I can't. I'm quilting.

Recently I sent the following ecard to one of my friends.


It has suddenly occured to be that this may have been somewhat unfair, as I have so far this weekend turned down the opportunity to: go on two road trips (one to the coast, one to the country), go to a party, go camping, and go to a rodeo.

Why?

Because I have quilting to do.

Things you should probably know if you work in a bookstore

Me: Hi there, do you have a copy of Wolf Hall? 

Her: Who's it by? 

Me: Oh. Um... Actually I can't even remember. It's the one that just won the Booker? 

Her: Oh ok. So it's like a new release? 

Me: It's pretty new I guess. 

Her: Yeah, well we don't get the new releases for a couple of weeks, so we probably don't have it yet. I don't think I've seen it. 

Me: No it's not that new. It wasn't published in like the last two weeks. It's the one that won the Booker. 

Her: Right. Right. So, is it a fiction book? 

Me:Yeah, I had a look there and I couldn't see it - would it have been put anywhere else? It's the one about Cromwell...

Her: So its like an historical fiction or something? 

Me: Yeah, I guess... 

Her: Look I don't think we've got it. But if you're after an historical fiction type book what about The Lost Symbol? 

Me: ...

Her: It's the new Dan Brown one. It's like all about the Freemasons and stuff...

Me: Is there another bookstore anywhere near here? 

The Ballad of Sam Hill

I have easily the best friends in the world. I know this, because I've never got to play the Henry Lawson drinking game in other company, all while having my life 'workshopped' by someone who couldn't understand how it was not entirely complimentary to tell me I'd 'turned out well'.

Happily, I recorded some of what turned out to be a rather epic ballad...

It was a blue September, a morning haze.

With a bloody fist wrapped in a bandage I waited. 
There was not much food. 
A night on the piss had left me in a daze. 
The sunrise was orange. It wasn't breaking my malaise.

But I had mates all round me, and loyalty abounded.

Given the crash in the 30s he was out on the street. No where to call home.

And he was tired. 
A lot of years had passed. And he just didn't know what to do anymore.
The sun would rise. The sun would set, and he would still be there. Just Sam Hill. 

So Sam Hill sat down on the step of the sheering shed and pulled out his rusty old harmonica and played a tune. 

Then he went back into the woolshed and he sheered him some sheep.  
Because that's what men do. 
It was a heavy fleece that season...

My life is a cliche

"I like your uggboots!"
The lady at the dole office, who thinks I'm styling.