This year I’ve stumbled over some great books which have all combined to help the journey I’m on.  At the moment I’m reading ‘The Five Secrets You Must Discover Before You Die’, and it’s sort of blown me away.  I’m a shocking decision maker, and for me the revelation was imagining an ‘old me’ sitting on porch looking back on my life and wishing he’d done things differently.  What decisions would he have regretted making, or been happy with.  Geez, that’s made my life one hell of a lot easier! 

All of us have so many deep seated fears, and once you drill down to what it is stopping you from doing something, it’s kind of laughable.  Eg: I’m terrified of flying.  Why?  I’m worried that the plane will crash.  What’s the worst outcome?  Dying.  Am I scared of death?  No (really, I’m not!), I’m scared that I’ll die before doing the things I’ve always wanted to do (also, I’d like to spend more time with my family, you know, really make them suffer!).  What do I want to do?  Travel!  Why don’t I travel?  Because I’m afraid…  geez, I tell you, Headology is ’something else’.  

I’ve also learned this year the difference between Simple and Easy. 

Ask anyone at all, How do you lose weight?  Simple they will say:  Exercise more, eat properly, avoid binging, and excessive drinking.  Why are so many people overweight?  Because it’s not Easy. 

So, with this in mind, I’ve started reviewing this years To Do List, and started toying with next years List.  But before I do, I can’t stress enough how important it is to WRITE DOWN YOUR GOALS, then pin them up somewhere prominent. 

Every time I sit on my toilet seat, they are staring at me… has it helped?  YES!  Because my goals are fresh in my mind, and I’m reminded of them everyday, which allows me to act on them, as opposed to finding a dust covered list years down the track and getting that horrible feeling of regret that comes at discovering an opportunity lost. 

So, this years list still has 3 things to be ‘ticked off’: 

Run 10 k’s – with a bit of luck I’ll live through that this Sunday.

Biographer – yep, got all the questions, teed up a time with my first ‘client’ next week for the initial interview (I’ll be doing a few freebies until I find the format I’m happiest with, or work out if it’s for me… as much as I love finding out and interviewing other people I may not have a gift for communicating it, but will give it a go). 

Get to 85 kg and maintain it – Not going to happen… maybe.  I was 93 kgs a few months ago, and since we tossed out the scales I haven’t really given a rats rectum what I weigh since.  Body Shape, Clothing Size, and General Fitness, I’m a lot happier with, but some work to do next year.  At this stage I’m looking at hiring a personal trainer to do the Bill Phillips ‘Body for Life’ workout.     

This years successes (Things I’ve been able to place a ‘tick’ next to   )

Humorous Columnist – Yip (next step, get paid for it, or publish a book with a selection of the best so far)

Novelist - Yep, made some big headway here (mostly in my head, telling the ‘Nun in My Head’ to shut the hell up and annoy someone else.  Progress has since been very encouraging!)

Blogger – Yep.  Will look at stepping up to the next level in the New Year, a Web Site.  Beyond my current skill level, but the option of paying someone to build the site I’m after, and running it as a business is looking very likely at this stage.  

Focus on Positives and Solutions – the motto for this goal was, “No more pity parties, Do Something About It.”  This December I’ll ask my family for some frank feedback on my progress so far on this one… they’re the toughest critics I know, so it might not be pretty!  But I’m a lot happier with myself, and the progress made in the last year.  The motivation for this particular goal came from a book called “Your Roadmap for Success” by John C. Maxwell.    

Ok, better get some rest before tonights shift.  This time next year… where will I be working?!  Better give it some thought

Gb

Hi All!  This was one of those, “Why don’t you write about the time… ” suggestions.  The event in this column certainly made a lasting impression on my girls!

Cheers,

Gb

In the not so distant past, I can recall when the many waterholes and creeks around Gladstone were full of young folk seeking a place to cool off during the heat of the summer months.  During the holidays, most of us could be found swimming, dangling off Tarzan ropes, or just lazing about in the cool, clear water under shady trees, in spite of dire warnings from parents, teachers, and the stern faced greenkeeper who patrolled the golf course.

The fact that these waterways also catered for the runoff from the towns gutters, or had sewerage treatment plants located on them, did little to deter we carefree kids.    I can recall passing several treatment plants one afternoon when a tribe of us navigated our inflatable mattresses through to the saltwater section of Auckland Creek, and we were as right as rain afterwards; although our mats sustained a fair bit of damage from hidden snags and, according to one unverified and overly dramatic report, an eel attack. 

But these days when I come across the same creeks and waterholes of my youth I hesitate to walk through them, let alone go for a swim.  And as for drinking out of them… 

But recently, while driving south on the back road to Bundy, we crossed a bridge over a clear running creek, and on impulse I pulled over.  Long Suffering Wife turned to me, “Not another toilet stop?” she said, “You really need to get a check up!” 

“No, oh light of my life,” I muttered through clenched teeth as I flung open my door, “I heard Nature calling, and I’m going to give the girls a quick life lesson.” 

“Who wants a drink?” I asked, opening the back door, my face wreathed in smiles. 

“We’ve got water here dad,” said the eldest Princess holding up a plastic bottle. 

“Ha!” I cried, “Come down to the creek with me, and you’ll taste the sweetest water in the world.”  They looked at me dubiously, so I resorted to yelling, and threats of allowance docking to winkle them out of the car.   I frogmarched the three of them down to the waters edge, where I knelt reverently on the sand; “Ah nature,” I beamed, and leaning forward, scooped a handful of water into my mouth.  It tasted brackish.  Undeterred I swilled down a couple more handfuls before turning to my offspring.  “Right, who wants to go first?” 

All of them were wearing expressions of horror.  “Come on, it won’t kill you,” I said. 

Middle Princess, her eyes wide open, pointed silently upstream to where a cow was standing knee deep in the creek merrily emptying her bladder into the flowing water

I lurched to my feet, gagging and coughing, “Why didn’t you say something?!” I spluttered.  Eldest Princess shook her head, “We thought you had seen it,” she said. 

“Do you think daddy makes a habit of drinking cow urine sweetheart?” I cried, desperately trying to remove the taste by frantically wiping my mouth on my sleeve.  She shrugged, indicating that she didn’t have a clue what daddy made a habit of. 

Long Suffering Wife got out of the car and wandered over to see what all the fuss was about.  Middle Princess told her, and moments later the four of them were rolling about laughing while I stood by clenching and unclenching my fists.  “Right!” I yelled eventually, “Everyone back in the car!” 

As I gunned the family hotrod back onto the highway my dear wife asked, “So, what ‘life lesson’ do you think the girls learned today?”  I kept my eyes on the road and my mouth firmly shut.   

Although I soon learned that no-one wanted to share their water with me, and just how expensive bottled water is when purchased at shop in the middle of nowhere.  Before leaving the store, Nature called again, and as I gazed into the porcelain bowl I wondered where they got their flushing water from, and where it went afterwards.  For some reason, I’d developed a keen interest in the subject…

 

In spite of the best laid plans of Mice and Greg, this weekend didn’t quite go to plan… 

On the bright side, we (dear Wife and I), managed to paint the bathroom and toilet, transforming them from brown walled booths of depression, to white walled wonders!  In spite of a few things going wrong, as per normal in the home handy man game, they actually came up pretty good, and both of us have been left with a great sense of satisfaction.  Lots more painting to go, but we’ll tackle it one room at a time…

Then today, I woke up and realised that I’m 4000 words behind with my novel, no dramas, got a couple of jobs to knock off before I sit down at the ol’ keyboard.  A quick walk to the shops with the dogs to get the papers at 6am, then over the road to help my neighbour shovel and barrow approx 14 cubic metres of chip bark for his gardens.  I felt pretty good while we were into, and after a few hours we had emptied the bin, and I toddled home for a shower, a beer and a sandwich. 

Just a few barrow loads to go...

After lunch I fired up the laptop, then went down harder than a schoolbag on a Friday afternoon, slumping unconscious over my laptop.  Word count: 23.  An hour later I surfaced with the letters QWERTY dented into my forehead, and spent an hour and a half typing out just under 3500 words.  A good result. 

Followed this up with a walk down at the marina, wash the dogs, clean up round the house, and a quiet read on the deck as night fell.  It sort of dawned on me, that every November this happens.  Every November I clear my calendar to write my novel, and every year I get sidetracked by some project or another.  It’s dawned on me that perhaps I ‘need’ a project to keep me occupied when I’m not writing?  To keep me moving, to stop from getting stagnant perhaps.  Who knows.  If I’m able to produce the necessary words, while working on the house (and someone else’s gardens), imagine how much I’d get done if I was doing it full time…

I’ve got a feeling that it wouldn’t be very much, because the sense of urgency would be missing.  And, it’s pretty obvious I need to be under the pump to get results. 

Lucky me.    

 

 

Well, this week marks the first week of Nanowrimo 2009.  The fun, the thrills, the sense of, “Why the Hell am I doing this again?!” 

This year, I sort of surprised myself and actually had an outline all prepared.  5 days into the event I’m only making minimal changes, and the story is coming along quite well.  I hope this trend continues. 

The forum activity is steady, and very upbeat, and this year we have been joined by some new folk here in CQ, which is fantastic! 

More scribblers, yay! 

Ok, we’re still a tad short of creating an outpost of Bohemia up here, with large groups of writers, poets, artists, and musicians, gathering to encourage and inspire eachother, but it’s a start!  

If anyone is interested in what the story is about, let me know, and I’ll have a crack at a synopsis… at the moment the best way to explain it is, Fantasy/Coming of Age/Medieval/Sword & Sandal/Ripping Yarn/Adventure.  With a touch of humour for effect.  It’s definitely much easier for me to write this type of yarn than a romance novel.  Boy, that was a forgettable, and surprising difficult, experience. 

Ok, better get scribbling!

Doreen an’ me, we bin to see a show —

The swell two-dollar touch. Bong tong, yeh know.

A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat;

A slap-up treat.

The drarmer’s writ be Shakespeare, years ago,

About a barmy goat called Romeo.

From CJ Dennis’ Poems of the Sentimental Bloke – The Play. 

 

Well, this week I got to catch a local production put on by a young group of local actors: Accidental Death of an Anarchist.

Usually when these things are on, I’m on nightshift, and I was delighted to see the dates fell in between my dayshifts.  So off to the theatre I choofed. 

Now, I didn’t go alone.  Mrs Gb wasn’t interested in attending, my children would rather eat their own feet… without sauce, and the dogs, well, they’d be keen, for about 23 seconds but I’m pretty sure the plot and subplots would be too much for them to take in.

Then I remembered my workmate from Bundy.  He travels up here each shift, and usually goes to the movies to keep himself amused.  I rang him, he was in.  Simple as that. 

So, on Saturday night we found ourselves seated in the small theatre at the CQ Uni, watching a very keen group of people ply their trade.  It had it all, humour, quirky asides, fluffed lines, a little overacting, pauses while actors waited for the lines to be uttered by some unfortunate who had missed their cue, and a plot line with a twist.  The exchanges between the audience and some ‘rogue’ on stage were worth the entrance price alone.  The character who played the Maniac Imposter improvised on more than one occasion, and carried it off very well. 

It was fun, vibrant, and hot.  I don’t think the a/c was working, but no matter, the 100 or so people who had made the effort to turn up were being entertained, so the time flew. 

Afterwards, as we sat applauding in the stands while the cast and crew took their bows I thought, “I’ve really missed this.”  Brisbane, for all it’s faults had a pretty lively stage culture.  I wish I’d seen more shows now. 

Could I do it?  Could I go on stage, and try and entertain a crowd.  I dunno, but I’m glad some people can, and do.  And I’m glad to watch them!

Printed under Matt Jones name (with my photo?!) and re-titled – ‘Coming to Grip With Bouncers’.  The young lady in the story is based on a real girl, and she not only taught me how to bowl pacers, but how to fight as well.  She was very versatile… and dangerous.   Gb

Local knowledge can save you a lot of hassle, time, effort and energy, be it in foreign countries, the workplace, out fishing, or practically any place humans will venture.  But in particular, local knowledge is a must wherever backyard cricket is played.  Backyard cricket was pretty big when I was a young tacker and I had a finely honed knowledge of every blade of grass on the stretch of lawn out behind our lemon and mango trees.  If you were able to bowl the ball into the small divot on the off-side of the crease it would magically turn almost at right angles and smack into the rusty tin drum that served as our stumps. 

Occasionally we Philip Street kids would go on tour to other backyards, and those ‘away’ games were more fiercely contested than any Ashes Test.  From time to time disputes would arise over some of the dodgier local rules which often resulted in all in brawls that were inevitably broken up by parents, neighbours, passing motorists, or riot police.  But, it was an invitation to a backyard in West Gladstone where we given a vital, and painful lesson in local knowledge.    

“You fellas scared by fast bowling?” some kid asked.

“Nope,” I replied glibly.

“Goodo,” he said, and tossed the ball to a girl who was standing nearby.  

History will record my unfortunate reaction:  “She can’t bowl, she’s a girl!”  The young lass in question smiled and asked sweetly, “Just one teensy little over?”  Shaking my head I recall grumbling, “Oh, alright, get it over with then.”  As I made my way to the crease I was surprised to see that all the opposition had formed up in the slips leaving no-one in the outfield, and that the wicket keeper, was standing on the far side of the neighbouring yard.  Shrugging, I gave the ground a few hearty slaps with my bat and decided that a distant mango tree would be a suitable place to smack the first ball.   

“Wanna see it again?” she asked, strolling down the pitch.  The fact that I hadn’t even seen the first ball should have made me think twice, but no, I had to be a hero.  “Yeah, I’ve got me eye in now,” I muttered. 

“Great, now she’s angry!” cried one of the fielders, and he slipped inside a nearby chook pen.  The rest of his team leaped the fence and took up positions behind the keeper.  As she raced towards me, I focussed on the ball with grim resolve.        

I was helped to my feet while someone dashed off for an ice pack.  An hour or so later my mates lifted me onto my pushbike and we wobbled home.  Local knowledge quickly became common knowledge, and soon, only the most suicidal batsmen in town would face her. 

But the humiliation gnawed at me, and when the next cricket season resumed, I returned to face my nightmare, covered from head to toe in borrowed protective gear.  Imagine my delight at discovering that the young lady’s chest had magically expanded during the footy season, which had not only made her much more attractive, but had also slowed her bowling speed!  She was still demonically fast, but not that fast, and I even managed to get an edge to a couple of her bouncers.  Eventually she grew bored with trying to maim me, and wandered off to do some girlie stuff, which mostly entailed violently thwarting her latest boyfriends’ constant advances. 

As news of her retirement spread, those batsmen she hadn’t hospitalised or permanently maimed, rejoined us.  Sometimes she would come over to watch us play, joined by her boyfriend, who was obviously obsessed with trying to get to grips with her newest bouncers.  Watching that poor wretch getting belted about taught us that some attempts to acquire certain kinds of local knowledge was definitely not worth the risk.

Hi all, this column appeared while we were on hols nearly 2 weeks ago.  It was initially inspired by a comment from a mate on a forum who has made it one of her goals to ride a Rip Stick.  At the time I had no idea what the hell a Rip Stick was… I do now!  Cheers, Gb

Q: Why do men spend less time in therapy than women?  A:  Because they have much less distance to travel back to their childhoods. 

There is, unfortunately, a lot of truth in this.  No matter how old a man is, he always has an eighteen year old lurking inside him making some insane choices. 

For example, during our weekly amble down at the marina we were passed by a kid on one of those new rip skateboardy things.  As he slid by us in a lazy serpentine fashion, gliding effortlessly along the path, Long Suffering Wife muttered fiercely to me, “Don’t!  Don’t even think about it!”  Her mind reading abilities still continue to amaze and confound me on a daily basis.

When, the Littlest Princess shouted out, “Mum can I have one of those?!”  I silently cheered, because there isn’t too much she doesn’t get.  “No,” came the stern reply, “they’re far too dangerous.” 

“Ohh Muuum!” 

“I said No!  And don’t bother asking your father, because he agrees with me, doesn’t he?!” she said, turning to face me.  I had actually raised a finger in order to state my case in favour of the Littlest Princess, but instead muttered, “Your mother is quite right Chook.”

“Yes,” said LSW, “why don’t you ask Daddy about the last time he thought he could ride a skateboard?’

Oh, she had to bring that up!  I was nineteen years old when my brother dug out his old skateboard, and as we pootled about in the driveway, cracking our shins, and twisting our ankles, we reminisced about some of the fun we’d had on the little wheeled plank. 

“Hey, remember the time you tried to ride down Suicide Hill near Cypress Court?” he chortled.  The smile vanished from my face, “No,” I said grimly, “I had, in fact, actually managed to forget all about that until now.”

“I’ve never seen so much blood!” he laughed.  Neither had I.  Unfortunately it was all mine. 

“Then that time you…”

“Yeah, yeah!” I snapped, interrupting his reverie, “I’ve improved quite a bit since then.”  He said nothing; the look on his face said it all. 

Minutes later I was standing on a nearby hill, staring death in the face.  Below us lay a long stretch of bitumen, and at the bottom was an intersection.  As it was a Sunday there was no traffic, so I kicked off before I had time to think.  And I actually managed to stay on the thing, much to everyone’s’ astonishment; especially the bloke driving the truck. 

Staring into his equally shocked face as I raced toward him, I offered up the skateboarder’s prayer to Bingle, the God of Small Prangs, which basically goes, “Ogod! Ogod! Ogod! Ogod!”  Bingle outdid himself, because I missed the truck and smacked into a nearby gutter instead.    

In those sweet few seconds before the mind numbing pain cut in, I lay staring at the clear blue sky, enjoying the sight, sounds and smells around me, delighted to be alive.  Eventually my brother arrived and he helped me home, where I spent a long and agonising evening sitting in the bath, having gravel and glass scrubbed from my bleeding hide.  In those helmet-less days, I was fortunate to get off so lightly. 

We haven’t bought a skate stick thingy despite the Littlest Princesses’ pleas.  Partly because I don’t want her to experience the heart breaking pain of gravel rash, but mostly because I can’t be trusted not to have a go on the thing.  At forty something years of age, I have the flexibility of a house brick, and I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all my favours with Bingle.  Perhaps we’ll get one when the eighteen year old in my head finally shuffles off in disgust, allowing me to make saner, more rational choices; just like any other mature, wise, and sensible twenty-two year old does.         

 

Well, it’s been an epic movie watching month for me and Mrs Gb.  This month we’ve been to the movies twice.  The first movie we took in was Couples Retreat.  Not a bad yarn, some close to the bone moments, but, a movie we both generally enjoyed.  And one that made us feel pretty good about NOT being Americans!   

Then yesterday we got our chance to see Charlie and Boots.  Gladstone Cinemas managed to wrangle a copy from somewhere, and a couple of months after it was released pretty much everywhere else, we got to watch it. 

Now, I’m not a movie reviewers armpit.  I never will be.  I enjoy movies, but not the popular Blockbusters.  The Batman film with Heath Ledger is a case in point.  We hired the DVD, and I spent the night gripping the remote to turn the sound waaay up to hear what the hell Batman and Commissioner Gordon were mumbling, before having to turn the sound way down every time an explosion occurred or a gun was fired, before it punctured our eardrums.  I tell ya, DVD’s should come with a decibel control, so everything is at the one sound level.  Heath Ledger deserves an award for being the only character we could hear, and understand during the movie!  Leave it to an Aussie or a Pom to play a good psychopath I say. 

Charlie and Boots

So, it was with no surprise that Mrs Gb and I entered cinema #6 and found ourselves alone in an empty theatre.  Charlie and Boots is an Australian movie, starring Australians.  There are no American love interests, no shots of the opera house, the Sydney Harbour bridge, and North Queenslanders weren’t wearing safari suit tops, and shorts with long socks and white shoes.  What were they thinking?! 

It was a good yarn, with a few tear jerking moments, and a few laughs.  What I like in a movie.  As an added bonus I was able to point out to Mrs Gb a few of the places I visited last year on my little trek round the countryside. 

Hell, there were even some good shots of Emerald - a place just to the west of Gladstone, and the makers of the film did us proud by not depicting everyone outside of Sydney and Melbourne as gun toting, inbred, rednecks, hellbent on shooting or raping everything and everyone in sight.  Again, what the hell were they thinking?!  All those years of loud mouthed larrikin stereotyping down the drain…

But the best part of our film going experience was discovering we had the entire theatre to ourselves.  So we picked up where the Charlie and Boots producers let us down, and acted like complete yobbos.  We talked during the film, loudly.  I made the odd rude comment without being shushed.  And at one point I was even able to lie down across several seats in total comfort.  How good was that?  Ok, not too great for the Oz film industry, but fine by me!  Can’t wait for the next Aussie offering to make it’s way here…  which will hopefully contain footage of some sunburned city slicker getting shot at by crazed yokels in utes with pigs head glued to the bonnet.  Just like we do every day up here. 

So to wrap up – Charlie and Boots.  Go and see it.  It won’t change your life, but it will make you smile, which alone is worth the price of admission.

The event in this column actually occurred, and has left me very wary when strolling through the scrub of late.  The drought drags on; rain to the North, the South, and even to the West… yet the land round here is aching for moisture. 

During the last couple of years I’ve been trampling through the bush at the back of our house in order to exercise the dogs, and keep them sane after being locked up in the backyard all day.  The funny thing is, I’m the one who didn’t want the mutts, yet somehow it’s become my duty to walk them every day.  How that happened I have no idea, but there you go. 

So, while the dogs eagerly fossick in the long grass for any ripe smelling carcasses, I meander along behind them, sorting through the days’ mental clutter and pondering some of the big questions of life.  But thanks to this long drought, a new terror has appeared in the bush.  Far more alarming than the time I stumbled across some people dumping a fridge and a roll of carpet in a small gully.  Even scarier than being mowed down by wild-eyed kids on motorbikes.  And, much more frightening than the time we were chased home by two large and extremely angry dogs.  It’s the trees.  Big trees.  They’ve started dropping branches harder and faster than a down-on-his-luck millionaire dumping excess family, friends, and mistresses.  And some of the more stressed trees have become so panic stricken that they’re opting for an even more drastic way of ending their suffering. 

A couple of weeks ago I was wandering along a well beaten track, grappling with the question, “What would happen if the entire state voted for independents at the next election?” when I was snapped out of my reverie by the sound of a cannon shot.  If you’ve never been in close proximity to a large tree that has decided to commit suicide, then you have no idea how loud the noise is.  I was in mid-step when the first big branch cracked off the trunk, and my left foot remained in mid-air but was soon joined by my right foot as I levitated on the spot.  Both feet hit the ground, decided that my brain was taking too long to react, then took immediate action.  Had they actually stopped for a moment to discuss which direction to run in, things might have gone a little better, because each foot took off in different directions.  As a result, I galloped about in small, frantic circles while large lumps of timber rained down around me.

By the time I regained control of my flailing hooves, the bulk of the tree was on the ground, so I wrapped up the hysterical discussion I’d been having with God, then went and surveyed the damage.  At that point, my faithful hounds returned from wherever it was they’d escaped to, while their Lord and Master fended for himself.  A quick look at the tree’s remains revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but, I’d like to point out that my knowledge on the topic is fairly limited, i.e., kindergarten level; the brown bit goes at the bottom the green bit at the top. 

As I stood gawping at the wreckage, a large branch from a neighbouring tree thudded to the ground alongside me, at which point I leapt into the air, resumed my earlier discussion with God and fled home, where I poured a beer with a shaking hand, and recounted my miraculous escape to Long Suffering Wife.   “Well,” she said, “if the dogs come home without you then I’ll know exactly what has happened, and what to do.”  

 “And that is?” I replied, keen to hear her rescue plan.

“First I’ll call the Merry Widow Insurance Agency, then book a nice sea cruise to get over my grief,” she said brightly.  It wasn’t exactly what I had expected to hear, but it did give me an idea, and as a result I’m seeing a bit more of the ocean myself these days.  The dogs and I are now strolling across the treeless mudflats until we get some decent rain.

 

15 days to go bofore this years novelling event!  This year, I decided, I would give it a miss.  The only other year I’ve missed was a couple of years ago when we moved to the new Plasterboard Palace.  That was the month from hell.  I wrote a few desultory paragraphs, but the pressures of moving, changing jobs at work, and well, just life in general was too much.  But in the last couple of weeks I’d had a change of heart, and I’ve found myself plotting story outlines in my head as I walk the dogs of an afternoon…  

Last year, I tackled my first (and possibly last!) Romance novel.  It was bloody hard work!  This year though, a story has formed based around the song “Sons of Vengeance”, by the old metal band, Krokus (they rock harder than the Swiss franc… apparently).  It will be a fantasy, swords and sandals epic.  I get to choose a mythical land, minus the mythical creatures and monsters, and tap away as my hero sets off on his epic quest.  I’ve got a ‘love interest’, warring kings, a rogue knight, and a couple of deputy sidekicks who will make life a bit more interesting for the hero. 

As a result, I’m quite looking forward to this years event… it’s the Nano curse, who will save me from it?! 

So, in preparation for a month of novel scribbling, I’ve upped the number of columns contributed to The Observer this month so I can concentrate on my ‘masterpiece’.  Thus my night time scribbling is consuming at least 2 - 4 hours each night, as I tap away in bed on my little laptop, writing, editing, re-editing, and writing.  How the hell I’m keeping up with this blog, work, house work, renovations, and finding time to read at least 2 books a week I don’t know… but I’m not unhappy with this situation, life is certainly a lot more interesting :) 

Meanwhile, in the loungeroom, my family are enjoying shows that I wouldn’t normally let them watch…  everyone’s a winner!