If you go down to the woods today ...

... you'd better go in disguise, preferably with a bucket on your head. And leave it there for the next month or two.

Because for about a week now, and again this morning, I have been hearing a lot of the audible golden syrup that is the call of the magpie, both from out in the street and down in the bushland lite that is my back yard. Apparently ThirdCat's mister got swooped some time ago already, though I can't now find the place where she tells that story.

I can remember my cousins in the country riding their bikes down the hill to the township to get to school, and every magpie nesting season they'd have to steer with one hand and hold their school cases over their heads with the other. They got very good at it.

Howard Government not sorry. (Again.)

'What do you expect them to do? Fall on the ground and grovel? Eat dirt? I mean -- get real.'

These were the sensitive and diplomatic words of Foreign Minister Alexander Downer when asked on the teeve tonight about the possibility of an apology to Dr Mohamed Haneef. He did not add, but might as well have, 'I hold the rule of law, the doctrine of the separation of powers, the Australian judiciary, and the whole notion of justice, natural or otherwise, in complete contempt.'

The contrast with the gentle dignity of Dr Haneef could not have been more jarring.

We all know that there's a certain kind of person who would rather be carried out in a straitjacket on a stretcher, babbling and frothing, than utter the words 'I made a mistake', 'I'm sorry', or 'I was wrong.' The question is, are these the people we want in charge of the country?

When -- and why -- did the ancient concepts of reparation, reconciliation and redemption become nothing more than a contemptible sign of weakness? They are, after all, at the basis of Christianity, of the greatest classical tragedies, and of most of Shakespeare -- all things that this government would have us believe they value, and that they feel must be saved from The Evil Postmodernists at any cost. If it were not so soul-destroying it would be very funny.

Never mind bird flu ...

I've caught the most aggressive virus I've ever had in my whole life: not a nasty little invisible body-invading parasite, but rather the mammoth time sink that is Facebook.

Of course I immediately began to speculate about what the attraction is. Here are my conclusions to date:

1) Facebook allows for the irresistible, if disgusting, self-indulgence of talking about oneself ...

2) ... without actually having to produce a sequence of thought at any point, because it's all framed for you already. (Intellectually and aesthetically speaking, the difference between blogging and Facebook is the same as the difference between an exam requiring you to write an essay-type answer and an exam involving multiple choice.)

3) Facebook has lots and lots and lots of toys. OOOHHHH, SHINY!

More Bracks: television at its best and worst

Thanks to Darlene Taylor's heads-up at Larvatus Prodeo yesterday morning as the Bracks news broke, I was able to rush out to the telly to watch events unfold. I flicked through the channels and found a live cross at Nine, where an excited young reporter was standing in the street telling the story. Bracks had made his announcement to his Cabinet and was expected to arrive at any moment for the press conference.

Not being any kind of daytime TV watcher as a rule, I had no idea what it was a live cross from until they crossed back to the studio to reveal Kerri-Anne Kennerley, framed against the backdrop of an oddly funereal floral arrangement and looking (Kerri-Anne, not the flowers) suspiciously paralysed about the mouth and eyes. The director then cut to her guest: none other than Sir Ian McKellen, still gazing intently at the monitor and clearly enjoying this little bit of unexpected drama.

When he realised the camera was on him, he sat up and spoke directly to it. 'And people ask me why I do Shakespeare!' he exclaimed, in a flawless segue from the interruption back into his conversation with Kerri-Anne. Currently in Australia playing King Lear, McKellen picked up the breaking Bracks news and ran with it, talking about Lear and family dramas and the abdication of power, and pointing out, quite rightly, that Shakespeare's plays are basically about things that we all see happening around us every day.

It was an amazing impromptu performance and it was perfectly tailored to Kerri-Anne's audience: conversational, interesting, charming, clearly expressed, and a brilliant bit of incorporation. And it was immediately followed, daytime television being what it is, by an excruciatingly protracted infomercial full of hyper-nasal, brain-damaged Valley Girl voices extolling the virtues of a miracle cure for acne.

Normal services resumed chez Bronte

The Brontë Sisters are home from their holidays.

Oscar, conductor of souls

I've been meaning all day to write about Oscar (see also previous post), but people keep doing extraordinary things and getting in the news, and by now Oscar is so famous that some hardened souls are already sick of him.

For the seven people who don't know this yet, Oscar is the resident cat at a Rhode Island nursing home whose attention to dying patients has accurately predicted 25 deaths in the last 12 months. Oscar does his daily rounds, checks on everyone, and if he senses a patient is not long for this world will leap up onto the bed, curl up next to the patient and stay until he or she has died. The nursing home now gets on the phone quick smart to the family if staff see Oscar curled up on someone's bed, and it has ensured that a lot of people have made it in time to say goodbye.

One little boy who asked why the cat was there was told by his (very sensible) mother that Oscar was there to help Grandma get to heaven, which immediately made me think of a word I adore but can rarely find an excuse to use: psychopomp.

There's something very comforting about the idea of a bit of help and guidance at the most mysterious moment of one's life. And if it turns out I have to go somewhere else after this life, I can't think of any guide -- either upwards or downwards -- I'd rather see leading the way than the steady, sturdy, purposeful padding of a moggy, serenely waving a feathery tail.

Best Lolcat evah

Oscar, the death-predictin' cat.

Haneef charges dropped -- now, where's the apology?

And in yet another front-page-above-the-fold item on this white-hot news day, the charges against Dr Mohamed Haneef have, as predicted earlier, been dropped.

Heck, and it's still only 3.16 pm (CST). Who knows what could still happen before dark, eh?

Bracks #2

Just watched Bracks' rather lovely speech to the press.

He looks together, cheerful, energetic, relieved and uncrumpled. He is the opposite of ashen or shaken. He can hardly stop smiling.

He says that 'the events of recent weeks' have only confirmed, rather than caused, his decision to resign. And by the look of him, this is true.

So here's my theory: he has watched Blair (his almost-contemporary); he has watched Howard; and he has thought Hmmm, who's looking better, in every possible way?

Can it be that we've finally reached an era in which politicians do not grimly cling onto power at any cost but go in an orderly fashion, leaving their constituencies and their parties in good shape and their own psyches intact or even rejuvenated?

I'm guessing that male journalists and politicans over about 55 will find this incomprehensible, and will keep insisting that there's some other reason Bracks isn't telling us about. But probably nobody else will.

Bracks gone

I spend a great deal too much time in the blogosphere but one thing it means is that I know about events in the news practically the moment they happen, so when Darlene Taylor posed a comment at LP just then saying 'Steve Bracks is about to resign' I went straight to the Age's website to discover that he had indeed resigned, about two minutes earlier.

None of the online sites seem to give a specific reason but suggestions are that it's a combination of the pressure over the Murray-Darling Basin agreement and pressure over the drink-driving son.

If it's the drink-driving son then they should both be on their way to family therapy right now. Imagine being that kid.

If it's the river then he's been an idiot about it -- this Victoria First mentality in 2007 is even more ridiculous than it was all the way through the 20th century. Yes, Howard's agreement has all sorts of things wrong with it, but speaking as an Adelaidean who knows that one could live on the tap water here for at least three weeks, rich source of protein that it is, and who knows that Adelaideans will be left standing when all about us have succumbed to superbugs because our immune systems have been being toughened by the water for so long that natural selection has started to kick in -- speaking as a swill-drinking Adelaidean I'd just like to say gently that the river belongs to the country, not to bloody Victoria, and that the only place it can be saved is at federal level.

If it's just the kid and the river, he's bonkers. He should have kept his job, which he seemed to be doing very well, sent the kid to be re-educated, and done the deal about the river.

But it may be something else.

Now I'll go and watch the morning TV news.

Time to put that 'My Other Car is a Broom' sticker on the bumper

You Are Midnight

You are more than a little eccentric, and you're apt to keep very unusual habits. Whether you're a nightowl, living in a commune, or taking a vow of silence - you like to experiment with your lifestyle. Expressing your individuality is important to you, and you often lie awake in bed thinking about the world and your place in it. You enjoy staying home, but that doesn't mean you're a hermit. You also appreciate quality time with family and close friends.

What Time Of Day Are You?

Via Meggie at Life's Free Treats.

More from Professor Trelawny

Further to Zoe's lovely bit of prophetic Potterblogging at crazybrave on Tuesday, I have another bit of apparent prophecy to offer from the pen of J.K. Rowling, this time from Book Six, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Voldemort is back; the newly-deposed Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, is visiting the Muggle Prime Minister for what is by no means the first time; and the Muggle Prime Minister notices that Fudge has changed since the last time he saw him:

'Furthermore, Fudge was looking distinctly careworn. He was thinner, balder and greyer, and his face had a crumpled look. The Prime Minister had seen that kind of look in politicians before, and it never boded well.'

Live by the feelings, die by the feelings

Christan Kerr nails it today at crikey.com.au:

"The PM doesn’t seem to get it. Elections often have nothing to do with "the truth", but about how people feel. It’s ironic, given the way he’s used fears of terrorists, foreign others and interest rates to keep fearful battlers by his side at elections past. And his plays on feelings may have set up the circumstances that could defeat him."

I've also lately remembered something Paul Keating said when Labor lost the 1996 election after thirteen years in power. 'We weren't asking for three years, we were asking for sixteen.' Howard may also have been giving this excellent point some thought in recent weeks.

Can't help wondering whether millions of people all reading the same book at the same time might exert some kind of gravitational pull

Not even the punters who had thoughtfully pre-ordered their copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows from Borders could escape the Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test of standing in a long queue on a cold morning,


except by saving their $29.95 receipts for later (anyone who paid $50 was seriously ripped off) and rocking on further down the mall to the shop known in some literary circles as Anguish & Robbery: hundreds of copies, no waiting, and witches giving away pumpkin juice and Butterbeer at the door.


Some, having attained their prize, walked only as far as the nearest bench before giving way to the desire to start reading immediately,


and others didn't even get as far as that.


By the time I arrived at one of our regular Saturday morning cafes at 9.30 am, the Aerospace Engineering student and her mother the lawyer had picked up their copies, settled down in a sunny corner with their lattes, and were already up to page 60. They didn't see me come in.

Harry Potter and the Micro-History of English Literature

There is no end, it seems, to the inventiveness of J.K. Rowling when it comes to naming her characters, and sometimes you think she's doing it as a private joke, for her own amusement and for that of any adult reader who might happen to catch the reference.

Many of her characters are named for, or have names alluding to, characters from the history of literature. Argus Filch's cat Mrs Norris is named after the truly dreadful sniffy mean-spirited aunt in Austen's Mansfield Park. Professor McGonagall is named after the poet widely known as the worst poet evah, a Scot called William McGonagall who had no ear and no sense of metaphor but was extraordinarily prolific and remains loved by the Scots (including Billy Connolly) for the hilariousness of the sheer awfulness of his verse, 'so giftedly bad he backed unwittingly into genius'.

But for sheer obscurity and light-relief game-playing in the now very dark Potter story, Rowling has raised her own bar once more with the extremely minor character called Reg Cattermole who turns up in the new book. 'Reg' and 'Cattermole' are the given name and surname respectively of a couple of unfortunate undergraduates who eventually get together romantically in one of the more minor sub-plots of Dorothy L. Sayers' masterpiece* Gaudy Night**.


* Well, I think it is.

** A book that Tolkien hated. Which is telling in itself, really.