A Hymn to Him

A couple of days ago, my step-father was involved in a nasty accident. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say, he ended up in ICU with numerous broken bones and other internal injuries.

When I learned the news from my mother, I became rather stressed. It’s always difficult being so far away from one’s family during times like these. I felt rather helpless. However, it did encourage me to reminisce about my relationship with a man who is pretty damn flawless.

When my mum and Mac (as he is known to all and sundry – even his own mother – despite being Christened ‘David’) first got together, I was a bit perturbed as I had a slight fear of bearded men. To be honest, I was also scared of curly-haired men, but I blame Tom Baker for that. However, his amiable personality and jovial attitude soon put me at ease.

We didn’t really have a great deal in common, but he certainly tried his best to ingratiate himself with this rather bizarre little boy but he did so without being too intrusive. He took us (Mum, my brother and me) out on day trips at the weekend. I can’t say that I was particularly thrilled about being made to attend truck racing at Donnington race course, but whilst the others enjoyed the roar of vehicular menace, I perched on the embankment ploughing through The ABC Murders or similar.

Yawn

We did go on a number of holidays together; be it weekends to Blackpool or caravanning in Sutton-on-Sea. There was always a wonderful pleasure of visiting these breezy seaside towns and getting curry and chips for an evening meal before sitting around a warm electric fire playing UNO or Whist. In fact, Mac taught us boys to play a number of card games. I wish I could remember them all now. Rummy was my favourite. It’ll probably come back to me if I bothered to sit down and play again. (Pontoon was odd; I don’t think I ever got the hang of that!)

One of the things Mac and I bonded over was the classic 1960s TV show The Avengers. I loved the surreal stories and the debonair charm of John Steed, Mac fancied Emma Peel. 6 o’clock, Wednesday nights, BBC2. A fond memory. (Admittedly, even as a gay man, I cannot deny the allure of Diana Rigg in one of the sexiest roles ever.)

Miss Emma Peel

Although our tastes in some things differed greatly, we both enjoy two specific authors’ books. The gripping equestrian shenanigans of Dick Francis’ novels and the insane farfetched fiction from the mind of the barking mad Robert Rankin. Often we would compare notes after reading the latest tome. I think this proved that we had similar senses of humour too.

One thing he might deny, but I cannot ignore, is his big soft heart. He may have the persona of a strong, gritty bloke, but if there is a sad story on Animal Hospital (or equivalent TV show), he’ll shuffle uncomfortably and shed a tear for the poor creature in distress. Bless!

Mac has always been fiercely protective over my brother and I as if we were sons of his own. One incident in particular was told to me by my mother. Mac was driving past my school at a moment coinciding with break time. As (in those early days of secondary school) it took me a while to make friends, I often became a bit lonely (my best friend William was a year below me, so I didn’t get his company until the year after!) Mac saw me sat on the concrete steps by the playground all alone. Apparently, he wanted to pull over, race into the playground and shout at the other children “Play with him you little shits!” (or words to that effect). That’s the kind of guy he is. Thankfully, he is also the kind of man who would never actually do that.

Years later, when I was 18 and suffering from a bit of a nervous breakdown at Bedford University (long story), he didn’t hesitate to drive all the way from Derbyshire to pick me up and drive me back with ALL of my stuff crammed into every inch of the car. I was not in the best of spirits, but he kept me entertained on the long journey back. He’s a star like that.

One year, he treated us all to a big holiday. We went to Greece for a fortnight. The hours of fun we had playing in the sea or taking trips around local villages… nothing was too much trouble. He’d pay for everything, take everything in his stride, and he went out of his way to make sure we had the best holiday.

Definitely NOT Sutton-on-Sea

A particular favourite memory for me was when I had a premonition in a dream. I woke up just knowing I simply had to see the film Little Shop of Horrors at the cinema without knowing much about it at all. Our local cinema only kept movies on for a week and time was running out. I nagged my mum to take me but she had rehearsals for something (I think). Mac said he’d do the honours and took me to see a musical that would become one of my favourite films of all-time. Musicals aren’t really his thing, but even he enjoyed himself. (Admittedly, LSOH is not your average musical!!) – Apparently it pays to nag.

One of my all-time favourite films!

Mac is one of the most generous people I know. Always willing to give his time and energy to others and is always there to help out in a crisis. This is why it is so touching to hear of the love and caring messages from those who know him at this time when things have gone slightly up shit creek (a phrase he’s more than happy to use himself!) People love Mac and for a good reason.

He was never a father-replacement. Not at all. He would never even attempt to take on that role as he has always had respect for my father. My Dad was ever present and has been critically instrumental in moulding me, introduced me to a plethora of loves (from film to music and more), and has been deeply influential in more ways than he’d probably know! However, Mac has been an integral part of my growing-up and this post is dedicated to him.

Of course, the list of memories could go on, but the brief tales above are some specific highlights from the vast collection of recollections in my slightly decaying brain.

All I can say now is ‘Get Well Soon’ and I hope it won’t be too long before we can catch up again – over a Glenfiddich or a strong pot of Yorkshire Tea. Cheers, Mac!

Somewhere That's Green

I have been single for close to a decade now.

As with many elements of my life, I am rather contradictory; sometimes I enjoy my lonely lifestyle and react with puzzlement when others insist that life can only be experienced to the full with another person by one's side; sometimes I yearn for companionship and, to be sickeningly romantic, someone to love me unconditionally (other than family, obviously).

Modern life is not propitious to the single person, certainly not financially. To live alone one has to earn close to double the amount of others just to enjoy the benefits of socialising - as all the money tends to go on rent and bills. A life shared is an expenditure halved. I cannot deny that part of my eagerness for partnership actually lies in the desire to get out of debt once and for all.

Whenever I even contemplate venturing out to seek a potential date or partner, the sheer terror that pervades my mind can be somewhat crippling.

One of my biggest issues about the prospect of dating is that I honestly believe that it would be cruel to inflict this neurotic mess upon some poor soul eager for fun times and shenanigans.

When I do the introspective dance of negativity, I only see flaws, foibles and irritations which would surely drive another to despair. I know there are good things about me, though. I am clean; I can (sort of) cook; I am caring; and I know how to stack a dishwasher properly. These things don't exactly make me "a catch" but it's a start to a reasonably attractive C.V.

Sex is one of the largest barriers preventing me from achieving full marks in the relationship exam. I have never been perfectly content with carnal intrigue and experimentation. I am one of those bizarre little freaks who find it all a bit unpleasant and dirty. I often look around at others and realise that humans have been sticking protuberances into orifices for millennia, sometimes even without resistance or regret. This knowledge does not stop me from feeling slightly appalled and uncomfortable about it all. Believe me when I say that I don't mind a bit of a hug and snuggle. I don't even mind a bit of a snog, but the full-on rampant anarchy of intercourse panics me as would an overflowing lavatory.

Everyone I know seems to take to mutual physical admiration and subsequent climaxes as easily as they might eat, drink or breathe. It's just another function of their bodies. Couples frequently follow up a date by retreating to either one's abode and partaking in a game of "hide the sausage" or equivalent ("stuffing the taco"?), whereas I would much rather stay in the living room and have a game of Cluedo. The only problem is, that particular entertaining pastime requires at least three people, so most nights I'll submit to a lengthy game of Solitaire.

In addition to this, I also have the monstrous burden of slight body dysmorphic disorder. I absolutely despise my body and feel deeply ashamed of the colour of my pasty flesh, the sagginess of my buttocks, the lack of tone and definition… the list goes on. I even have issue with my face, but I'm not so bad that I feel the need to resort to putting a balaclava on backwards just to pop to the local butchers.

My self-consciousness creates an unintentional vibe that others perceive and it warns them off like a skunk's anal secretions. No wonder I don't feel like anyone has ever "checked me out"; they're far too busy pinching their noses and running a mile.

It doesn't stop me from eyeing-up the various aesthetic beauties who pass me by as I perambulate around the city. As each beauteous Adonis falls into my range of vision, I straighten up, my eyes widen and a drop of saliva escapes down my hairy chin. I often wonder if my reaction is as obvious as a Tex Avery cartoon spying a buxom young caricature. Admittedly, the game is given away when I point like a body-snatching alien and expel an inappropriately loud (yet inadvertent) "Oh, hello! Yes, you'll do, matey!" As soon as these awkward slips-of-the-tongue issue from my uncontrollable mouth, I automatically crumple back into the impenetrable shell of self-loathing with the undeniable knowledge that these models of perfection are way out of my league and, of course, they would never even consider allowing me to buff their shoes, let alone nibble on their bottom lip. Thus, I stomp forth trying to work out how to simultaneously kick myself up the backside and turn invisible without breaking my stride.

This is why I have "straight dates". I have a number of heterosexual male friends with whom I can enjoy all the pleasantries of an evening out with none of the undesirable fears or sweat-inducing panics of inadequacy that usually accompany the malarkey of husband-hunting. Sure, my straight boyfriends and I are not exclusive; they always return to the bosom of their lovers or solitary lives, but at least I know that we have both been treated decently; without disrespect; without irrational judgment; nor do our moods plummet afterward with feelings of self-pity and woe.

In a perfect world, I would live with a handsome, fit and lovable guy (like Ryan Kwanten, perhaps) who brings home good cash (ooh, like Ryan Kwanten) and who isn't aggressive or arrogant (Ry-ry McKwanten!) and I can stay at home, keep things clean, cook the meals and, upon his (Ryan's) return home from work each day, we can snuggle up on the settee, chat and watch an old movie together before retiring to the boudoir for 1950s TV style sleeping arrangements… somewhere that's green.

Bliss.

Two of a Kind

As you may know, I do love to read. Generally, I am fond of fiction - a good old-fashioned whodunit (Can't go wrong with Dame Aggie), a grand-guignol Gothic horror (Shirley Jackson's writing has an insidious way of burying itself into your sub-conscious and lingering there to unnerve you for many dark nights ahead!) or a modern-day humorous fable (if you've never read Dan Rhodes, I urge you to do so. No writer has ever made me laugh out loud more!) – But I do love reading a bit of non-fiction too. Biographies and memoirs tend to entertain my cerebral palate. I have spent many a rainy afternoon splayed on the settee with a mug of hot tea and the condensed lives of certain idols spewing forth from the pages to my gibbering delight.

I ploughed through Stephen Fry’s first two volumes of his autobiography series; Moab is my Washpot and The Fry Chronicles, and found them both deliciously entertaining and beautifully crafted. It won't be long before the third volume, More Fool Me, hits the shelves and I am most excited about this looming tome.

One of the most appealing things about Lord Stephen of Fry is the similarities between his insecurities and those in my own fragile soul. With each turn of the page, I found something else to which I can respond "Oh cripes! Me too!"

Here I shall share some of our shared foibles, flaws and idiosyncrasies (hopefully it won't sound like a lonely hearts column):

• He's cripplingly self-critical, rants about comments on the internet and finds Thomas Hardy's novels unreadable.

• He has dabbled with celibacy*, wallows in guilt over social faux-pas and feels that he is unworthy of anyone's love.

• He enthuses about his passions unashamedly, feels that he is only 90% gay and dwells too often on his mischievous youth.

Sadly, he's also vastly smarter than I, stupendously more talented and far less problematic at a social gathering.

Therefore, he wins and I resign to venerate him with candour from my shadowy corner of inadequacy.

As I compare my life to his, I feel slightly woeful that I have not made the most of my life and, maybe, not been the person/friend/lover I could have been. I won’t deny that, much like a mirror, it has caused me to slump into a quagmire of navel-gazing, egocentric self-pity from which I criticise and admonish myself in a mental flagellation of monstrous proportions.

I begin to ask myself unanswerable questions about why it seems I have a "best before" date when it comes to some friendships; why I don't have a vulgarity percolator to stop my mouth from offending others during my over-excitable attempts at whimsy; why I was unable to remain focussed and studious during my youth nor excel at those dramatic ventures into which I channelled most of my energy; why I am so sensitive that I spend years questioning everything I have ever done or said wrong when, it appears, most others have forgotten…

Oh, the list could go on, but if I go any further, I'll be up to my nostrils in belly-button fluff! But it does make one wonder.

What this post was originally supposed to be was a simple adoration of one of the UK's greatest living National Treasures, but I couldn't help expressing the thoughts that stem from the reading of other, more successful lives. It’s nothing more than the slightly bitter and resentful green-eyed monster that lurks too close to the surface. One can see why envy is a deadly sin..

*Re: Celibacy. His was by choice. Mine is involuntarius; de facto!

Missing You

Whatever happened to the old me? I miss him...

I think back to my childhood and the extravagant aspirations I had regarding my future career of Oscar-winning actor/entertainer. As soon as I was able to walk, I was eagerly attempting to entertain those around me by either singing, dancing or making puppet shows. My father even made me a Punch and Judy booth out of a couple of old blackboards and an easel. It was decoratively painted in red and yellow strips to emulate the cloth variety oft seen on Brighton Beach in the late 19th Century. My Great Grandmother spent most of the latter years of her life knitting dolls and puppets for me whilst chewing on bits of toast to give to her toothless Yorkshire Terrier. I had a puppet Father Christmas, a bear, a snowman, a clown… oh; the plots one could come up with. OK; so I wasn't re-enacting Dombey & Sons with colourful three-ply characters, but I am sure the storylines were just as thrilling. My father also converted a bathroom cabinet stool into a magician's toolbox/table thing. My poor relatives having to sit through my various acts of mystery and enchantment!

The Entertainer

At the charmingly archaic and halcyon Lea Primary School, I was frequently the lead in the school play – partly because I think the teachers thought I might actually burst if they didn't acknowledge my eagerness to participate. When asked for volunteers for anything I would thrust my arm firmly in the air and hold my breath until I was the same colour as the previously mentioned puppet booth (red, not yellow). One would imagine my enthusiasm would irritate my peers, and it probably did but I was much less self-conscious back then.

In those plays, I played Space Captains abducting young girls, a Prince turned into a frog, a rags to riches urchin (I can still sing the song – "Isn't it rich the way fortunes can switch from low to high…") and I would always get an enormous thrill from performing on that stage in the school hall-cum-dining area to the gleeful, yet slightly patronising, adult audience on those glittering nights.

At secondary school (the less-archaic yet still chronically middle-class 'Highfields') I continued to challenge myself in order to entertain. I was in the choir (having done a reasonable stint in the local church choir – although my memories of that are less pleasant. Sure, I sang Who Will Buy from Oliver! and Paul McCartney's Yesterday solo for a congregation, but I also wet myself during the Hallalujah chorus as I was terrified of the Choir mistress and didn't dare nip off to the loo.) and I tried to get involved in every piece of theatre I was eligible for. I even did a deeply distressing stand-up routine for the UK’s first Comic Relief. I believed I could just get up on stage without preparation and make everyone laugh. I did not. Maybe I should have wet myself at that point in my life instead – it may have raised a few chortles.

Given that the great dramatic plays the school put on only came around twice a year (if that), I had to find other avenues to perform; so I volunteered on an embarrassingly regular basis to "present" at assemblies. Yes. I had the gall to stand up in front of my fellow pupils (most of whom had an unpleasant distaste for my slightly demented jocularity) and I would perform – or, as some might say "show-off".

Gosh, I would do anything for the sake of entertainment. I even stripped off to my boxer shorts for one Wednesday morning’s kick-starter. It simply reeked of desperation and a need for attention, but the truth was I simply enjoyed facing a crowd despite the fact that the majority was judging me.

Ooh, it must have been meaningful. See! The world... in human hands! Clever!

The plays we did at school were, thankfully, not the usual tripe forced upon the hormonally dysfunctional teens around the country. We didn't have to do Grease or Jesus Christ Superstar; our teacher, Mrs Phillips, preferred to challenge us with the likes of Terence Rattigan and J.B Priestley. At the time, some parents and their children thought this was a bit bizarre and possibly inappropriate, but I loved it. Sure, we put on a Willy Russell play in which I got to dance like a bonobo chimp having a wave of spasms, but further down the track I got to play an alcoholic RAF pilot who slapped his wife, the husband of a woman in prison for killing her baby, and a septuagenarian who was fond of custard. Oh, the variety!

Of course, I couldn't help myself from getting involved in The Rocky Horror Show. It wasn't a legitimate production, we just loved dressing up and performing the show wherever we could - in the gym, on drama weekends, during mock-political elections...

Me as Frank

I did a bit of amateur dramatics outside of school and appeared in Habeas Corpus, Death and the Maiden, A Lie of the Mind and Oliver! amongst others, but after I left England to move to Australia, my performing days dwindled off to an embarrassing dribble. I spent the first twelve months attempting stand-up comedy (did I learn nothing from my previous venture?) and this time I did do the work beforehand. I just had to put myself through this trial-by-jury to realise that, frankly, I’m just not that funny.

Of course, there were the many, many fancy dress parties and murder parties throughout my youth. My Murder Parties were fun and I often gave myself parts such as 'The Stripper' or 'Jessica Fletcher' for a laugh. At fancy dress parties, I often loved going as some filmic reference...

The Dread Pirate Roberts! NOT Zorro!

So, what happened? When did I become cripplingly self-conscious? I still have the fire inside somewhere to perform – just invite me to a party, give me a gin and tonic for Dutch courage and watch me do the whole 'Party Ben' routine. Give me an audience and I'll give 'em the old "Razzle Dazzle" whether they like it or not.

Instead, I am stuck in a dead-end job feeling miserable and useless, doubting whether I will ever get to do the stuff I love ever again. I am missing you, old me... where did you go?

Just be warned, if I do get back under that spotlight, you might not be able to drag me out of it again…

Ta-da!! (just practising)

I may be in Australia, but I am still an exhibitionist! (Some things can never be unseen!)

Look No Further

This afternoon, I attended a wonderful fund-raiser for a friend who is in politics. It was a nice crowd because there were no right-wing nut-jobs there. As I pointed out to my friend/local state candidate, Labor may disappoint at times but at least they make a bloody try to do good.

Admittedly, a few of my more snobby gags went awry (I love the public transport system in Melbourne, I just don't like the public who use it!) but on the whole, I think they liked me.

I always get terribly anxious prior to social gatherings - especially when I only know a handful of people attending. I don't just get nervous and a bit "diarrhoea-y" but I also become a bit grumpy because I just know I'm going to make a complete arse of myself.

I dressed up as nice as I could (just pleased I could fit into an old suit - a week of conference food and about eight gallons of Sauvignon Blanc has not been kind to my figure!) and I ventured out to the inner suburbs with a heavy heart and a jaunty step. The latter mainly because my two-tone shoes are a tad too tight.

I was the first to arrive (as ever) and I chit-chatted awkwardly with the host whom I had never met before. Eventually others drifted in and I have to say it must be a record that it took me at least 20 minutes before I uttered the "c" word. In fairness, I was quoting a New Zealand couple I used to babysit for, so I think I got away with it.

As ever the soiree was peppered with couples. Gay men, lesbians, straights... couples, couples, couples... so any chance of picking up was sorely scuppered. Admittedly, a political fund-raiser is not the sort of place to pick up, but I am getting desperate. I'll be loitering around skips in car parks with my underpants on my head soon, in an attempt to lure potential mates. It's becoming quite lonely in my apartment these days.

Anyway, I was more or less on my best behaviour and I spent a lovely few hours chatting to a couple of nurses about Victoria Wood.

On the way home, after a few drinks, I fell into that emotional trap in which I start berating myself, my heart, and my brain. I began wallowing in self-pity, hating those who constantly post pictures of themselves and their loved ones having "hilarious times" in Majorca or enjoying their joyous days with their family/offspring/hired beautician.

I think to myself "Why can't I have that?" and begin getting all bitter and weepy. I think of all those happy gay couples who have strong, beautiful relationships with TWO INCOMES and great holidays every year. I get jealous of the straight couples with babies who are applauded the first time they do a shit the same colour as the nursery wallpaper. I wail in deep regret that I fucked up at school (I honestly blame the whole gay thing wrecking my hormones and my ability to think straight - ho ho ho) and will never be able to forge a proper career for myself. I rant to the skies that my brother inherited all the talent from my parents and I only got the neuroses!

Then I stop.

I remember the things I do have.

I have a roof over my head.

I am in reasonable health (for a fatty-boom-bah)

I have a job (not a great one, but it pays the bills... just!)

I have a beautiful cat who adores me (at tea time and breakfast)

I have an abundance of friends, old and new, who don't judge me for my flaws.

I have a loving family.

I have a nice penis.

You see... things are relative. I have my crashing downers and sometimes things seem so dark. But I force myself to remember that for every shit thing, there's a variety of superb things which some people in this world DO NOT HAVE AT ALL!!

So, that's my post. Yes, I suffer from depression, but tonight I am grateful. For all the things I mentioned above... Sometimes I should look no further than the glorious things around me.

In Those Days

Whilst having a bit of a clean up around my apartment, I came across my old report cards from school. I thought I'd share!

These are from the summer of 1987, the end of my first year at Highfields School. I was in form 1EJ. Slytherin Riber House

I was basically an enthusiastic child who was keen to get on despite my horrendous handwriting. Some subjects I seemed to have a certain aptitude for, but, sadly, things would go awry a few years down the track.

Subject: English Exam: 72% Coursework Grade: B 1

Ben undoubtedly has a flair for creative work and his ideas and perceptions are highly imaginative and original. But he must realise taht this in itself is not enough. Presentation is equally important. More time and care spent on this aspect of his work would, I am sure, help him to improve his marks. Oral mark for the year 33/40

Subject: Maths Exam: 81% Coursework Grade: B 1

Ben has performed splendidly throughout the year. His enthusiasm and cheerfulness are to be admired.

Subject: Science Exam: 55% Coursework Grade: C 1

Ben works hard but lacks confidence in his own ability. he contributes well to class discussion. More care needs to be taken with his presentation of his work.

Subject: French Exam: 79% Coursework Grade: A 1

A very hardworking and conscientious pupil. Well done.

Subject: R.E. Exam: 58% Coursework Grade: B 2

Ben has made pleasing progress through the year. He is a lively and constructive member of the group. Well done!

Subject: Geography Exam: 69% Coursework Grade: C 2

Generally a satisfactory year's work in all aspects of the subject. Ben is building up his knowledge of geographical skills and will, I am sure, do well in the future.

Subject: History Exam: 80% Coursework Grade: C 2

Ben does not always find it easy to express himself on paper but is obviously not without ability. he must persevere if he is to make the progress he is capable of.

Subject: Design Exam: N/A Coursework Grade: B 2

Ben is making good progress and he is capable of some good work.

Subject: Home Economics Exam: N/A Coursework Grade: C 2

A competent worker. Ben has shown interest in his work.

Subject: Music Exam: 73% Coursework Grade: B 1

This is a pleasing examination result. Now Ben is living in Matlock, I shall look forward to him being a member of the Boys' Choir.

Subject: Art Exam: 85% Coursework Grade: B 1

Ben has a good background knowledge and wide interest. He contributes well in class showing interest and working in a most responsible way. He handles drawing and painting very competently and has produced a good year's work. Ben has a pleasant manner in class.

Subject: Textiles Exam: N/A Coursework Grade: B 2

A steady and reliable worker. Ben has made progress this year.

Subject: P.E. & Games Exam: N/A Coursework Grade: B 2

Quite good. generally keen. Satisfactory progress made.

Form Tutor's Report

I am very pleased with Ben. he gives freely of his time and is a most responsible and enthusiastic member of the form. he is always cheerful and has been a much valued Form Representative. the form have responded well to Ben and I feel he has settled in and become well-liked. He is a keen worker and has put much effort into his studies. he should feel proud of his reports. Well done.

Senior Tutor's Report

Ben has made a splendid impression in his first year. He is courteous and reliable in all he does. Ben has gained 44 credits for the house, and does a splendid job as Form Rep.

Everything But the Blues

Just a boring blog post about my weekend. The sort of thing that interests no one but myself. Here goes:

On Friday night, I journeyed out to Essendon to catch up with my friend Tim (the hugely talented artist - check out his website!). We get together on a regular basis and watch old movies together. On the way over, I was once again appalled by human behaviour when waiting at Southern Cross Station, the train arrived and, instead of letting people out of the carriage, the moronic plebs on the platform forced their way on first. Why are people so incredibly rude? Maybe I summed it up with "moronic plebs" before. I know I said something vicious under my breath, but as I was listening to some Mark Snow composition on my iPod, I imagine it may have come out louder than I intended. I don’t care. They need to know how rude they are.

Anyway… I arrived at Tim’s safely and we had fish and chips (hooray!) The film we watched this time was teh Bob Hope vehicle Caught in the Draft, a very entertaining film with lots of class act comedy moments. He really was a genius. I have also introduced Tim to the marvels of Murder Most Horrid which he has fallen in love with (obviously) so we watched a few episodes of that. We are trying to get through it all before he moves away (insert sad face). After a very busy day and an early start, by evening I was incredibly exhausted and upon returning home crashed out on my bed and fell asleep.

The Saturday was a quiet one. I had to go to the local supermarket (far more accessible than the one in Bulawayo) and came home despondent at the exorbitant prices of groceries these days. As I have stated before, I am struggling to pay off debts at the moment and these ridiculous price-hikes are beyond the pale.

I spent the rest of the day reading and doing laundry. N.B. use white vinegar instead of fabric softener. Vastly cheaper and SO much better at getting rid of stains.

I finished a book called Demons which annoyed the hell out of me due to lack of proper punctuation and speech marks, and then I began reading The Fault in Our Stars (finally) and I am pleased to say that the book lives up to the hype (which is rare in this day and age where hype rarely relates to talent). I actually finished the book during my lunch-break today at work. Great stuff. I will be seeing the film on Wednesday!

In the evening, I had some leftovers of the beef chilli I made earlier in the week and I would learn from that mistake 24 hours later! I also watched X-Men Origins: Wolverine for the first time, having borrowed it from my friends Louise and Adam. It was much more enjoyable than I expected it to be; mainly because Hugh Jackman is just such an entertaining actor to watch.

(And he's ridiculously attractive!)

I had a reasonably early night and felt to sleep quickly.

Sunday morning, I was awake around 4:30 (again). I just have trouble sleeping in, I don’t know why. It may be because my brain is just so over-active. Deeply annoying. Anyway, I read for a bit and then did some blogging. Around ten o’clock, I ventured out to meet my friends Sarah and Dan. We headed out to Reservoir and then walked for about 45 minutes to Heidelberg to attend the Austrian Club Melbourne. The atmosphere was lovely and the food delicious. I had a stuffed chicken breast wrapped in bacon and cheese alongside spätzle and some cauliflower cheese (an old favourite of mine).

We followed our mains with apple strudel. Dan and Sarah paid for my lunch because they know how much I am struggling with cash at the moment. I have very good friends!

(I might add that my friend Dan is also a very talented chap. Check out his Funeral Stories and just some of his art here.)

The walk back to the train station at Reservoir was a little longer because we were all stuffed with yummy food, but it was a pleasant afternoon (a little overcast, but I like it that way) and with fantastic company. I did ponder if my dress-sense looked a little ostentatious out in the suburbs. I often think people might see my get-up and think "Ooh, Doctor Who's coat, John Steed's umbrella, Roseanne Barr's thighs!" but they probably don't.

I didn’t head straight home as I had another appointment with another friend. Chris is a work colleague who is also a major talent. He used to work at Warner Brothers and he is also a superb artist (he showed me some of his work). I was then deeply impressed by his culinary skills. He cooked salmon steaks with roast vegetables and a maple syrup sauce. It was magnificent. We watched some Suits (which I had never seen before, but enjoyed despite the plethora of implausibly beautiful people populating the cast) and we finished off the evening with Resident Evil starring the beautiful Milla Jovovich, the rugged James Purefoy and the pretty Eric Mabius, amongst others

However, remember the beef consumption earlier in the weekend? Well, it came back to haunt me and, just before the movie started, I had a bit of an episode in the toilet (you are so pleased that I have shared this, I am sure!) and I didn’t feel particularly grand for the rest of the night. Still, great company, food and entertainment to round off a pleasant weekend.

The only sad thing from the weekend is that more of my stuff has sold on eBay. I know this should be a good thing, but it’s hard letting my babies (DVDs) go… but… I have to eat!!

All in all, a good weekend. No major moments of depression (thankfully) and lots of fun with good friends. I had everything but the blues.