I’m in Cairns, visiting my sister Sarah and her new baby. He’s three months old and is the nicest baby I’ve met. I mean, I admittedly haven’t met too many babies, and have never spent more than a couple minutes with any baby at a time, but this one is definitely the best. He smiles non stop and has only cried twice in five days. He defies all baby rules!

So, like, he’ll be sitting there squirming, and I’ll look over at him and notice he’s staring at me really intensely. So I’ll say hi to him and tell him how poochy his features are, and he’ll do this full face smile. You know that ‘muscles in a smile’ saying that is designed to get you to feel stupid for being sad? Well this baby uses twice as many muscles as even that. I mean gummy mouth stretched wide and gaping, nose scrunched up, eyebrows waggling, the goddamn works. Then after a few seconds he’ll suddenly look bashfully away, like so much full on love is making him uncomfortable. It sounds one-off quirky but he honestly does this every single gosh darn time I look at him.

He makes heaps of weird noises, drools the Niagra falls constantly, and when he poops it reverberates through the entire house. It seriously sounds like a squelchy volcano in his pants and goes on for two minutes or something, but in disturbing spurts.

Scene: Today we go to the movies to see Girls Trip (perfect! we’re sisters having a girls movie day!). It’s his first movie and we’re uncertain how he’ll take it. We sit down in a spot where we can have his pram, and immediately the ads and previews come on and they are just SO loud. I’ve actually never noticed how loud this shit is. We both look at the baby and he is just ogling the screen, happy as anything. We are clearly more perturbed by the eardrum assault than he is.

We sit through the movie and he seriously just sits there and contentedly watches the whole thing with us. Not a peep. I mean, at one point Sarah gets up to feed him, but besides that I have barely noticed he is there. So not what the dramatised baby anecdotes would have me believe.

The movie ends in an appropriately tear-jerking manner. We have lunch and do a bit of shopping (I get new Bonds house-shorts for $12!) and baby is doing just fine. Seriously, he just loves sitting in a pram while the adults totally ignore him! Everyone should have one!

Time to go home and nap (for me I mean). We stick him in the car seat and head home, but a couple minutes into the drive he starts crying. “He doesn’t want to be in the car seat,” Sarah hypothesises, “I think it could be getting a bit small for him.” We both sit there trying to come up with reasons he might be upset. “Such a big day,” “He’s overtired,” etc, because seriously he never cries. This is weird and we need to make sense of it.

At a red light Sarah leans back and tries to put his dummy in to soothe him, but nope, he doesn’t want it. Oh well, not much we can do! We’ll be home soon!

Then he goes silent. A second later, gurgling liquid sounds. Sarah and I both silently look at each other as more gurgling sounds occur. “O shit.”

We pull over and there is puke EVERYWHERE. He is soaked. His car seat is an ocean now. It looks like curds in water. Sarah pulls him out and tries to cuddle him without marinating herself in her own partially digested breastmilk.

We get home and I offer to clean out the car seat. I end up juicy to the elbows in about ten thousand litres of my close family’s bodily fluids. This is a few hours ago now and I still feel a bit gross. So yeah, babies. The stories are true, man.

The movie was pretty fricken hilarious, btw.

junk brain

It’s Sunday night.

If I stop and notice I can hear: The deep whoops of a frog, the quite distinctive staccato of nearby chirping instincts, the whirring of computer fans, the less distinct drone of far-awayer insects, the occasional rushing of late night vehicles on the wet main road two streets down, the even more occasional high-to-low sequence of a gecko chatter, and every now and then, the clatter and flapping of a flying fox launching from the poinsiana.

I’m sitting at the desk in the back office, second storey, surrounded by windows. Outside the window to my right, at my eye level, there is the foliage and fruit of papaya tree. It’s less than two metres away and the window is open. Just as I finished typing of the flying foxes, one landed on (clumsily blundered into) said tree. I can now see it, climbing along the fronds, reaching down with its snoot and curling tongue, nibbling at the ripest papaya. I can hear it slurping. It has an orange neck ruff. It’s grasping the fruit with its tiny front paws.

It’s 11.45 pm and I have a client in ~nine hours. 9.00 am. I leave for work at 8.30 am, get out of bed at 8.00 am.

People are advised to sleep between seven and nine hours for best cognitive and physical health, however we are individuals and our needs differ. Six to ten hours may be appropriate. I tend to need nine hours, and it takes another hour after that to be able to reasonably comprehend and respond to my fellow person. My colleagues have learned to tone their cheery morning-person greetings down when I inevitably slouch twenty minutes late into the shared office space. The administration staff have (generally) learned that I strongly prefer my 9.00 am appointment slot to remain empty. Unfortunately, we have a new admin person.

This week has been a low one. I cancelled a string of social commitments and my entire “things I simply must do around the house this week” list. I took Friday afternoon, my private practice time, off (I took Monday off also, but I was genuinely unwell). I watched an ungodly number of movies and read several books and spoke to pretty much no one except my mumm and Brenton. It was glorious.

This morning was no different. I lounged languidly abed, reading The Last Unicorn, while Brenton bounced in and out of the room asking advice on repairing his father’s computer. Eventually my eye-rolling muscles started feeling the strain and I got up to help him. We repaired the computer. I cleaned out the innards of our computer. I tested and backed up several extraneous hard drives. I tidied up and concealed the hopelessly-tangled-wedged-under-the-desk cables. I swept. I organised my filing system. I recycled our e-waste. I went grocery shopping. I cleaned out the aquarium. I watered the garden. I helped Brenton fit the blinds to the new office. We took some benzos, ordered pizza, had a few drinks and watched a movie. When Brenton went to bed I started writing an article on understanding and working through infidelity.

I started all this at about 1.00 pm and finished up by writing this post. It’s more than I’ve done in the past three weeks. Now it’s midnight and I feel I’ll never be able to sleep again.

I took a sleeping pill before I began this entry. Usually within ten minutes my eyes outright defy my desire to finish what I thought I’d be finished by the time it hit. Like, when I go to bed, I always read a bit until my eyes get tired. When I take a pill, I’m never ready to put the book down by the time it hits, so every five seconds I have to consciously will open my eyes to continue. The next day I open my book where I left off and always, always, have to go back two or three pages to find something I can remember reading.

This pill ain’t workin. Idk wtf is going on. The worst part is I wake up super groggy when I’ve taken one and it takes me an extra hour to enter the same time-stream as the rest of the world.

In summary, I feel pretty bad for my 9 am client.

I’m gonna go finish my book.


There is a world where all the people see black first, and at the same time multi-coloured swirls in the air. All the people have squids perched atop their heads dictating their emotions and general mood. All the people have two or three, sometimes four, beings high up in the sky, past the sky, travelling the same roads as their people only much higher up, hovering and watching, recording and guarding. All the people are detached from each other, dislike each other, love each other, completely misunderstand each other. All the people believe what they believe unquestionably, and what they believe is most definitely real. All the people are exactly the same, just see each other differently.

happy winter

goodness. my last post was the goulash post? for srs? that was ages ago.

and at the same time.. that was 2016? this year? srs? it feels like way ages agoer than that.

Well. Well well well.

Where am I? It’s winter. At this second, the wind is shrieking outside. I’m wearing ski socks and thermals under my pyjamas. I’ve a heater on under the desk, a hot water bottle, and a blanket around my shoulders.

And the cats, oh the cats! Such warmth vampires. Say at one moment I stand up, displacing Guppy from my lap. The moment I sit down, wherever in the world that may be, she will be ever ready for my lap to reappear.

Having said all that, I’ll acknowledge it’s fifteen degrees Celsius.

I feel the cold a lot. and I like it! tights, boots, scarves, hats, jackets, blankets, hot drinks, short days, cats. I am a BIG fan of winter.

but only in Queensland, Australia. nowhere else. no thank you.