The Treehouse. My present and now permanent abode is a far scream from the Malvern/Armadale presinct. Brighton proper is a more somber affair, though idyllic just the same.
"Grumble Bum" from whom I "used" to purchase my daily cup every day, also lives in Brighton. Well he just bought one. Obviously, Lattes pay.
People say "hello" as you walk down the Brighton streets with a casual air and a knowing smile, it's citizens make confident strides knowing they are well in the heel.
A noisy Irish pub is nearby.
Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights you may get the odd holler and scream,
but the first night I moved in was a shocker. Full-on blue murder screaming
from a female voice for about 30 minutes. It wasn't the best welcome, though.
I was told by the neighbors the next day, in 20 years that's the worst
it has been. After 2 weeks I sleep fairly well. A change from the trains
and trams vibrating the Hovel's bedroom window at my head.
I'm not a big sport watcher, though there is a nice feeling watching your country's finest atheletes trying their hearts out for the nation.
Cathy Freeman. We want her to do so well don't we ? Not only for Australia, but for Cathy. The slim and silver figure lighting a circle of fire in a pond of water left a lasting impression. When the cauldron hesitated before the ascent, I really thought it was all over. The last chance for Australia to show the world the shining beacon we are, not the backwater that tried to extinguish the cauldron.
A massive restructure is going on at work. The ground is shaky. Indecisive upper mangament playing with our lives. Our minds have been well and truly fucked with. I have holidays for 4 weeks in October, God knows what I will come back to. I may end up having to sit on a fruit box.
But with my career "up in the air" so to speak, I keep on plodding, going to school and playing the game. Because it really is a game.
The Place runs on Bullshit,
and guess what ?
