1...

1) Total number of films I own on DVD/Video.Thirteen, twenty-one including TV series.2) The last film I boughtLook, I can explain. No, really. See, I'd just finished watching Sportsnight after years of only knowing the fic, and was having a full Josh Charles renaissance (And his mouth? It really does do that thing, no, not that thing, although I really like to think he does that thing later.), and I'd already bought Dead Poet's Society, and I was at the DVD store, and there, pimping itself at me from the 'M' section was Threesome. So I bought it. And watched it. And a movie more deliriously, appallingly, jaw-droppingly, pretentiously bad I hope never to see again. Still, I laughed a lot.3) The last film I watchedHitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It was, um, okay. As someone who knows the radio and BBC tv series so well that when the theme played during the opening credits, I got a little choked up (and we're not going to mention the summer I memorised the first three chapters of the book, either, okay?), it didn't do it for me. Bits were amusing, but Arthur was not Arthur, and the Vogons were almost cute, for fuck's sake, and, yes, well. Just, no.The next film I'm going to see is Kingdom of Heaven, and I will be extremely disappointed if it isn't a hugely self-important historical melodrama with bad CGI castles in the background. These are the movies I live for. After Troy, Alexander and now KoH, I thought Hollywood might have been tapped out on improbable epics, so I was immensely cheered to read that some poor fool has just signed Matt Damon to play Marco Polo. 4) Five films I watch a lot that mean a lot to meEven though I have a yen for bad historical epics, I also rilly rilly like some good ones, such as Master & Commander, one of the few literary adaptations that I love as much as the source material, Dangerous Liasions, because the mindfucks, people, and the exquisite sleaze, and I still cry when Valmont gets skewered. LA Confidential, again for very, very nearly doing justice to the source material, and being a damned good movie in its own right, The Princess Bride, of course, because snarling 'Prepare to die!' under your breath at an annoying co-worker will always be deeply satisfying.5) Tag 5 people and have them put this in their journalBecause I am a big black holes that stop all chain letters, emails and memes in their tracks, there are no tags. Also, everyone else in the known universe, possibly even Arthur and a Vogon or three, has already done this.

So I've had my annual prat fall.

This year, instead of tripping up the steps onto a tram (momentarily distracted by a Watch Your Step sign I'd never noticed), falling over in the street (dodging an apparently slippery metal grating in favour of actually slippery concrete), or tripping while getting out of the shower (yeah, no excuse for that one), I fell off the chair I was standing on to try and open my bedroom window. I did manage to demonstrate impressive if delayed coordination by twisting myself around as I fell, neatly avoiding the armchair, the chest of drawers, and the bedpost. Instead I landed curled up possum fashion, eyes scrunched shut and limbs neatly tucked. My left arm is a bit wrenched, and I have some bruises, and my flatmate has a laughter induced hernia, but that's all.My bloody window is still stuck though.

So...

So, I'm pretty vain about my handwriting, not obnoxiously so, but I have nice handwriting, and many people have commented on it over the years. It's partly a product of growing up in the French education system, which is much stricter about these things than the Anglophone systems are, and partly of completing three quarters of a design degree in which a disproportionate amount of time was spent doing writing drills, but mostly because I enjoy it.So.The six people in my unit at work have, generally speaking, average to awful handwriting, which is pretty much standard these days, apart from one, whose writing looks like a second grader's first attempts at cursive. I didn't really think anything of it (beyond 'yikes', anyway) until I handed this woman a form to sign one day this week, and realised that her writing was that bad because she had these enormous fake gel overlays on her fingernails, which meant that she could barely hold a goddamn pen.And my split second revelation went like this: I would happily endure nails that were nothing more than mangled, bloody stumps, as long as my handwriting looked good. Apparently it's more important to me that some random stranger in Accounts who might one day come across an expense form I filled out think 'Huh, nice writing' to themselves, while I gross everyone out with my shredded finger tips, than that I come across as a borderline illiterate when I sign something.I also suspect that this is not a surprise to anyone who knows me.

The purple prose of an adolescent trapped in suburban hell in 1989

While digging through the accumulated boxes of childhood crap over the holidays, I came across the one and only poem I ever wrote without being under threat of failing English. (There was a stand off one year. I won. Heh.) In fact, I would not be in the least surprised to discover I never wrote it at all, but that instead it's something that just randomly stuck in my memory. The good news is that there is not one thing I could write this year that could be more embarrassing, and so, in the spirit of self motivation, I give you:Here we go again, sir.And the antelope said to the cat in tree,Oh, what of the wandering stars?Do they sigh as do weNew sights longing to seeAnd yearn for faraway Mars?Or are their cares more mundane,Their pursuits much more sane,To care less for impossible things?Are their eyes inward turnedAnd their souls boredom burned?

Nice knowin' ya, 2003

December 2002: The culmination of the six months in the worst job I've ever had is a nervous breakdown, complete with stress induced vomiting and panic attacks. Fun for the whole family. I walk out one afternoon and never go back, and I spend the next two months doing the filing at my last job but one, until they tell me they no longer have the budget to pay me. I'm so broke my parents are paying my rent for me. Tis the season to be not very jolly at all.February: I fetch up in the receptionist job of great boredom, which in turn becomes the PA job of great hilarity, as I end up mostly doing G the Communication Manager's job in my spare time. This is my one great stroke of luck for 2003, as, although the job itself (at least, the part that is covered by my job description) isn't very exciting, my boss is pretty much the greatest thing since sliced bread, and with the exception of G, everyone is lovely. G's terminal incomptence does have the added bonus of making me look shit-hot, which is a welcome ego boost after all that filing.June: Six months of reoccuring abdominal cramps, nausea and vomiting finally convince even me to go the doctor. Convincing the doctor that something is wrong is an added challenge, even after two days of foul tests, the results of which leave the gastric specialist flabbergasted. My regular doctor's comment on seeing the scan of my insides? 'Yuck.' "Urgent" surgery is scheduled for two months time, during which time I'm to just keep doing what I've been doing, which is not sleeping, not eating, and hoping I don't suddenly spike a massive infection, because, presumably, that'd be even 'yuckier'.July: I pick up my mobile to see 'HOME' flashing on the screen, which is a cue for instant panic when you live on your own. The panic is entirely justified when it proves to be from a lovely policeman seated at my kitchen table, who tells me someone threw a brick through my bedroom window, and could I please come home so I can tell them what was stolen? Gone were my laptop (*wail*), my tv, and my brand spanking new DVD player (*sob*). Also, finger print powder is a bitch to clean up, especially when it's mixed with shards of glass. And no, I don't have insurance.August: Surgery. Yay.September: After having been promised that my contract would be made permanent, my boss instead tells me that they've decided to downgrade my role, and that I'm not to apply for it because I would be bored brainless. I should instead spread my wings and fly, little bird, out into the big wide world. G, the moron, tells me what a great compliment it is that everyone thinks so much of me they've decided to take my job away, and give it someone not as good. She then inexplicably fails to do the right thing and hand in her resignation so I can have her job instead. To date, she has still failed to do this. How selfish can you get? My lovely boss finds shit load of project work for me, so I won't be rushed out the door. At the moment, I'm there till February.December: Job hunting fucking sucks. G comes back from her honeymoon to tell me that her husband refused a posting to Singapore. I spend the rest of the afternoon, and most of the following week, not stabbing her with a blunt pencil. In the seasonal spirit of charity and goodwill, I accidently overpay my phone bill by $500, so Telstra has a great Christmas, even if I don't. Also, a big fuck you to Channel 9, who show three eps of The O.C. before pulling it completely from all schedules without any explanation whatsoever.Next up, why 2004 willl be better, even if G doesn't fall under a bus.

See?

can</i> deal with stupid people.">I woke up this morning after one of those low-grade nightmares, the kind where you find yourself trapped somewhere you can't get out of no matter which turns you take, or what kind of arguments you make. Then, once I was in the shower and more or less awake, I realised that it wasn't a nightmare, and that I had actually spent the whole of yesterday arguing with one of the more colourless superannuation tax accountants about disposable plastic coffee cups. Oh, and those wooden paddle-pop tea stirrer thingies.If only it was acceptable to say, 'No, you daft cow, the company provides you with coffee mugs, glasses, teaspoons and every possible means of washing them. Just because you and your colleagues are too lazy or too grotty to do so is no reason for me to spend good money providing you with disposable mugs and stirrers. Now get out of my face,' the whole farce would have been over in minutes. But no. Being the company supply-nazi is so glam.

Today's lesson

Meditating--alright, procrastinating--on a particular crafty project for five years means that when you actually sit down to do it, the whole thing takes less than an hour from first hammer blow to final sanding.I wonder if the same holds true for writing?