrovalva" the Escher-inspired Dr Who episode about a town of courtyards and fountains where (not unlike Canberra) you can travel in a straight path and come back to where you started.

I simply adore Venice, but have not planned my time here well. Not sure that matters, enjoying the atmosphere as much as the attractions. Have managed the Piazza San Marco, the San Marco museums, the Doge's palace and the Accademia of fine arts. Should have gone to the the Peggy Guggenheim last night - in September they have late opening to 10 pm Saturday, but having gone out to dinner again my last night in Rome with "Ms Georgia" and being out way past my bed time, I decided extra sleep was the better part of valour.

Where the decay in Rome seems the result of near-criminal neglect, the decay in Venice seems part of its personality. In Rome the clutter of history elbowing the jowls of the modern seems overwhelming, in Venice - despite obvious historical layers and tourist-trap intrusions - it all seems made of one piece.

My convent-owned accomodation here is not bad, but not as good as Rome. No nuns - just very friendly tri-lingual desk staff - it's a fairly functional guest wing, and I'm in the less recently refurbished bit. The garden is mostly closed for structural repairs. Rooms are spartan, but functional. A little problem with mosquitoes off the river at night - but nothing drastic bad. My outer wall and wooden shutters appear original, which is lovely.

Tomorrow I have a good deal of ground to cover. Next time I'll try to blog more briefly and after less wine.

What Doug is really doing: part 1
Guest blog by Lyn

Doug has of course been lying to all of us.

He's not going to Cambridge on a scholarship. Oh, no.

On Monday morning (shortly after posting his last entry on this website), Douglas called me. Early.

"Lyn . . ." he said. "That is Lyn, isn't it?"

"Yeah", I said sleepily. "Wassup?"

"I've been brainwashed all this time!" he said hurriedly. "I'm not Doug at all! My last memory of my real life is that I was sitting in the back of a dingy taxi cab in Prague. I was posing as a bad-ass goth nightclub singer, in an attempt to penetrate an international drug cartel."

I yawned. "Really. What did you wear?"

"Black latex and . . . look, that's not the point. The point is that I don't know who I was working for, or why . . . but clearly, they are luring me to England to kill me. Horribly."

"You wanna avoid that, I think."

Silence. Then;

"You know, I really should have called Marissa."

"She is more of a morning person. So what are you going to do?"

"Stick with the Cambridge story for now. I'll even post up blogs pretending that I'm there, because that's what I want them to think. But I'll head deep underground. I know I have contacts. If I only I could remember their phone numbers."

"That's the problem with amnesia."

"Yeah. Thanks for that. Got any suggestions?"

"Do what Matt Damon did. You know. In that film. "

"Drive around in a mini?"

"No, sleep with Franka Potente. She's pretty hot."

"Good idea. I'll call you from the road. But hang up, then call me from an outside line."

"Sure thing, Tony Soprano."

Anyone else heard from Doug lately? Let's hear about it.

Quiz this!
Guest blog by Lyn

Last night I was at a work trivia night.

I mostly enjoy trivia nights, but they bring out the worst in some people. OK, the worst in pretty much everyone who attends. The guy who runs it is usually a megalomaniac. All the people who huddle, convinced of their intellectual inferiority. Those who smugly announce to the room their intellectual superiority (“Oh. That’s easy!” – to every question).

As most of the questions were about sport, music I don’t listen to, and TV shows I don’t watch, I did pretty badly. The question I was most embarrassed about getting wrong was: "for which three movies did Jack Nicolson win an Oscar?" I got two of the three, and I’m shocked – shocked! that he didn’t win for "Chinatown". If you can get all three without cheating and looking up IMDB, then you should have been on my table.

First thing I found at work this morning is a string of emails about all the so-called ‘correct’ answers that were actually full of shit. George Lazenby is so not the first James Bond – Sean Connery was in Doctor No. The capital of the Netherlands? Well we answered The Hague, and it turns out it’s Amsterdam – but most guidelines list both as correct. And some singer called Lulu did too sing a cover of Locomotion, but a workmate concedes it may not have been released in Australia.

The very worst question however was: “which film changed the way we see cinema?” I thought the answer would be the first 'talking' film, but I couldn’t’ think of the name, so we wrote down “Debbie Does Dallas”. The answer? Jaws. Jaws? Seriously?? I love the film, and it’s supposed to have changed the way we don’t go into the water anymore, but it’s hardly the first anything. Maybe "the first big motorised fish" film, or "coolest film score". I was expecting the next question to be: which colour is the best colour in the world. Yellow! Of course! A point to table nine!

So you can keep your damn quiz nights with your stupid professional quiz night punters. Next time I get the urge, I’m just going to curl up on the couch and ask myself questions from the 1980s Trivial Pursuit set about the Soviet Union and Michael Jackson. Good times.

Sex, lies and videotape: “Cunnamulla” still under siege
Guest blog by Lyn

In 2000, Dennis O’Rourke released his controversial documentary, “Cunnamulla”. The film concerns the town of the same name – 800km west of Brisbane, with a population of about 1500. He interviewed Cunnamulla residents about their lives – the challenges of the isolated community, the interaction of the locals, the racial mix and the various tensions. As this ABC article put it, “To this day, many of the townsfolk resent the way Cunnamulla was portrayed in the movie.”

O’Rourke was hit first with a defamation action, which you can read about here. But a second, more recent challenge has emerged.

Two teenagers, at least one of whom was thirteen at the time of filming, were interviewed by O’Rourke. Their parents claim that O’Rourke discussed the content of the interview prior commencing – and it was agreed he could speak with their daughters about particular subjects, including the “Miss Maid Contest” and racism.

The discussion which took place in front of the cameras was much broader. One of the girls frankly discussed her sex life: “I would prefer to use protection but most boys out here don't like using protection. You just tell them to watch what they do.”

Their parents are suing O’Rourke. The surprising thing is that they are doing so under section 52 of the Trade Practices Act – a section more commonly associated with second hand cars or supermarket advertising. Section 52 relates to conduct in ‘trade or commerce’ that is misleading or deceptive. The parents’ argument seems to be that O’Rourke’s conduct was misleading or deceptive because he went outside the (allegedly) agreed subject limitations.

It seems odd that interviewing subjects for a documentary is activity in ‘trade or commerce’, but a majority of the Full Federal Court has just confirmed this view – you can check it out in hard copy law reports under Hearn v O’Rourke (2003) ATPR 41-931. The majority’s reasoning is that if a documentary is ‘commercial’, anything essential to creating that documentary is activity related to trade or commerce.

So what does this actually mean?

This decision does not mean that O’Rourke has lost, it just means that they can try to sue him using this avenue. A major point of contention is likely to be the allegation that he promised to confine the interview to any subject – I can’t imagine any documentary maker agreeing to such a hard and fast rule before an interview.

I do think O’Rourke may have taken advantage of his youthful interview subjects – it’s so typical of a thirteen year old to talk tough, and then think – crap! People will watch this! But that’s a separate issue to this scary legal precedent.

Although I’m resorting to The Castle style ‘it’s the vibe’ rambling, this just feels off to me. If I have to come up with a legal argument – I’d say that this construction of ‘trade and commerce’ is too broad. As for a non-legal argument: if people are really worried about how a documentary maker or journalist could portray them, then they should watch what they say in front of a camera.

To finish with O’Rourke’s own words, back when the first defamation case began: "It's the truth. It's not just the truth for the people depicted in the film but for thousands of other people like them all over Queensland, all over Australia for that matter. I don't feel I have to defend that position." Well, it looks like he may have to defend it all over again.

Hello, Sandbox!
Guest blog by Lyn

Greetings. I'll be surfacing every now and then over the next few weeks, just keeping Doug's seat warm for him. Likely themes which may recur: B-Grade horror, copyright, bad poetry, and really embarassing stories about Doug from uni. Ha! the power!

As this is a bit of a test entry, I'll keep it short - but I had to share this great article about the alleged break-up of J-Lo and Ben:

"In the meantime, we'll have to console one another by engaging in intimate chats describing what went through our minds when we heard the devastating news. Personally, my thoughts ran the gamut from Who Gives a Crap? all the way to Seriously, Who Gives a Crap?"

I also liked this bit: "What is the world coming to when Hollywood's biggest stars can't even be relied upon to go through with their sham marriages? At least Elizabeth Taylor was a professional about it."

I love the smell of backlash in the morning.

"Are you having a sea change, sir?"

I like windfalls. The change in the back of the sock drawer. The unclaimed raffle prize that’s been waiting at reception so long someone finally snaps and harangues you about not collecting your rotting fruit basket. That kind of thing.

In a series of misguided attempts to straighten out my financial affairs before leaving Australian legal practice for a return to student life in the UK, I called my former superannuation plan managers from when I was working with the firm in Sydney.

This wound up being a good thing. A much better thing, in fact, than filling in almost all of my e-tax forms for internet lodgement of my tax return, but packing all my papers away in my parents shed before realising I need last year’s notice of assessment to lodge over the internet had been.

And when I say “packing away”, I mean placed in a file in a box, inside a bigger box, wrapped in plastic, buried under other boxes, wedged between the spare fridge and table and buried behind my sister’s dining suite (she moved home again recently too, but for a longer spell than my two weeks).

Anyway, there was much confusion with the superannuation people who’d thought I’d left the firm a year and a half ago when I took extended leave of absence (given that the firm had not paid me a salary in eighteen months I suppose this was not unreasonable). The result being that an (on my part, completely forgotten) insurance policy I had through the firm had been paid out to me as a lump sum, and when the fund managers couldn’t reach me at my old Sydney address, it was put in some kinda managed investment thingee where it’s been compounding at a pleasing rate ever since.

It seems I’m a financial somnambulist, leading an unconscious life as an (albeit minor) investor. Sleep-investment, if you will.

Anyway, in the course of untangling all this, I had to explain my parents’ weird rural address.

“Where’s that?” asked the woman from the fund manager’s office.

“Um”, I replied, “I’m one of these people who live just over the border from Canberra. It’s a rural address, near Lake George if you’re driving to Sydney. It’s only about 30 minutes out of town.”

“Oh, are you having a sea change, then?”

I had to laugh. What does it say, considering that she manages the account for a very large law firm, about the state of the legal profession that she assumed at 27 I’d dropped out of the rat race to become a vigneron, or to raise alpacas or something?

Anyway, I’m having me a three-day holiday in Sydney before flying out to Rome. It was meant to be a low-key opportunity to stay with Rob, indulge in a little low-key madness and see a few old friends.

So, naturally, I wiped myself out staying out until 4 am on Saturday.

All right, I’m off to buy more luggage locks and window-shop digital cameras before I hit the airport duty free store tomorrow. I may post from the road, but Lyn – Sydney lawyer and occasional guest-blogger at fridaysixpm – may be posting some fresh material in my absence.

See you soon.

Home, home on the range

Pinecones
It’s been funny, being at home before heading off to England – I’ve spent most of the last three years living away from Canberra and this is the longest I’ve been back in the parents’ house.

They have a slow combustion stove and slate flooring, which makes the whole place toasty warm this time of year (if very dry and de-humidified). My mother’s favourite kindling is pinecones, and I’ve often gone out to collect them. The last owners of my parents’ two paddocks (they live on 40 acres just outside Canberra, near Lake George) planted the boundary lines with pines. The drought has not been good, and the alien pines seem perversely green in paddocks stained the sepia, tea-bag brown.

Foraging in the russet needles for pinecones, filling my mother’s cloth bag, reminds me of when I used to play under or among these trees with my sister. They seemed a private world then, one that whispered when it got windy. Once at uni, when similarly scouting for kindling, or just for a stroll – I found a few of my childhood Smurfs lying patiently among the needles.

No hidden treasure this time though.

Earthmoving
My parents have been getting their driveway resurfaced. It’s been an undertaking of Roman proportions. Neglected for several years, their two hundred meter gravel driveway had washed out to a rutted track that endangered the undercarriage of everything but the four-wheel drive they don’t own. (My parents live in the country and don’t own one; wake up you city-dwellers driving your utterly unsafe, top-heavy, roll-prone personal tanks bristling with cyclist-slaying bull bars!)

First a load of rocks had to be dropped on the drive, turning it from dangerous to pretty much impassable. Then a huge grader (imagine a construction vehicle crossed with the biggest damn butterknife you’ve ever seen) had to scrape even a couple of truck-loads of earth. (At this stage in proceedings, Dad cut a cross-country track through the paddocks so we could drive out around the driveway, which now looked like trench construction on the Somme.)

The last stage was a graded gravel topcoat. The drive’s now a white ribbon running through the front paddock. My sister thinks they should bitumen-coat it, so it doesn’t erode over the next few years. It’s a good idea, but I’m not sure one of those bitumen-surfacing roadwork machines would get up our drive. If it could be done by spray-truck, that might just about work.

My parents have often hired earth-working vehicles, installing three further dams since arriving here in an effort to drought-proof the house’s garden, and to allow them to agist neighbours’ animals during droughts. (They have no livestock of their own.) I’m used to seeing the layered prints of giant tyres in muddy, churned earth – like a freshly excavated giant trilobite, or the ribs of some ancient thing pushing their way out through the soil.

Sagas, long and short

Instalment 30 of Naylor is now up. If you’ve been reading this long, I salute you. We’re past the half-way mark now. (I think.)

As for the iPod debacle of yesterday – thanks for the comments, e-mails and support, and a particular shout out to Marcus for a moment of sanity and sagacity.

The little blighter appears to be working properly now, I think I was (like the bad parent at swimming lessons) throwing it in too deep, too early and without enough breakfast. The battery is broken in now and charging properly, so no more nasty power failures while downloading and subsequent loss of memory.

The whole thing would still be so much easier if my folks' computer had a spare 15 gig I could back all my music up onto ...

A minor, utterly frustrating setback

My iPod has committed suicide.

It suddenly ran out of power (immediately after a one-hour charging) while sitting on the dock connecting it to my computer, busily (I thought) downloading music. The manual warns that if this happens, it may lose everything stored in its memory.

It has.

This is terribly disappointing. Two-and-a-half days of casual song downloading – gone. I try and load new songs, the computer says it’s done, the iPod says it’s empty.

The battery never seemed to charge fully either, and in the brief time of my owning it, never ran anything like the promised 7-8 hours. True, it might not have reached its full charge through use.

Even if fixed or replaced with a working iPod I doubt I’ll have time to copy over all the music I want before leaving.

I am seriously tempted to take the thing back and mail myself a thick CD wallet and my old portable discman.

And before anyone asks, yes I have tried everything it says in the manual – except reinstall the software, because the download would take ages over my parents’ rural modem. I’m saving that joy until I have spoken to my local Apple dealer at 9 am sharp today and they have told me there’s no other option.

Seriously not happy Jan.

Ah, listen to me whining. Smile and take the British-ness test below.

Cor blimey, I’m a failure guv’nor!

Are you British enough to get a passport?

I score a measly 4, which - given that I’m one of the most anglophile “colonials” I know - is ridiculous.

Where are the E. H. Sheperd questions? Lucky I already have a four year entry clearance.

So, how British are you?

(Link from burnt toast.)

10 things I’ve done recently

(1) Went to see “Little Nemo” on Saturday and had lunch at Tossolini’s with the family for early Father’s Day/late Dad’s birthday. Great film (especially all the Australian actor cameos and the “Diver Dan” reference), good food, good family time.

(2) Spent Friday night talking Italy with my best friend over pizza and wine.

(3) Bought that fashionable green triple-layer Gautex Kathmandu jacket I was wanting.

(4) On the basis of a comment below, and further pricing research, have switched my Paris accommodation to a more comfortable hotel in a better area (Madelaine-Opera) – for less money than the hostel was going to charge me for a room to myself. Bless last-minute web deals on hotel rooms, I say.

(5) Bought an iPod and got Dad to upgrade his hardware so I could copy my CDs to it. It totally rocks as a toy. However, I think I’ve now PC formatted it, and it won’t talk to an Apple after this … still, will be awesome to have all my music with me.

(6) Ate good cheese and bread, and drank beer, with friends on their back veranda, under their pergola of skeletal fig-vines basking in a glorious Canberran early-Spring Sunday afternoon.

(7) Have read my sister’s first few Art History thesis chapters in draft. I feel I know much more about the history of glass art in Australia now, and the huge influence of the Canberra School of Art Glass Workshop upon it.

(8) Have organised my Canberra farewell drinks for Thursday night at the Wig & Pen, where I am spending a suspicious amount of time since my return to Canberra. (Damn award-winning boutique micro-brewery beers.)

(9) Spent time watching Spring unfold around me: cherry trees in Canberra, and my parents’ Manchurian pear trees, are now in full bloom and surrounded by the cheerful drone of bees doing bee-things.

(10) Have spent very little time thinking about law.

Trading creature comforts for any semblance of cred

Florence is gone. Well, not literally, of course. Let me back up.

I have been a busy little beaver this week in Canberra, oh yes. My entire holiday is now sorted.

Now, let me explain something about myself. I sleep lightly. I cannot sleep on planes, or in hostel dorms. I need a room of my own.

I have spent chunks of the week on the internet trying to secure accommodation in Rome. Paris and Venice were easy – Rome, horrendous. Hostels, convents, monasteries – the first ten budget-accommodation providers I contacted were all booked out.

The concept of arriving after 30 hours without sleep at the Termini station in Rome and beginning doorknocking hostels was not looking good – especially if I eventually landed in a dorm and continued not to sleep.

The cheapest price for (not available) single rooms at a hostel was at least 54 euros. At this point my mother stepped in and hit the last-minute hotel booking sites.

As a result I have gone a bit over budget to pay a princely 69 euros a night in Rome for four nights. It seems a fair bit (about $110 Australian), until I consider what I’m getting: a 200 euro a night room in a four star hotel, with breakfast, a cardinal’s throw from the Vatican.

I can think of no better environment in which to shower, take an evening stroll around the city, and then sleep off the jet lag.

I love my luck.

Nuns in Venice
Now, in this flurry of activity, I was e-mailing convents and monasteries (the new thing in budget travel) like mad. I could only find one convent with a listed e-mail in Venice – the highly recommended Instituto Artigianelli. I composed an e-mail in both fractured and re-glued phrase book Italian and English and sent it off.

The sisters of Instituto Artigianelli replied (in charming English) within eight hours, confirming the availability of guest room one, single bed with bath and breakfast, at 52 euros a night.

Paris – Hostel/Hotel
I’ve found a place where I can get a private room within budget off the Place de Clichy, and rather belatedly hand out with “real” backpackers for four nights or so.

The big chop
So, with only seven nights in Italy, and four in Paris, I decided to drop Florence from my itinerary for the time being – prioritise three adequate, if short, stays, over running around like a mad thing.

I’m going to be tired, I’m going to want to indulge myself and take things at my own pace, I’m going to want to arrive in Cambridge well-rested. Florence can be the hub of a later trip in and around northern Italy. It’s still a must, but if I leave it, it can have adequate time.

I’m now so excited, I can hardly sleep.

Two nights in Canberra: Jazz at Hippo, and seeing “28 days later …”

Canberra’s nightlife gets better and better each time I’m back in town. A new tradition among some of my friends seems to be going to live jazz Wednesdays at the Hippo lounge bar upstairs in Garema Place.

Hippo features a lot of that fashionable burnt-red décor, mirrors, small chandeliers and fuzzy wallpaper. It felt a little like the Gin Palace, a little like the Lounge Downstairs in Melbourne. It also had a thoroughly adequate cocktail list. Getting a Toblerone for $10, or $8 before 8pm is almost reason enough in itself to move back to Canberra.

The jazz was good, the audience talkative but polite. The crowd seemed fairly mixed between students and professionals, jazz buffs and people looking for a good night out on a weekday. (Worst fashion statement of the night, though - woman in white shirt and matching white cloth cap. Fashion hats, indoors, at night? Ick.)

It was good to see some old friends, even if one arrived dressed exactly like me (black shoes, blue jeans, red shirt, black leather jacket). But then she and I have had a running joke for some time that we are each one half of the perfect gay man.

Last night was far more typical of my time in Canberra: custom-brewed beer and fried potato products at the Wig & Pen pub and micro-brewery. Good training for drinking from pint glasses in a dark-wood and plaster atmosphere. Afterwards I went with the boys to see “28 days later …”.

The protagonist waking up alone in hospital in an eerily quiet London was reminiscent of “Day of the Triffids”. Otherwise it was a fairly intelligent zombie film, with the “infected” being genuinely scary and grotesque (particularly in their movements and vocal effects), even if the red-eye contact lenses were a bit silly.

However, you could still far too often say: “No you idiot, don’t wander off on your own into a dark abandoned building!” Still, the characterisation was better than in most horror (British understatement is always good), and the film played with sensations of suspense and relief well. Some of the visual effects thrown into the road-trip sequence were pretty random, but the digital video production didn’t irritate me anywhere near as much as “hand held” films like “Blair Witch Project”.

Still, you wouldn’t lose anything by waiting for the DVD.

Naylor Day

Alright, last week's Naylor is finally up. No, there will not be more this week, because I am slack and moving countries and such.

It's a little longer than the usual post anyway.

Right, I'm off to weigh the merits of excess baggage and storage at left luggage in Heathrow while I gad about Italy versus shipping a heap of stuff to myself by air freight.

Surely he didn’t come out and actually say that?

Back on the Californian recall election, where Arnold Schwarzenegger will be running for election if Governor Gray Davis gets the sack in a special referendum:

"Mr. Schwarzenegger has reneged on early campaign promises not to accept campaign contributions from anyone. State disclosures show he has collected more than $1 million from companies and individuals with business before the state. “I get donations from businesses and individuals absolutely, because they're powerful interests who control things,” he said today."

Including the gubernatorial candidates they've bought off, maybe?

I mean, did he really, really say that? Well, okay, he obviously did. But are we sure he knew what each word meant?

Well, I guess that’s a blunt lesson in honesty for our local politicians taking money to fund “private” campaigns …

And now a word from our sponsors!

I picked up my four year ancestral entry certificate to the UK yesterday, and received with it this cheerful little notice (all punctuation errors as in the original):

IMPORTING MEAT AND MEAT PRODUCTS INTO THE UNITED KINGDOM

If you bring meat into the United Kingdom from countries which are not part of the European Union or European Economic Area you may only bring with you

No more than 1 kilogram of meat which has been cooked in a can or other hermetically sealed container

If you attempt to import more than 1 kilogram of meat or meat which is not properly cooked:

(1) The goods may be seized and destroyed as you enter the United Kingdom

(2) You may be prosecuted and, if found guilty you may be fined up to 5000 pounds or imprisoned for two years.

Only one kilo? Dammit, what am I going to do with the other 23 kilos of grampaw’s part-cured beef jerky in non-hermetically sealed containers in my luggage?

Encounters with the free market: part 3
(or “peculiar moments in male bonding”)

So I while ago I mentioned the terrifying prospect of selling my car, and that dream-buyer Steve turned up on the first day and we agreed on a price of $9,600 and he put down a cash deposit.

The sale went ahead the following Monday, now two weeks ago. I popped home on a tram to meet Steve, as agreed, at 11 at my place. Steve worked in fleet logistics for his company, so he knew what needed doing. He’d already checked out the registration and the fact that there was no outstanding loan on the car.

He left me his car and car keys, while he scooted off to run it over the pits and get a roadworthy. I popped down to Vic Roads to get the transfer of ownership paperwork.

“Get two copies,” said Steve, “in case we stuff one up.”

He returned, we duly stuffed up one transfer form and set to work on the other. A few phone calls later, he had the car insured. My only involvement at this point was keeping Muchka the cat out of Steve’s lap.

The weirdish moment was getting the bank cheque. There was visible, stifled man-to-man emotion in the lobby of the National Bank on Sydney road.

He (a family man) was parting with what was for him, and I was taking what was for me, a large sum of money.

I (a tie-less twenty-something) was parting with, and he was taking my – admittedly kinda girly –’99 Toyota Echo so his wife could ferry their boys around Melbourne’s outer ‘burbs.

The money, and the car, were both not small things for we menfolk. We shook hands and parted, complimenting each other on how easy it was to do business with someone fair and friendly.

“Doug, you’ve been a gentleman.”

I crossed the road to avoid walking Steve back to my (now his) car. It somehow seemed – awkward. Our bloke-to-bloke business was done.

I considered tucking the cheque into my moleskine, but in the end just held it firmly in my hand the hundred meter walk to my bank, where I deposited it along with the sales proceeds from the auction of my wardrobe.

I was hoping for at least a gratifying wide-eyed blink from the teller when I deposited a sum of money certainly adding up to the largest banking transaction of my life – but no, nothing. Not a flicker crossed her countenance.

Still, the important thing is that I didn’t drop the cheque and have it blow away down the road …

I now feel gratifyingly, falsely rich. Overall, I lost money on both the car (inevitable) and the wardrobe (disappointing) but am now far more “liquid” than I’ve ever been. I suppose I should do something sensible like invest some of this money for when I get back, if one can invest the piddling sums I’ll have left after setting holiday and beer-in-England money aside.

What’s been your scariest financial transaction?

Countdown to Cambridge: C minus 28 days
(My last four days in excruciating detail)

Today: Visa day!

Canberra is a little surreal after Melbourne. The sky is so big, everything else looks, well, flat – or in bizarrely compressed perspective, like a Jeffrey Smart painting.

Indeed, whoever designed the Brindabella Business Park at the Canberra airport had clearly recently OD’d on some Smart paintings: solid blocks of industrial colour rising out of no discernable foreground and standing stark against the sky. The buildings all had that assembled-from-simple-shapes-on-a-fuzzy-felt-board look to them. One of these oddities was the quaintly titled Piccadilly House, which accommodates the British High Commission Consular Section.

I felt nervous that my paperwork would be found wanting. (“What do you mean you don’t have birth certificates for at least five grandparents?”) However, the only hassle was waiting. A cheery consular officials sat behind a bank teller’s glass screen and informed me, tinnily, through a Bose speaker that my four-year ancestry-based entry permit will be ready to collect lunchtime tomorrow.

To step back in time:

Friday night: I did, in the end, get a bit emotional, saying goodbye to my colleagues. The boss and his PA (hereafter, “Moneypenny”) had some lovely words to say, and I went for a pre-drinks drink with Moneypenny where we managed to get sincerely sentimental about the quality of our working relationship.

It has been an excellent year working closely with the two of them, and I’ve learned a good deal from both.

My second farewell function was aimed at outside-work friends, although Mr Z and another recent-leaver from my organisation were kind enough to come along. Drinks were low-key and at the Lounge, on the upstairs balcony. I was delighted by the turnout. There was a good cross-section of lawyer-type, blogging, book clubbing, old Canberra and new Melbourne friends – as well as it being the first occasion when my new, temporary set of housemates were all out on the town together.

The most amusing part of the night was my effort at table reservation. I arrived first (a mere 20 minutes late) to find the far corner of *my* table already colonised by a group of Brunswick Street types whom I randomly decided to be cinema studies students planning a short film. I sat as far as possible from them, and allowed friends to infill around me, creeping along the table.

“Yup,” I said, “it starts with population pressures, ripens into border disputes – and then it’s all just a question of what the German economy is doing.”

The situation resolved itself according to some unsuspected law of moral balance: as soon as we (the late arriving types who’d booked) filled exactly half the table and were elbow-to-elbow with the interlopers, they spontaneously rose, apologised and retreated to an island colony of two nearby tables which they pushed together.

The second most amusing part of the evening was finishing up my final night in Melbourne dancing at the self-consciously daggy 80s/90s disco at the Builders Arms Hotel on Getrude Street. Nicole, Miriam, Martin, Fiona and I were the posse for that event. Some of the others present didn’t look as though they’d changed their hair styles since the music was first played.

Saturday: I awoke at 9 am, refreshingly un-hungover and began madly stuffing my remaining possessions into two bags. I’d got it down to three coats, a pillow, a fedora (ie Humphrey Bogart) hat, two large green suitcases (only one with wheels), two suit-packs and several stray handfuls of bits and pieces by the time the brunching hour rolled about.

My final meal in Melbourne was a lovely brunch at the Comfortable Chair on Lygon Street. My god they do a huge plateful of food for $10. The company was my exceedingly excellent flatmates and round-the-corner Miriam. And there were bad puns and good coffee.

Such good coffee, and such bad puns. Many of them mine …

The trip to the airport was punctuated by a terribly sweet goodbye phone call from a dear Melbourne friend. Arriving at the airport, however, proved what a hideous encumbrance three coats, a pillow, a fedora, two large green suitcases, two suit-packs and several stray handfuls of bits and pieces shoved into a shoulder bag can be.

Especially when you forget to put your old boy-scout’s pocket knife in your checked luggage.

(It’s following me by mail.)

On the plane to Canberra, I saw one of my scholarship referees, but was unable to catch her for a chat on disembarking. (Must’ve been frightened by my unshaven appearance.

Or the hat.)

Mum and my sister collected me at the airport. It was good to see them. Although my mother’s vest and slacks, eerily, were the same green as my luggage.

Canberra welcomed me with rain and horizontal wind, which was not a great change from recent Melbourne weather, all told.

Sunday: Brunch with the Ruminator! And an absolute stack of dear, ole Canberra friends it was delight to see. We talked, we ate, we watched chunks of “The Animatrix”. (I liked the noir-ish detective story – for reasons that had nothing to do with the guy’s excellent hat.) Beer at the Wig & Pen ensued, followed by dinner with the family, then staying up half the night reading Ben’s “Promethea” collection in a single sitting.

Damn quality Allan Moore writing.

Blogging today will be delayed ...

I'm off to do noble battle with surly visa beasts.

Actually, I've heard the British High Commission in Canberra is really friendly and quick.

However, I've decided it might also be prudent to get visas for a number of other places I'd like to visit before leaving the country. People warn me that most of Eastern Europe still has a decidely communist-era approach to the issue of visas and their inspection at borders ...

Anyway, just trying to finish off my paperwork for a 4 year entry permit to the UK based on my mother's father being a UK citizen. Had it been my father's father I could get a UK passport.

Why did my parents not have the sense to get me born in the UK and save all this mucking about?

Much to report about the end of my time in Melbourne/the return to Canberra, but later.

Not sad, not yet

Heavy-lidded and feeling a touch displaced I stumble through my last day at work.

Had a fabulous farewell function last night, for me and two others who leave next week. There were nearly 30 of us: the guys presently working at my level in the different teams, and some who’d recently left us.

I hadn’t realised there were going to be speeches, and got a little apprehensive about who might have been tapped on the shoulder to make mine.

It suddenly struck me that most of those co-workers I got to feel close to when I first moved to Melbourne and was in hard-core friend-making mode, moved on from the office some time ago. (Most people only do this job a year or 18 months because there’s really no career path, so there’s constant turnover – but less angsty than at a firm because you know going in it’s a one-year gig.)

Anyway, I realised that at work I have, on the whole, probably been friendly – but maybe a little aloof. My Melbourne has been one of a broad range of acquaintances and a few good friends. This suits me, but left no one at work who really knew me. I wondered who on earth would be asked to speak about me.

So, when Mr Z rose to his feet, I was quite relieved. He used to work at the Adelaide office and we got to know each other first through some weeknight drinking. He was also present when I, metaphorically, “hit the wall” rather suddenly at a party some months ago. I was burbling along fine for ages, then kinda got rather flat and sick-feeling around 2.30am, and went to sit, unspeaking and pretty non compos mentis for some time in the garden.

I blamed this mostly on drinking a series of tequila shots with a man possibly twice my weight (I’m a slender guy, if tall-ish, weighing in at a mere 55 kilos immediately after eating).

Mr Z lead with the words: “Doug is a man who punches above his weight …”

The speech was hysterical, short and very kind.

Eventually they kicked us out of the restaurant and a hard core went on to finish a bottle of red at Soft Belly before getting our trams home.

So, this is my final day in the office. There is literally nothing left for me to do here, except fill out the “leaver’s clearance” document that will trigger my final pay and pay-out my accumulated leave, and delete about 2,000 personal e-mails that have accumulated over several months. I no longer even have a desk, my replacement is now well settled in and I’m using spare computers where I find them.

Sad? Not yet. I think I will be soon though.

Meantime I just have to work out what “returned all attractive items?” on my clearance form means …

I know, I know

Naylor Day has been delayed. Forgot to bring in the edits I have been making on paper and transfer them to screen. So tomorrow. Or Saturday at the latest. No threatening e-mails before the weekend please. (Jason - this means you.)

You think this is bad, wait 'till I'm trotting round Europe. (I will maintain Courting Disaster as my travel and Cambridge diary, as well as the usual posts, but until I settle down to study again, Naylor may be tricky for a fortnight in late September.)

Anyway, read on and berate my politics instead.

“I can’t believe it’s not a bollicking”

At the risk of permanently losing my latte-sipping leftist credentials, I find myself about to come out in limited, half-hearted support of a staunch right-wing death beast: Tony Abbott, federal minister for workplace relations.

And not just because he has an eerie resemblance to my former landlord, the gentleman academic.

I watched the 7.30 Report interview last night about whether he had lied about setting up a “slush fund” to attack Pauline Hanson’s One Nation “party”. (I say “party” because “Pauline Hanson’s One Nation” was always a corporation controlled by three voting members, unwilling to open itself to democratic governance by its members (who were in fact mere financial supporters). It’s registration as a party was a fraud on the Electoral Act and Hanson received some $500,000 of public funds for campaign expenses as a result.)

I started off jeering at Abbott, and thinking he was being evasive and obfuscatory. Which he was. But eventually, I got rather sick of Kerry O’Brien’s interview – pleasant as it is to see a bully being bullied.

As Deborah Snow pointed out, there are two separate issues:

“The first is a pledge he made to a disillusioned former One Nation candidate, Terry Sharples, in July 1998 to defray legal costs in a case Sharples was bringing against One Nation.

The second is a trust that Abbott set up the next month to pursue One Nation through other legal channels.”

It has been said that Abbott lied to an ABC interviewer in 1998 when he answered “absolutely not” to the question “So there was never any question of any party funds or other funds from any other source being offered to Terry Sharples?”

Let’s unpack this. In all fairness, the point Abbott tried to get across last night was Sharples was never going to be paid to take on Hanson in the Courts. Abbott organised free legal counsel and said he would make sure – if Sharples lost – that any costs order made against him by a Court and payable to One Nation would not come out of Sharples’ own pocket.

Now whether giving someone a financial guarantee that there will be no cost to them, is at the end of the day, different from “offering” money is an open question. It is certainly not “paying” someone to launch a court case, but that was not the question he was asked to answer.

However, Sharples’ case was never brought. The fund in question (to quote The Age):

“was used to challenge the registration of One Nation in Queensland by preparing a proposed case to be brought by Pauline Hanson's former assistant, Barbara Hazelton. The case did not go ahead and Mr Abbott said the money remaining was returned to the donors.”

So, what we have is (a) a guy guaranteed that if he lost and had costs orders made against him that order would be paid; and (b) funds spent preparing a case that never proceeded. “Slush fund” for a witch-hunt? Hmmm.

Much as I say this through gritted teeth, and with a vein bulging so prominently upon my brow it threatens to burst the skin and inflict whiplash injuries on nearby innocents, Abbott deserves praise.

He backed people to do the right thing and expose a corrupt organisation that was perpetrating a fraud on the public purse and the public’s trust. He may have done it by shady means and for dubious motives, but he did not attempt to use public or party funds to do it. He also did it at a time when his Prime Minister refused to come out in the open and call a spade a dirty great mud-dripping shovel.

It’s a dubious, lop-sided kind of integrity at best – but at least this bullying blusterer of a politician was prepared to take action and not wring his hands in the face of a rising tide of simplistic, fear-driven politics.

As I have said in comments on others’ posts on this issue: (a) Hanson never wanted members with rights in the context of a properly run political party under electoral law - her "party" was a corporation run by three people that did not tolerate internal dissent; and (b) this false structure allowed her to misappropriate (ie steal) $500,000 of public money.

If this was a tax rort committed by a barrister, no-one would be crying over a jail sentence of say, 6 – 12 months. Stealing what the average worker earns in 10 years *is* a big deal. Nor would anyone say ignorance was an excuse.

3 years without parole? Harsh, certainly.

Abbott, using political power and influence to hound a new party out of existence, or showing more determination than most in his party to stand up to a truly outrageous fraud? Much as I may dislike the man, I think the latter.

Final days and counting

Ah, a quiet farewell lunch. Given that much of the organisation is off at conferences this week I am spared speech-making at a farewell afternoon tea. Normally, I quite like making speeches – unlike many I try and keep them pithy and sit down before people start drooling from boredom or in their sleep – but the last guy to leave presented his humorous farewell speech in surprisingly good rhyming couplets.

I hate following a tough act.

Anyway, after a terribly pleasant lunch of fish, white wine and an Italian waiter whose recitation of the specials would have done a town crier proud, I am full of love towards humanity in general – as well as being full of fish and white wine.

The removalists did indeed show up yesterday, and conforming to stereotype, consisted of the older more experienced mover (who did more of the papers and talking and less of the lifting) and the younger mover (who seemed less attached to the job and more figuring out what comes next).

I was, however, sufficiently stressed that I woke up early and by 6.30am was dismantling my bed and trying to wrap my mattress in plastic. My boss then kindly gave me the whole afternoon off so I’d have plenty of time to get everything done before the removalists were expected. I was still sufficiently uptight and sleep deprived that I managed to get on the wrong train home and had to get off in Footscray and find a taxi.

Ooops.

Still, every box I packed is inventoried, numbered and has my father’s contact details and a map of how to get to the appropriate rural property outside Canberra taped to its lid.

Yes, I am a control freak.

Anyway, I am now feeling more relaxed. The rest of the week though is a social blitz: farewell lunch today, farewell dinner with the other young lawyers at my level on Thursday and then the obligatory farewell drinks on Friday. I may or may not scrape myself out for brunch on Saturday before flying out in the afternoon.

Sometime last week I gave up on eating at home, too much chance of the groceries just going to waste. It’s a tough job, eating out all the time in Melbourne, but dammit, when I live virtually on Lygon street, I’m willing to give it a go.

Let the madness begin

My last week at work and my last week in Melbourne. Between farewell events and nerves, this is going to be one weirded-out, sleep deprived kind of week. (Especially once my bed leaves tomorrow.)

Also, my replacement starts today, so training him up – and having someone at my elbow all week – could seriously cramp my blogging.

Mental notes:

(1) when a mite stressed and sleep deprived, do not drink to excess at farewell functions – this may end badly;

(2) remember to gift wrap presents for the boss and the PA early this week, you forgot them both at Christmas, they at least deserve a thank-you now;

(3) if anything will ever allow me to achieve Zen-like contempt for material possessions, it’s moving: packing all my crap again and compiling an inventory for when my parents take possession from the removalists is leading my to see said crap as – well – crap;

(4) though I did an excellent thing returning almost all my library books to the Northcote branch on Sunday, I still have “To the Lighthouse”; now that I am without a car I will need to post it back;

(5) remind Canberra friends I am back as of this weekend for two weeks;

(6) make the big Gautex vs goose-down jacket decision before the Katmandu sale starts on Friday (I think Gautex will win, despite my mother’s lobbying for down – maybe the answer is a triple layer Gautex jacket and a down vest … );

(7) call removalists – why have they not faxed through a job confirmation? They’re due tomorrow, dammit; and

(8) despite (1), gin may well be my friend this week …

What are your tips for things to do in a last week at work?

Blowing them away at the polls

The Californian recall debacle just gets weirder. For those not across the basics, California has a generous system of that old sawhorse of Australian politics, citizen-initiated-referenda. This apparently extends to “recalling” a Governor and forcing a special election. It’ll be a two stage ballot requiring a majority to oust the Governor and, if that succeeds, votes can be counted as cast in a special election.

The media coverage has not really been about Governor Gray Davis’ budgetary and energy policy woes, of course, but about the farcical number of candidates, and the candidature of Arnold Schwarzenegger, a man who can’t pronounce “forgeddabowdit” as three separate words.

Schwarzenegger faces two serious opponents, the Democrats lieutenant governor Cruz Bustamante, who is set to capitalise on the important Hispanic vote and his antagonistic relationship with Gov. Davis. Indeed, Bustamante is ahead of the actor in present polling.

Schwarzenegger’s other opponent is the right wing of the Republican party which is aghast at the Terminator’s tolerant views on abortion and homosexuality (though he is against illegal immigrant workers).

At least Schwarzenegger is following the time honoured Republican tradition of being a candidate who, while being about as sharp as box of hammers, is happy to welcome aboard the full steak-knife set of smart advisers *and* also pay for some of his own advertising.

What is it about Republicans wanting morally (and intellectually) simple people at the helm? (I guess Nixon did give brains a bad name.)

Anyway, the new weirdness is that now Jesse Ventura, former pro wrestler and governor of Minessota has advice for Gubernatorial contender Arnie:

Mr. Ventura [said] that if Californians "are stupid enough to vote for this recall," then people cannot blame his friend and former co-star Arnold Schwarzenegger for capitalizing on it.
…
"First of all, I'd tell Arnold, be yourself," said Mr. Ventura, a man who made his name and fortune dressing in leotards and boas and playing the heavyweight foil to Hulk Hogan. "Don't be spun doctored and stay away from the Republican Party, who will try to make you something you're not."

At least, even if he makes Governor, as someone not born in the US, Schwarzenegger is constitutionally barred from following Reagan’s lead and running for President. Although, on social policy he’d be an advance on Bush and no more incoherent a speech-maker.

But following Beth’s post about minor-celebrity weapons-inspector Richard Butler becoming Governor of Tasmania, which Australian celebrities would you push for state governor? I kinda like the idea of David Wenham as State Governor: I can see him rocking up to the opening of new government building in denim jacket and burnt-copper three-day growth saying “Yeah, it’s largely a ceremonial gig, but the pay isn't too bad.”

That old-time drive-in experience
(Car sale part I, reviews of “American Pie 3”, “Charlies Angels 2” and “Feardotcom”)

So Saturday I sold my car and went to a drive-in double-bill.

I know that sounds odd, but (a) dream-buyer Steve didn’t take possession until Monday, and (b) I went in someone else’s vehicle.

I mean, if you went to the drive in and everyone took their own car it’d just be silly.

My phone had not run hot following my three-day ad in The Age. Dream-buyer Steve was actually my only caller on the Thursday. Over the weekend I had a few other private inquiries – but most were from dealers or auction-houses. I listened politely, took their numbers and asked what they could offer (no more than $8,500).

I also phoned a dealership’s second-hand buyer who was genuinely helpful about who I should be speaking to and what price I should expect.

Saturday did not run to plan. The only car-detailers I could get on short notice arrived late and didn’t finish with the car until after 2 pm. Steve cancelled his morning inspection. My sale was floundering.

I did the only sane thing. I went to brunch with a friend I’d not seen since the penguin escapade.

The detailers did a spanky job though, the car looked dewy-fresh and was heady with that dry-cleaner fresh smell.

Steve showed up in the afternoon; he was friendly, clearly knew a bit about cars and didn’t muck me about. He offered $9,600 and settlement on Monday. It was a good price and a quick sale – so we shook hands and he left a cash deposit.

Celebration was a drive-in all-sequel double-bill of American Pie 3 (“American Wedding”) and Charlie’s Angels 2. Sometimes, cinema is so bad, you can’t help but enjoy it.

Pie 3 is dominated by Sean William Scott. It could be titled: “Stiffler screws up, grosses out, then saves the day.” It was amusing, but I needed to be much drunker.

Stiffler’s half-assed “rehabilitation” turns on him realising that “really gay” does mean “stylish and sophisticated”, and that you could do things both for your friends and to have sex with a bridesmaid.

The earlier films were only redeemed by Eugene Levy as the Dad. Taking your son to emergency when he’s super-glued his hand to his genitals in a masturbatory accident is pretty much the kind of practical, non-judgemental assistance fatherly love is about. His role, along with Alyson Hannigan’s, was diminished for Stiffler’s sake and the slender merits of the series suffered accordingly.

What disturbed me was the hordes of 8 year olds people had brought to the Coburg drive-in. Hello? Sex references? Nudity? The film features strippers, clearly present for the male age demographic of 12 to dead, who were at least they were kind of funny. But appropriate for 8 year olds?

I’ve watched “Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle” before. See it drunk and it’s forgivable. Sober, it’s tolerable – except the final fifteen minutes.

That ending is even worse a second time round: long, ludicrous, painful. It’s like the writing team, confronted with the sheer existential horror of their wasted lives, gave up and the mail-boy had to complete the script by stapling on ten discarded pages from “Spider Man”. Seriously, people start shooting webs, flying, and swinging between buildings on cables.

The opening sequence is priceless, though, and the fight against the “O’Grady clan” isn’t too bad. The car wash scene in the closing credits is simply gratuitous.

I spent a lot of time glancing over to the ridiculously stylised “Feardotcom” on another screen. I think I got most of the plot: women are kidnapped and tortured on demand for a sicko webcam site.

It also features poltergeist weirdness involving a little girl with white hair, in a white dress, playing with a white ball. Spooky.

Everything is shot on an angle, through a blue filter. Most of the cyber-cops die. I presumed good triumphed over evil - despite rooms that seeped blood, cockroaches or “eerie” video montage.

Conclusion: scary films aren’t very scary without sound.

Overall, I had a fantastically tacky night. Only an extra six-pack could have improved it.

Hardbitten, hardboiled, but certainly not hung-over

One does not use the h-word on a weekday morning (“hung-over”), not even in combination with an adjective such as “mildly”.

One speaks of “feeling a trifle dehydrated”, “a drink too many”, “soup for lunch”, and perhaps “sleeping under a heavy quilt was a mistake”.

Nothing aspirin and black coffee for breakfast can’t fix.

So yes, having stopped at Young & Jackson’s Chloe’s bar for dinner again (fantastic food actually, but very rich), I was rather late to my final blogger Melbourne meetup, and perhaps a little loud and boisterous on arrival.

I may have dominated conversation to the exclusion of others in my Bob-Hope-entertaining-the-troops mode. Ooops.

Anyway, this week’s Naylor is up:

“ … it didn’t look good – grown men don’t just deliberately walk out in front of cars. Hard thing to explain to a jury.”

My thoughts flickered back to the night, headlights slewing across the dark tarmac, the body sprawled like a broken bird. Me, walking over in desperate misplaced hope, to ask if he was all right. Running back to scrabble under the car seats to find where my mobile had ricocheted to rest. Then beginning the first stretch of waiting until the blue and red lights and white cars arrived.

I’m off in search of more coffee.

Long and bitter, the path to reconstruction in Iraq and Afghanistan

The bombing of the UN headquarters in Iraq overnight was, without doubt, a tragic, senseless and brutal act. It is all the more awful given that the people of Iraq should have no real or perceived grievance with the UN, playing as it is a limited relief and advisory role, other than perhaps its having “recognised” US forces as the occupying authority of Iraq and having welcomed the interim and US-appointed Iraqi Governing Council.* The UN force in Iraq, though, had called for a speedy transition to Iraqi self-government and had been involved in relief efforts including UNICEF. The death of UN workers in Iraq is, as Kofi Annan put it, a blow to the Iraqi people themselves.

Indeed, the very vulnerability of the UN facility may have resulted from its desire to distance itself from US troops or a heavy security presence.

We can only hope that this development does not undermine the international will to assist in the reconstruction of Iraq and that the good of the majority of its citizens is not jeopardised as a result of this criminal act.

However bad the situation in Iraq, though, it seems terribly regrettable that the news cycle appears to have forgotten Afghanistan. NATO is now to provide a continuing and stable command structure for the security operation in Kabul, but is unlikely to expand the military presence beyond the capital before the June elections. Quite apart from NATO capacity, expanding the operations of UN forces beyond Kabul will require a new Security Council resolution.

The consequence of this seems relatively clear: the warlords who still rule much of the country stand to gain a share of the country’s governance and the odds of free and fair elections do not seem especially promising.

Aid agencies report a deteriorating situation in Afghanistan. Popular discontent, ethnic tensions and rivalry between warlords combined risk:

creating conditions "dangerously close" to those prevailing at the time of the Taleban's emergence.

The Red Cross still seems upbeat about its efforts to restore essential water and sanitation services, but it is hard to escape the vision of a situation slowly collapsing while the world looks elsewhere.

If this the model for reconstruction following military occupation as part of the War on Terror, it is hardly inspiring. There is already a clear sense that Iraq is sliding from US control, and a radical re-think of strategy is now needed. A new multilateral approach may be the onlything stopping Iraq becoming the new Vietnam, if UN will has not already been dealt a critcal blow. (The fact that most UN, if not World Bank or IMF, workers have elected to remain in place is simply inspiring.) The path ahead is clearly going to be long and difficult and will require a great deal of political and economic will from the international community.

(*Okay, when I wrote this yesterday I should also have thought about the crippling UN sanctions regime as a potential source of local tension and grievances also.)

Losing one by one my keys, and other people’s voices

A weird thought struck me yesterday, as nice-guy and dream-buyer Steve handed over a bank cheque for my car, and that is that – as I wind down my life in Melbourne – my key ring is getting smaller.

(Well, it has fewer keys.)

True, I took the spare keys to my parents’ place in Canberra off it months ago and set them aside, trying to trim it down from something that looked like a shuriken or mace down to a practical implement. So on Sunday, I still had four keys: house, car, office door, luggage. Now I’ve three. By the time I leave Melbourne I will no longer need any of those, provided I get around to replacing my flimsy luggage padlocks.

In some cultures, apparently, keys are a symbol of status as they represent property. Maybe I am finally succeeding in divesting myself of possessions. It certainly feels as if I am relinquishing this city by degrees.

A different loss-phenomenon is, I reflected yesterday, meeting a fellow-blogger for the first time, especially after reading their blog for an extended period.

What I lose on such a meeting (or, in one case, a phone call) is the way I imagined the blogger’s voice sounding. Reading a blog is not just about content. As a very personal, conversational medium, it is an exercise in imagining the author – one gleans things, snippets about a person, assembles them in a certain way and assigns a blog a tone, a voice. Naturally, the person one meets is different.

Sometimes conversation flows readily, sometimes it takes a little more work, but for me there is often the sense of losing the imagined person, the imagined voice.

This is not a saddening loss, like the loss of my keys it is in some ways more of an unburdening – real people are inevitably more interesting. Besides, re-assimilating the gleaned pieces of a writer-as-character in the light of meeting them as writer-in-person also an imaginative exercise. (And probably as creatively flawed as the first imagining.)

Just once or twice, though, there’s been a period when I can still here both voices, the one I assigned someone’s blog, and the “physical” voice I heard on meeting them. Intriguing.

Woo hoo!

Okay, the car is sold. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to blog about it at present. Hmmm … reminder list of topics to blog about:

(1) selling the car

(2) seeing a drive-in all-sequel double-bill of American Pie 3 and Charlie’s Angels 2

(3) watching “Better than Chocolate”

(4) getting used to brunch at Comfortable Chair, Brunswick

(5) reading: “To the Lighthouse” and “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay”

(6) attempting to work with no remaining brain-power or emotional focus

(7) my new life as a pedestrian

(8) attending a great international law forum on Thrusday and reflecting on the big questions: is it “law” if it can't be enforced? (And issues of direct vs municipal enforcement.)

Less than two weeks in Melbourne to go, and I still need to book a removalist and re-pack all my packing boxes …

(Exeunt pursued by bear)

"Identity" and Naylor Day

Urgh, a bit insomniac at the moment, and engaged in a great e-mail discussion about "Identity" which I saw last night. (Short summary: cool, intriguing, not just a horror/slasher flick - give it a burl.) I would give more detail about the film and the present discussion, but everything that's cool to discuss about it would be a spoiler.

Intriguing, this spate of films with a "who are you, anyway?" theme in them somewhere, first "the Matrix", now "Identity" and soon "Cypher".

So anyway, this week's Naylor is up:

Last year. The story of why I wasn’t a solicitor. How I came to be stamped: “refused admission to practice.” There was a lot to cover, and some of it I knew I would have to skip that first time with Danielle, but at least with her finding a beginning was easy.

If you're new to the site, this is my side-project: publishing a 1000 words a week of a crime-novel-in-progress set in Canberra. It begins over here.

In Sydney: take a moment to reflect
(and other sappy calendar slogans)

Every time I’m back in Sydney for work (and this trip makes three), seems to be a moment to consider what I left behind exiting stage left from the life of a corporate lawyer and moving to Melbourne, and how happy I was to do it.

Many, many, of my Canberra friends live here now and it’s a shame more of them weren’t about while I was still in Sydney.

Still, looking back over “Sydney trip/Sydney sucks” entries numbers one, two, three and four – I have become progressively less bitter about my time here. Though the thought of returning to a firm still fills me with visceral horror.

Walking down to the legal precinct this morning the full two-block length of Hyde Park was beautiful. It was drizzling a little, and terribly humid (when is Sydney not?), but the central axis of the park with its canopy of trees is delightful.

The Hyde Park war memorial is about level with the apartment I’m splitting for the week here with two colleagues, and it’s art-deco era plinth-like outline is quite dramatic lit up at night. All the good buildings here are native sandstone, unfortunately most have been pulled down by successive waves of development, leaving the town with much less architectural history (for my taste) than Melbourne.

I also had a little nostalgia attack, smelling the leaf-mould in the park this morning, its scent fusing with the salty, heavy, humid air off the harbour. I'm growing very fond of the Archibald fountain in Hyde park, too. (Donated by the founder of the Archibald Prize for National Portraiture at the NSW Art Gallery?)

The best thing about this trip, so far though, has been the people – easily. It has been great seeing everyone again, there’s been a real celebratory air to it, in fact.

Monday I saw some of the old Balmain gang, all lawyers – and had a fabulous night of drinking a little too much, joking, reminiscing, gossiping, talking a little too loudly about law-type social issues, and having dinner at the Angus restaurant at the Sheraton on the Park. It’s lovely to catch up with people who you only met on moving to a city, who are genuinely happy to see you again, and genuinely excited for you about what’s going on in your life.

Tuesday I had dinner with Rob, Lyn, Davo and Lara (all of whom have commented on these pages from time to time), Patrick and Petra. Those of us who could get away early went to two for one cocktails at Martin Place Bar (so often my downfall) and we then had dinner at Chinta Ria Temple of Love, which looks something like a Malaysian temple and perches atop the Cockle Bay complex of restaurants. We had great seats outdoors until it started raining, but they scooted us inside pretty quick.

Old Canberra and Coogee friends, some of whom I’ve not seen in months, it was a great night. Hlaf of them had been in Canberra on the weekend – maybe I shouldn’t have just hidden out at the folks’ place.

Also, hanging out with and speaking with my lawyer friends up here has confirmed one thing: I know very few twenty-somethings who are still with a big law firm and genuinely enjoying their job. Those who've gone in-house, on secondment, to smaller firms, or switched career-path look happier and healthier than I've ever seen them. Tends to confirm my own choices, really.

Still, all this drinking and socialising ain’t helping my persistent cold.

PS Went to “Shaolin Soccer” at the Film Festival on Friday and it was spectacular: a really brilliantly funny martial-arts comedy sports romp.

Pushed, kicking and screaming, into the free market

I did it. Even after moaning and griping, and saying it would be too much hassle.

It’s amazing the eminently practical decisions it takes a conversation with your mother to push you into.

So, on Saturday, I bit the bullet. I placed an ad for this weekend’s paper to sell my car.

I finally woke up to the fact that:

(a) driving it round to two or three second-hand dealers was going to take as long as spending a day at home waiting for people to come look at it; and

(b) selling it to a dealer would lose me at least $1,000 – not just a few hundred.

However, as a salesman, I am a born failure. I hate selling things. It embarrasses me. I’m not even a very good Red Cross doorknocker. Sell an idea? Certainly. Speak in public? Not a problem. Push myself as the successor to sliced bread in an interview? Nothing easier.

Sell chocolate door to door? Not in a million years.

I have a pathological dislike of situations that involve any kind of hard-nosed bargaining over money. So I find the idea of a private sale pretty stressful. I’m really an incredibly uncommercial person, which probably explains my aversion to resuming the practice of corporate law.

Anyway, if you’re contemplating this horror yourself, I recommend the red book and drive to help you work out what a fair market price for your car is. (Red book for a small fee will give a very specific estimate and is meant to be the industry price guide.)

Calling a few used-car dealerships is probably still not a bad idea – it will take some of the pressure off the sale if I know I have a viable plan B for selling it. (The “what is your best independent alternative outside this deal?” question in negotiation theory.)

Remaining issues:

(1) managing to get it cleaned and detailed in the little slice of time between returning to town Friday (I’m in Sydney this week) and commencing inspections on Saturday;

(2) if you let people take it for a test drive, what security do you ask for – their car keys? How do you know they have a car? Get them to park it out front first?;

(3) if I get a decent offer – clearly I’ll want a bank cheque, but what’s a reasonable cash deposit? Is $500 on a car for which I’m asking $9,900 reasonable?

Meantime, if you want to look at a good-condition late ‘99 Toyota Echo sedan with 110,000 kms on the clock (that’s why I’m only asking $9,900), e-mail me.

The perils of RSS feeds

I have been picked up, temporarily at least, by the Fidel Castro watch page at Havana Journal.

The reference that their search has picked up is here.

I for one find this all somewhat amusing.

The Toblerone cocktail recipe, by demand

I rave about these all the time, and I get enough Google hits for the topic, so I thought I should post the recipe.

30 ml Frangelico

30 ml Kahlua

30 ml Bailey's Irish cream

60 ml Cream, fresh

1 tblsp Honey

Place the ingredients over ice in a cocktail shaker, shake, and strain into glasses, preferably those flat ‘20s-style champagne glasses or martini glasses.

The Frangelico, Baliey’s and Kahlua should only set you back about $100 Australian, at which price I am happy to keep drinking these in bars.

Do not serve with stupid little umbrellas.

For this and other recipes see: the webtender.

(The martini poster is available at All Posters.)

Penguins!

Your life has become, perhaps, objectively sad when you can sit chuckling in the freezing dark on concrete steps at a beach going – “man, this is so bloggable”.

Nonetheless, that’s what I did Sunday night with some of the Melbourne-based Canberra diaspora. We’d gone penguin watching at Phillip Island. (We’d also had a wine tasting and “refreshment platters” pit stop along the way.) Phillip Island has a colony of “little penguins”, the world’s smallest penguins – most no bigger than my shoe, or a little bigger than my hands.

Can I just say, you have not seen funny until you’ve seen a rumble in the penguin colony. A penguin-on-penguin mugging three feet from your face. There’s no solidarity under those little tuxedos, just the ruthless drive to be alpha-penguin by next breeding season. I’ll come back to that, though.

There’s a big visitors’ centre at the “penguin parade”, and then some rather lovely boardwalks carrying you above the nesting grounds out to the beachside concrete steps. You watch the penguins arrive from the sea for an hour, then wander back over the boardwalk through the colony.

I say “steps”, but it’s more like amphitheatre seating, except facing the dark sea. The penguins arrive at sunset to a beach full of tourists and blazing lights.

“If they only come in at sunset,” I said, “don’t the lights confuse them?”

“People have been penguin watching here for years,” said Beth, “they’ve had time to get used to it.”

Someone assumed a penguin voice:

“Man, I’ve been floating out here for days, I don’t care about the lights – I’m going in!”

They’re nervous getting out of the water, as on the beach they’re vulnerable to sea eagle attacks. We speculated at to whether the writhing, wailing mass of child-dom assembled on steps would be scarred for life if a sea eagle descend on the penguins.

The penguins come ashore in “rafts”, very seldom alone. At the high water mark, they seem easily bowled off their little feet by the waves. Also, like the RSPCA wombat, they never cross the beach in one go. There’s a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, with little forays back into the ocean.

Penguin voices: “Sod this, it was warmer in the water!”

or

“Wait a minute … where’s Beryl?”

They seem to hop more than waddle on their little, little legs, bobbing over the little rocks in their path. Off the beach they split up to follow penguin tracks back to their burrows – or in one case, the tracks of a 4-wheel motorbike back to the fence-line at visitors’ centre.

If not for their white bellies, they would have been quite hard to see once scattered into the undergrowth.

We saw one standing in a little penguin-sized clearing, then another hurdling tiny bushes towards him. A third came out from behind him, waddling along the penguin-track. Suddenly they were hooting and chest-butting and flipper-slapping: penguin fight!

Our night was then complete, though not without its sinister moments. On the way out I noticed penguins gathered by the visitors’ centre fence, undeterred by humans, watching, motionless.

“It’s like Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds … but with teeny things in formal wear.”

In the car park a sign read:

LOOK UNDER YOUR CAR.

“… Oh, for penguins!” said one friend. “You can tell I’m from Northern Ireland.”

I decided not to share my vision of bomb-sniffing penguins.

The 90-minute drive home proved that I can indeed assemble the ultimate road-trip cassette.

Naylor day

Today's Naylor is up, and it's an eventful instalment.

More later. Maybe even about penguins.

Yesterday: a day with a hard-boiled master

I got up sluggishly from my bed, let a cough rattle in my throat, and went into the bathroom.

The complexion in the bathroom mirror was grey, brown eyes misty and dull.

Men have been worse, I thought, but better men have called in sick.

I made the call, said I would not be coming in and was told that was sensible. I was alone in the house, except for the two cats.

Felines, not jazz musicians.

I don’t always get on with cats.

I went back to my bed, picked up a novel with a grey and red dust jacket: Dashiell Hammet, “The Glass Key”.

I shrugged without curiosity, rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling, remembered Cate Blanchett’s kid is named after this Dashiell guy. Built a big name in the ‘30s.

I cracked the novel open.

“Huh,” I said an hour later, “I’d heard this guy could put words on a page.”

I turned pages, ignored the cats, my eyes regaining something of their keen glitter.

Outside, clouds spread from the east like an ink stain on a blotter. I couldn’t tell you if I noticed when the rain first started smearing the dusty windows.

Later, I closed the book and put it down.

I looked at the cats without enmity.

“Not a bad way to spend a day,” I said.


(Picture: Alan Ladd & Veronica Lake in "The Glass Key")

"Once upon a time in the midlands"

I've had better ideas than going out after drinks, on an empty stomach, when feeling a mite peaky to see a free film. Still, free film-festival action is free film-festival action, and the ticket to the Victorian premiere came with my British Council pre-departure briefing. I only hope that "Shaolin Soccer" on Friday, for which I have paid, is a trifle more rewarding.

"The Midlands" is an eminently predictable film. Amusing and charming, perhaps, but in a straight to small screen way.

Men, it seems, come in two types:

(1) simmering, broody Scottish criminal sex-pots (ie Robert Carlyle), who walk out on you and their new daughter ten years earlier, and are basically losers; and

(2) gormless, tall, Welsh, well-intentioned providers who make a mockery of themselves proposing to you on television, and who are, basically, losers with good hearts.

The woman in question gets to vacillate between the type (1) from her past, and the type (2) in her present, causing needless suffering all round.

No character has any emotional depth except the 12 year old daughter, though the only thing approaching character development occurs with bloke (2) learning to stand up for himself a bit.

Yes, there's some touching stuff about what it means to be a real father, but it was better explored in "After the Deluge" which did not resort to those limp, tired stereotypes.

The scholarship breifing itself was good. The Kitten Club was a decent venue. Nice to meet lots of other people on various British programs (all clutching their newly issued briefing kits like little transparent briefcases). Good to know the others have all had the same (or much worse) encounters with university bureaucracies and feel they have endless pre-departure to do lists. One had only just heard back from Cambridge as her file had - literally - got lost down the back of an armchair for some weeks. One who was off to Oxford was rejected by four colleges before getting one in the final round lottery.

Still, what I am doing among them bemuses me: not having worked overseas, for a UN agency, for a community legal centre, not writing my first textbook and not wanting to study anything really useful like environmental science and land management. There were definite moments when neither my CV nor aspirations really seemed to stack up.

I kick myself more, though, for missing the chance to meet David Wenham at the UK Alumni meeting before the film and to ask him about his rumoured starring role in the production of a Murray Whelan TV series ...

PS today's entry is late and brief as I seem to have come down with a sore throat following sitting on a cold beach to watch penguins on the weekend. More of that adventure later.

Gay marriage

The Vatican has declared:

"No ideology can erase from the human spirit the certainty that marriage exists solely between a man and a woman who . . . co-operate with God in the procreation and upbringing of new human lives"

and called on Catholic politicians everywhere to block or wind back recognition of same-sex unions. The document issued by the Inquisition contains a slightly limp-wristed recognition that Christians should not condone "unjust discrimination against homosexual persons".

Meantime, President Bush has said America should be “welcoming” to gays, but marriage should be legally codified as something only between a man and a woman. This has puzzled some lawyers as:

“… there already is a law, known as the Defense of Marriage Act, that appears to address the two principal concerns of gay marriage opponents. The law, signed by President Clinton in 1996, prohibits any federal recognition of gay marriage, meaning that benefits like those given under Social Security or to veterans may be claimed only by a surviving spouse of the opposite sex. In addition, the law relieves states of any obligation to recognize gay marriages performed in other states where they might be legal.”

It seems that pesky philanderer Clinton has already beaten him to a gay-marriage crackdown. Maybe someone should tell the president?

But none of this goes far enough, especially not this “we won’t actively persecute gay people and that’s pretty damn friendly” spineless pusillanimity. Clearly, the function of marriage is the raising of children in relationships where private sexual acts may lead to reproduction. All heterosexual couples who fail to reproduce within, say, three years of marriage, should have their marriage licenses and legal recognition of their relationship cancelled too.

No baby made between the two of you the old-fashioned way that God or Darwin intended, then no property rights in common, no inheritance benefits, no social security payouts, no access to divorce courts if you split up. This would create a consistent, simple law of marriage and we’d all know where we stood.

Gays, family planners, and willfully non-reproducing couples (as well as those disfavoured by the Almighty or their DNA with infertility) all threaten the family unit. We need to take a firm stand against these people to save our social institutions, and we need to take it now before there’s some outbreak of compassion, tolerance or equality.

Other coverage from puling lefties: Beth, Gianna.