Because I have two urgent and three semi-urgent deadlines, a movie date this afternoon, a week's worth of housework to get through and a great swag of gardening to do before the next (and imminent) Adelaide heatwave, I'm going to do a meme. This is a nice turning-of-the-year exercise that I got from, very appropriately, The Imponderabilia of Actual Life.
Instructions: Copy the first sentence that you posted in each month of 2006.
It was a textbook New Year this year: dinner in the Adelaide Hills with three of my oldest friends.
February [post head 'True Confessions' -- Ed.]
And it's a shocking one: insofar as one is stuck with the politicians one has, within the party that one must suffer to be in power, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for Amanda Vanstone.
Groaning at my own idiocy in putting my hand up to review two different productions of the same play within four days for the Adelaide Fringe, I trudged off tonight to the seemingly bizarre venue, the SA Railway Museum, having been newly informed that no cast member of this production was over 17.
Longtime Labor liability Marn Fern is quoted in this morning's Age as having dismissed the poll figures on Julia Gillard's rising popularity as 'neither here nor there', while the corrupted and crippling Labor factions are, he said in their alleged defence, 'a fact of life'.
My closest beach, five or ten minutes' drive away, is Semaphore in Adelaide's north-west.
As I drove home from the vet's a little while ago with the cats singing a duet of post-shots protest in stereo (one in the back seat, one in the front), I heard something on the radio that made me blush for shame at my own ignorance.
This is what people mean when they talk about the fusion of style and substance.
Today I planted seedlings of these ...
... and one of these ...
... and some very late clumps of these:
Apparently the building of a new and improved space ship for another trip to the moon is going be a snip, but they still haven't found a speech therapist sufficiently gifted to teach the US President how to say 'nuclear'.
If at this time of year you spend a week trying (and failing) to get at least one of the four book reviews finished while you clean the house, pack for a two-day Sydney trip, prepare for the meeting that said trip is about, and prioritise above all else some time out for a fleeting visit from a distant beloved, and if you finally stagger out to the cab for the airport secure in the knowledge that you've ticked everything off the packing list (except your hairbrush; bummer) and that there are biscuits and coffee for your elderly father when he comes over to feed the cats and that there is enough money in the accessible bank accounts to get you through whatever staggeringly expensive Sydney events may arise (for Sydney absorbs one's money like blotting paper) -- if, as I say, you spend a week like this, too busy to go outside, then be prepared for chaos in the garden by the time you get home.
About half an hour ago I caught sight of the cats gazing more purposefully than usual out of the back screen door; clearly there was something exciting on cat television.
From today's online ABC news:
'A German company plans to launch a spray-on condom tailor-made for all sizes. ...'
Now Pavlov's Cat is very deliberately designed and run as yer average dog's breakfast (so to speak), a blog that determinedly mixes the domestic, the trivial, the political, the personal and the professional (mine, I mean, and therefore slanted toward issues of writing, literature, language, history, psychology and other namby-pantywaist humanities-type things) -- in a word, a blog with a subtextual feminist undertow, designed to demonstrate that life is not lived in labelled compartments hierarchically arranged in order of importance.
As this exercise would appear to prove.