My hero

The last few days I’ve been working my through a mountain of letters and documents from Pop’s place. It’s a laborious and monotonous task, one that has not been kind on my back, but I’ve enjoyed learning more and more about this man whom I adored. I only wish I knew all this about him when he was alive. It makes no difference really; I love him still the same, but I feel that I missed out in not knowing all these little factoids about him while he was here with me.

Last night I scanned some letters of recommendation written when he was a young man, younger than I am in fact, and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I went outside for a smoke and was suddenly wracked with quiet (yet violent) sobs and burst into tears because my heart felt so heavy with loss. Most days the sharp pain of grief is a not-quite-distant memory, but I guess these things are bound to happen from time to time, especially considering it has only been a little over a year.

Below are some excerpts from the letters of recommendation. The photo is one of my favourites; it shows the cheeky grin that I loved so much.

1929 (aged 15), written by his headmaster from high school (which was a technical college more than a high school):
“He, by honest application to his studies, quickly achieved a position at the top section of this school. He has shown himself quick to apprehend, & honest in effort.”

1930 (aged 17), written by his college teacher/supervisor:
“It affords us pleasure in having the opportunity of saying a word in favour of R. Stanley. He has been a student at this school for the study of mechanical drawing and machine design, attending day classes for a period of twelve months, and has been regular, persevering and interested in his studies. We can recommend Mr Stanley to anyone requiring the services of a draftsman, and the drawings which he can produce will bear out all we can say of him.”

1931 (aged 18):
“It gives me great pleasure to testify to the exemplary character of Ronald Stanley. I have known Ronald for a period of about four years… Ronald possesses a very genial disposition, is thoroughly conscientious and reliable and has more than the ordinary initiative. I have no hesitation in recommending him to any who wish to employ an honest and trustworthy lad, and one who I believe will make good.”

1935 (aged 21):
“This is to certify that the bearer Ronald Stanley is personally known to me as an experienced and capable car driver. He is a very careful and reliable driver, takes interest in his car and I would have no hesitation in recommending him to any person or firm requiring services of a thoroughly reliable and competent driver.”

1936 (aged 22):
“The bearer, Ronald Stanley, was in my employ as a driver of my utility truck for six months ending 2nd January, 1936. I found him honest, capable and efficient in carrying out his duties.”



1937 (aged 23), Scouts Association:
“Holding positions of trust and responsibility, he has shown himself to be most obedient, punctual and honest, and with it a loyal and capable leader. I have no hesitation whatsoever, in recommending him for any position of trust for which he may apply, and will be only too please to give a personal reference on his behalf.”

1937 (aged 23):
“I have known Ronald Stanley for the past 15 years and have always found him to be a very honest trustworthy young man and would recommend him to any one as a truthful and outspoken employee.”

c1945 (aged 30 or so), written by his boss:
“I have always found Mr Stanley to be very dependable and accurate in his designing and drawing, and energetic and intelligent in all his duties, and I will be exceedingly sorry to loose his services.”

Amazing Grace...

...How sweet the sound

I’m not the kind of person who rants and raves about movies. You know the type, the ones who say “Oh my GOD, this is the BEST film I’ve EVER seen! You HAVE to see it! NOW!” I make the odd recommendation to friends and family, but I’m not in the habit of making public broadcasts about what movies people “must see”. I’ve just never felt the need to demand that others see films I have enjoyed.

Last night we watched the film Amazing Grace. I was a little sceptical at first, on hearing the title I was thinking perhaps it was one of Sister’s “religious” films. But I was pleasantly surprised. The film is about the parliamentary battle to abolish the slave trade in Great Brittain, spearheaded by William Wilberforce, and I loved it. I found out this morning that it is somewhat inaccurate, historically speaking, but it was a touching film nonetheless.

I usually don’t like historical films, particularly biographical ones…but this one was truly very moving and I recommend it to you all.

That’s all for now. More to come tonight.

The bad trip

Picture the scene: I’ve just lay down to go to sleep when...

“Fuck, I’m going to puke. Fuck fuck fuck. Shit shit I’m going hurl... No you aren’t, this happens, you take too much because you aren’t thinking straight and you get nausea. No biggy, just nausea, relax and you’ll get over it soon. No it isn’t and no I won’t. Man, I feel like shit. I feel like I’m drowning. DROWNING! Shit I’m going to drown. No you aren’t, you’re in bed, calm down, calm down. CALM!? How can I be calm!? I don’t feel well, I feel wrong, my skin doesn’t fit, I need new skin, I feel wrong wrong wrong, hot and clammy and wrong... Fuck I’m going puke. Oh man I’m sinking, my bed is eating me up. God help me help me help me please help me. Where are you? Why am I feeling this way? I overdid it overdid it overdid it. I need to throw up now. I should get Dad, Dad will know what to do Dad will help even if it’s just to tell me I’ll be ok I’ll be ok right? Yes, you’ll be fine, calm down. No no no. Have to puke, have to throw up now now now NOW! Hmm, maybe you’re right, maybe you’ll throw up, but it won’t be the end of the world. FUCK! Well come on then...”

At this point I think I started to hyperventilate. After the calm little voice in my head calmed my breathing I got out of bed and staggered to the toilet. When I got there I lay on the floor (the disgustingness of this act didn’t appear to phase me at the time, but at least I had the sense to angle my head towards the door and away from the actual bowl), curled up in the foetal position, and resumed my litany of anxiety...

“Ok what now? Fuck, I’m going to die here on the dunny floor, what a way to go, oh fuck oh my god oh fuck oh fuck”. More hyperventilation. “Will you calm down? Calm down! It’s not going to last, remember that, it’s not going to last. You’ll be ok in the morning.. It says so in the Bible. This is like a bad trip, fuck I’m having a bad trip, how fucking ironic. I’m going to die here I’m gonna die I’m gonna die. It’s ok, you won’t, don’t worry. Don’t worry!? Yes, don’t worry. I’m trying but I’m failing I’m failing I’m trying and I’m failing and... Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. It won’t work. I know it won’t last but I don’t give a shit because I have to deal with it now and now I’m freaking out and I’m lying on the toilet floor and no one knows and... Oi! Calm the FUCK DOWN! I’m trying. Hail Mary, full of grace...”

As I lay there, drenched in sweat, repeating the Hail Mary with varying shades of success in my addled mind, I managed to calm myself down to the point my breathing became slow and steady. I know it sounds trite but I feel that the praying is what did the trick. I knew that sitting up would be pushing it, so I stayed there on the floor until I felt I could get up. I stood, went back through the deserted house to my bedroom and lay down. The clock showed an hour had passed. I grabbed my teddy bear and held him tightly to my chest as I drew my knees up to my chin. I was still unsure as to whether I would die in my sleep or live through this somehow.

But I did. And that, my friends, is what happens when you mix drugs the wrong way.

The week in pictures #04

Week 04

20/01: A sentence I wrote using magnetic poetry: Me quieres seducir con tus ojos brillantes y corazón grande pero me gustan más el culo dulce y pecho duro.

21/01: The amount of crap on my bed after spending the day laptop-researching.

22/01: Strathfield station, en route to uni.

23/01: The keyboard of Mum's new laptop.

24/01: A random photo taken in my home town, after having had lunch with a friend.

25/01: My place at uni.

26/01: The stack of photos I scanned today.

Yesterday I journeyed Sydney-ward to help out in the mentoring programme and to check out my new place at uni housing.

It took me three attempts just to get on the train: I missed the first train because I slept through my alarm, I missed the second train because I realised halfway to the station that I hadn’t taken my meds. When I arrived at the station for the third train I got out of the car and realised that I had no shoes. After he finished laughing, Dad leant me his (way-too-big-for-me) sandals.

I arrived to the chaotic melee of new students, parents, aunts and other assorted hangers on. “I’ve witnessed so many arguments between these kids and their parents today”, my team leader whispered to me conspiratorially, “so many arguments about subject choices and that kind of thing”. She has the most wonderful Irish accent that washes over you as she speaks. “This would never fly in Ireland; no parents at university at all, you’re an adult at university. You can be mollycoddled all you like in high school but it ends once you get to uni. I was helping a lady earlier who was enrolling for her daughter’s boyfriend for heaven’s sake!” I wandered around the tables, helping out the first years fill in their forms and offering lollies for two hours and then headed home.

On the way home I went past my new place. It’s a typical Sydney terrace: it looks like it has had a room added on every decade since it was built. I couldn’t go inside but from outside it looks nice enough. I move in on either the fifteenth or eighteenth...

Catch up

It’s been a busy week…

Sunday, I went to visit my grandparents with Mum, to pick up a quilt Mum had bought and had delivered there for reasons that didn’t make any sense to me when they tried to explain it. We had lunch and then sat down to watch a movie, Just Visiting, one of my favourites. I lay down on the lounge as Grandma entered the room bearing a small box of Ferrero Rochere with eight left. She gave them to me and told me that she had saved them for me. I ate three in quick succession then put the movie on. Five minutes later I had another two. Five minutes after that: another two. Ten minutes after that I fell asleep, waking in time to see the final credits and eat the final chocolate.

Monday, I spent the day researching online for a laptop for my mother and a printer for myself. I wanted to steer clear of Windows Vista if I could help it, simply because I don’t know it and didn’t want to be in a position where Mum calls me at uni, panic-stricken, to provide instant tech support over the phone, but it appears that new laptops running Windows XP are very thin on the ground these days. After quite some time a friend talked me into getting Vista anyway, promising it to be user-friendly, so I bit the bullet and found a suitable laptop at around midnight.

Tuesday, I travelled to the city. My first port of call was Chatswood, to the office, to tackle some more computer issues and have coffee with a colleague. I had to be at uni at 2pm to help out at enrolment in my capacity as a mentor.

What happened next will go down in the history books as one of the most irritating public transport (mis)adventures ever. I apologise to those who do not know the city for the use of place names in the following account (I apologise because I get frustrated when people recount stories like this when I have no idea where any of the places are), but I wanted to put them in so that the Sydney readers can appreciate the amount of backtracking I did. I left Chatswood at midday, arriving at Town Hall at around 12.30. As soon as I walked out of the station it occurred to me that I had no idea where the bus to City Rd departed from. I knew it was somewhere east of George St, in fact I had it narrowed down to either Castlereagh St or Elizabeth St. Sadly, I chose the latter. When I got to the corner of Elizabeth and Park, I realised I was in the wrong place, but I saw bus with a sign in the window saying “Railway Square”. I thought to myself that this was better than nothing, because I could change busses there, so I hopped on board and set off. I suspected that something was amiss when the bus turned into Park St. I knew something was amiss by the time I got to Crown St (which, for those unfamiliar with Sydney geography, is completely in the wrong direction from both Railway Square and City Rd). I realised that the only places I knew of, for sure, where the City Rd busses departed were Railway Square and Circular Quay. I wasn’t going to Railway Square because far too much walking is involved and my legs were tired, so I walked back to St James station and hopped a train to Circular Quay, where I found the bus easily. I discovered the bus ran down Pitt St then Castlereagh St, so now I know what to do when I want to get to City Rd from the City.

I arrived at uni at around 1.30 with no time to run the few errands I had planned on doing before my shift started at 2pm. For the next two hours I mingled, giving out lollies, answering questions and basking in the many gorgeous guys who are enrolling this year. The rest of the day wasn’t very interesting at all.

Wednesday, yesterday, Dad and I travelled to Blacktown to buy the laptop, and to Windsor to buy a new DVD player and a TV antenna for me. I spent the rest of the night arguing with Vista over whether or not I wanted to do this or that, the fucking thing asking me to confirm or deny at every turn, until I worked out how to turn it off. This process continued into the wee hours of the morning.

Thursday, today, I have been continuing installing programs and such, with a brief break in the middle to meet a friend for lunch. I just got an email with the exact address of where I’ll be staying this year, so I’ll be able to check it out tomorrow, public transport debacles notwithstanding.

That’s about it.

The week in pictures #03

Week 03

13/01: My copy of "Small Bear, Big Dreams" from the Matthew Shepard Foundation arrived in the mail.

14/01: Looking at the map of Sydney Uni while trying to work out which side of campus I want to live on this year.

15/01: My lunch: the good old Aussie meat pie.

16/01: Roxie asleep on Cal's chest.

17/01: My driveway, after I returned home from the coast.

18/01: My former DVD player, now relegated to the status of "Stereo" since the DVD function has apparently karked it. It plays CDs without a hitch, but put a DVD in it and it sits there mutely.

19/01: The amber coloured sky this evening at about 7pm.

I could be brown, I could be blue

And so the rollercoaster and mood swings continue. The peaks, dips and troughs are becoming more even, but they are still there. Some days I feel like I’m watching my life in third person: a detached, soap-opera-like viewer of life. It feels like I’ve lived the gamut of emotions, back and forth from one to the other, over the past two-and-a-bit weeks.

Carefree.
New years eve. Singing along to Mika, complete with falsetto voice and camp facial expression, with a bunch of strangers in varying states of drunkenness—“Everybody’s gonna love today, gonna love today. Any way you want to, any way you've got to, love love me, love love me, love love me”—I was having a great time, I was with friends and family, dozens of cute boys, and I was very very stoned. For one night, one brief nine hour period, I had not a care in the world.

Frustrated.
Last week some time. I was given a novel for Christmas which, while an excellent story, was very badly written. Actually, to be fair to the author, it wasn’t badly written as such, more badly edited. There were seven times when the author used the incorrect spelling for words like your/you’re, waist/waste, or fowl/foul. The name of the street on which the character lived changed halfway through the novel and then returned to its original name towards the end.

Ecstatic.
Monday. I was woken by the phone. This is a usually a precursor of a shitty day, and often if the phone wakes me I just won’t answer, but luckily I wasn’t thinking quickly enough to think to ignore it, so I answered it on impulse. It was the lady from the housing unit at university. She told me I have secured on-campus housing. That woke me up. I would have done a victory lap of the house, except I was still groggy so I sat in bed grinning like an idiot for a few moments before emerging to face the day.

Smiling.
Tuesday. I was on a downward swing, sitting on the lounge with Rox watching inane daytime television when I received an email from a reader of this blog. He was very complimentary and made my morning, spelling criticisms notwithstanding. He pointed out that I had mistaken loose and lose and bear and bare on a few occasions, but unfortunately no matter how hard I try I don’t think I will ever be able to tell them apart. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me, considering how hard I had been on the author of my novel the week before for a similar crime.

Pissed off.
Wednesday. I was arguing with a computer at the office and I was losing. I had to call the tech guy to get him to explain something to me, something I knew was very simple and demanded only a simple explanation, but he managed to complicate it. In the end I got the stupid contraption to do what I wanted, after a good deal of swearing and snapping at poor Lala, Roxie and Olly who were the hapless victims of my wrath, guilty only of being in the room as my anger rose.

Content.
Thursday. Today. I am back home now for a few weeks before I make the move down to Sydney to live at uni. My back is still giving me the shits with the mysterious lower back pains, so I’m lying in bed while the rest of the family watches tennis in the next room. All I hear is silence, punctuated by the occasional “aww” when something good or bad happens. To be honest, “content” is the wrong descriptor for today; perhaps “flat” or “ambivalent” would be better? It always amazes me how homesick I get when I’m away, only to be replaced with holiday-sickness when I return home.

Oh well, I’m off to bed now.

Summer lovin'

Summer time has always been my favourite season. I love it. Gone are the frozen tentacles of wintry muscle ache, the short days, the long cold nights where you can see your breath in front of your face, replaced by blistering heat, warm breezes and summer storms.

I’ve been staying with Lala and Cal since late December, enjoying a relaxing holiday of reading, watching trashy TV and a Queer as Folk marathon with Lala. They are both complaining about the oppressive heat—at thrity-something degrees—while I am relaxing enjoying the balmy temperature. It’s way hotter at home, yet I’ve still been lying around in boardshorts and no shirt with the fan going.

I’ve made a few trips to the city, to the office of the Society I volunteer for, to help out configuring the new computer system and tidy up after a move. The building has a piss-ant air conditioning system that barely has the horsepower to push the tepid air through its ducts. On Thursday I spent nine hours in Chatswood, working for six of them—I splurged and took a two hour lunch-and-shopping break). A third trip is on the cards for this week since one of the terminals was DOA—it looked like it had been dropped from head height—and there have been major issues with the email server. But it’s good to get out.

The emotional rollercoaster of the drug changeover has started to hit a plateau in the last few days, after a fortnight of mood swings. At one point I felt like I was drowning, other times I was flying. The pain in my legs has definitely lessened though—great news—but the mysterious back pains have resurfaced. To be honest the back pain is better in a way because pain killers actually kill it, whereas with leg pains they only take the edge off.

I called the uni housing office on Thursday to ask if my application had been successful, since I hadn’t heard from them. The woman who answered the phone sounded like she’d rather fuck a rhino with a strap on than be working. “HellohousingofficehowcanIhelpyou?” she droned. I asked if I was successful. “What’s your name?” she asked. I told her. There was a silence, then she asked, “when did you put in the applicationin?” I told her late October, I think, and that I had done it in person because I was applying for special consideration. She put me on hold while she conferred with the lady to whom I submitted the application. “She says she’ll contact you next week” she said, then “she’ll be doing special considerations next week”. This makes no sense to me; surely the special considerations are done before everyone else? I suspect my application was never lodged properly and that the woman is now waiting for someone to bow out so I can have a place.

The only problem with this vacation bliss is that Olly, the resident mini poodle, has taken to pissing on my bed. I have been here for two and a half week and have had to change my sheets ten times. Last night we all went to Tom and Amber’s for dinner, coming home at 2am. I jumped straight into bed, pulled the blankets to my chin and felt a damp patch. I silently prayed that it was my overactive imagination but my nose was telling me that it was exactly what my I first suspected. I leapt out of bed, turned on the light and saw a wet patch on my bed. I swore, several times, and then stripped the bed, stuffing the sheets into the washer and turning the matrass over to deal with in the morning.

The next morning I got up, went out for a smoke, and then came back to my room to find another wet patch on the bed. I swore, again, and put the sheets in the wash basket ready to go into the washer once the first load was finished. Cal and I took the matrass outside and, after disinfecting it, laid it on a table in the sun. Shortly after we turned it over, like a steak, so that the sun would dry the other side. Enter summer storm: we went outside to retrieve the matrass as soon as the rain started falling but the damage was done…my matrass was soaked. It is now lying atop the dining room table.

Apart from the copious amounts of dog urine and mysterious back pain, the holiday has been a blast…I’ll be so sad to go, but I have stuff to at home and besides, I’ll be back here in February for Lala’s 25th birthday part and a trip up the coast with the Beach Crew.

Back to reality on Thursday.

The week in pictures #02

Week 02
06/01: Thai for dinner at Lala and Cal's
07/01: Laundry floor, because I couldn't be bothered taking a photo of something more interesting
08/01: Olly the poodle standing guard over the back yard as I smoke
09/01: The office... where I spent the day arguing with computers
10/01: Fairy lights outside at Lala and Cal's
11/01: Smoking on the back steps
12/01: Brendan's slippery dip

I will write a propper post soon... I have been busy enjoying my holiday with my family and trying to weather the stormy emotional roller coaster. I have a few posts half written that I'll post next week.

The week in pictures #01

Week 01

1 January: New Years Eve at Lala and Cal's

2 January: Playing board games with Lala and Cal

3 January: Scooter at the plaza

4 January: Bag full of work brought home, after I'd left the house with nothing

5 January: Walking stick in the grass after Mass

Head above water

It’s nearly 4.30pm on a warm Thursday afternoon. Bin is asleep on the lounge next to me. Roxie, the mini foxy, has squashed her small frame between my left thigh and the arm of the couch; Olly, the poodle, is nowhere to be seen and a little to quiet for my liking. We’re watching Let them eat cake and I am putting on a smiling, brave face today, like I have all week. I feel like I’m drowning, struggling to keep my head above water.

I know it won’t last but it sux nonetheless.

The family tree

Just by way of clarification, I thought I’d make a quick list of people who get a regular mention on this blog, because I do realise that my family (particularly) can be quite confusing to the casual bystander. This is not a list of people who are important to me, per se, it’s simply a list of people who have been mentioned on this blog.

Mum, Dad, Sister.
So to begin with, obviously, there’s Mum, Dad and Sister, the ones I live with. Sister and I have a pointedly love-hate relationship. Since coming out to my parents, in March 2007, things have become easier at home in many ways: I feel so much freer. Since my coming out to her, not much has changed except for the fact that she no longer harps on about “the homosexuals” and their unreasonable demands.

Pop
Pop, Dad’s father, has been a regular character on this blog, especially since his passing, as I’ve been dealing with my grief. He was my hero.

Grandma, Grandpa and the Family-at-Large
Grandma and Grandpa are my Mum’s parents. They have four children: Aunt Agony, Mum, U1 and U2. In many ways we are the typical European immigrant family: always in each others’ pockets. As a child I thought all families were like this; it wasn’t until I was much older that I realized how unhealthy a setup we have so I’ve been trying to extricate myself slowly to a healthy distance. But I love them all dearly, despite their pissing me off on a fairly regular basis.

Rick is the son of Aunt Agony. Like his mother, he is abrasive and very difficult to be around. I don’t trust him. I feel deeply sorry for him, because I suspect he is deeply unhappy in his own skin.

For the sake of clarity, and because I was running out of pseudonyms, I named my two uncles U1 and U2 (think Bananas in Pyjamas), and their wives A1 and A2. U1 was married to Tía for 19 years, but he left her and their four children (Lala, Bee, Ade and Bin) for another woman, A1, with whom he now has a daughter, Zoe. Zoe is happiness and joy personified. U2, who is a complete enigma, is living with A2; together they have a son, my godson, Luke.

Although technically no longer my aunt, I still feel a special connection with Tía and find it difficult to reconcile the fact that U1 and A1 are now married, thus making A1 my aunt as well. I cannot relate to A1 as an aunt. When he left, I witnessed the devastation that was left behind and watched quietly as Tía and her children slowly grew into the people they are today. We all consider his leaving to be the best thin ever to happen to their family, despite the heartache it caused.

The beach crew
Lala and her boyfriend Cal have their own place, a couple of blocks from the beach, where I often stay during the holidays. They have two dogs that I have adopted as my own: Roxie and Olly. Lala and Cal are more like siblings than cousins. Bee, Ade (and his girlfriend Mary), and Bin (and her boyfriend Alex) complete The Beach Crew. We often hang out with Lala’s best friend, Amber and her husband Tom.

The state-of-mind family
That leaves Kate and her son Lance, Liz, Calla and Amy, who are the state-of-mind family. Kate and Liz are like sisters, often bearing the brunt of my bad days when I can’t take it out on my “real” Sister.

That’s about it for now… I’m sure I’ve forgotten someone, so I’ll you in later if I have.


The ones I live with
Now that I am living at uni, I have four housemates: The Optimist, The Space Cadet, The Accountant and The Guianan. The Optimist, so named because at 19 was ready to start learning before classes started, is a refreshing influence to on my jaded outlook. The Space Cadet needs no introduction; I avoid him at all costs. The Accountant I don't know that well, he keeps to himself; he always leaves taps running though which really really pisses me off. The Guyanan (formerly referred to as The Brit, however I have since learned he is from Guyana, not Brittain) lives upstairs.

Happy new year

We had a party here for new years eve last night. It was a great night; a great time to catch up with new friends and enjoy a care-free night. One in which I was the only one not drinking. But then I had the advantage of certain chemical enhancements—totally medicinal of course—so it’s not like I was the only sober one. It was nice to let go, for once.

The day began in the same way most days-of-parties begin: with bedlam. Cal and Ade were working out the front clearing up the front yard (with noisy power tools), Lala, Tia and I were clearing up the house, Ade and Mary were setting up the sound system, and, later, Bin and Alex clearing the backyard. The neighbour leant us his party lights. Once the yard was prepared—with tables covered in their festive “Happy New Year” table cloths, music pounding and enough fairy lights to confuse low-flying aircraft—we all had showers (sequentially, don’t get too excited) and waited for the guests to arrive. I won’t give you a running commentary of who arrived when, party because I don’t remember and party because I’m running out of pseudonyms.

There were several amusing moments. The first was being in being introduced to a friend of Lala’s. We waved at each other and I saw her mouth move to form the word “hi”. “So are you the fruity one?” she shouted at me during a slight lull in the music. “What?” I shouted back. She repeated herself: “So you up for a big one?”

The second was watching Lala making margaritas while plastered. She got the blender base out and set it on the bench, then dug out the jug and its screw-on blade housing. She filled the jug with six shots of tequila, two shots of orange triple sec, and was just about to add the third shot of lime juice when she realised that there was nowhere near ten shots in the blender. Slowly it dawned upon those present that the liquid previously in the blender was now running down the sides of the base. We were astonished (this is a new blender after all) and attempted to investigate the strange occurrence until Amber realised that Lala hadn’t put the blade or the rubber seal into the blade housing.

There were many laughs, and I even lasted until 2.30 before having to flop into bed. This morning we all got up and had eggs and bacon for breakfast, cooked by the still-drunk Cal.

The image above was taken at about 1am this morning. I decided to follow in the footsteps of Liz and Kate, who are taking a photo every day for a year to raise awareness for type 1 diabetes, and take a photo every day of 2008 myself and publish them every Sunday. I've also decided it would probably be a good idea to some kind of diagram of my family and friends that I mention on here, so stay tuned.

So Happy New Year all. This year will be a good year, if I have to kill (or mortally wound) someone to make it happen.