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Today I have reviewed 55 documents (some of them were very short, let me admit) and done a bunch of professional development proposals for the first half of next year.

I just sent my last email. I haven't cleared all the decks during the New Year period, but all the urgent stuff that appeared over the last few days has GONE.

I still have 6 things on my last to do list, but that 6 is down from 200 on Wednesday. I can finish them in three hours.

Colour me a happy little vegemite. Also tired. Regular jobs are better paid and better hours, but way less fun.

(no subject)

I had all sorts of insightful things to say, but they've been obscured by a ray of sunshine.

Just as I wafted off to sleep, I solved a plot probem. Normally I would get out of bed and note it, but I knew I was waking up early this morning, so I decided I would commit it to memory. Consider that another ray of sunshine, surprising me and making me forget.

I remember what characters it revolved round, so I shall spend all my travel time pondering and pondering and I shall sort it. You hear the trudging sound of vast determination. My plot solution had something to do with mouths and rebel prissiness and was amazingly useful.

What other earth-shattering news is there? The friends who are looking after my place collected the keys last night and commented on how tidy it was. It isn't tidy by a normal person's standards, but I'm not a normal person and yes, there *is* floor visible. Also benchtopspace and even chairs.

I've piled all my books-to-be-returned on a chair and there are fewer of them than might be expected. Most of them will have to wait until next year. One goes to Mum (and can happen today), two to Mik, one to Donna and one to Russell.

When those books have returned to their real owners, I might have to cave in and admit I am completely in need of an extra room that I can fill with bookshelves. As I put a few on the sorting shelf yesterday (you really don't need to know that my sorting shelf is 32 feet of space and that it's almost full - no, it's me who doesn't want to know that - I need to empty 50% of it and turn it into ordidary shelf - which won't help with the crowdedness, but will most certainly help finding things) I realised I have enough volumes of diaries and letters and autobiographies of illustrious women so I can probably do a post a day next women's history month. Or mybe 5 posts a week.

As well as the Fanny Burneys of this world, I have the Ethel Turners and the Harriet Martineaus and the Blanche Mitchells and Vera Brittains. One of these three had something that looks like glandular fever or chronic fatigue syndrome; one drew on her English past to write a famous book about Australia; one had trouble with servants; one is really not famous at all. Whoever works out who is whom gets to choose which woman (from a longer list) I start my posts with next March.

Now I want to go and see who else I have who might be interesting. Except I can't. One cannot, after all, catch planes in one's night attire. Well, I guess one could, but one's mother might be distressed at the other end.

See some of you in Melbourne!!

(no subject)

If anyone wants to see me and hasn't got in touch with me yet, please ring. I discovered tonight that I can't read minds and that I neglect friends sadly.

In better news, I'm part of a homework club while I'm here. My nieces do their homework and I write novel. Then, if I suck up bigtime, I get a neck massage.

In the best news of all, I have a brand new pencilcase from a rather evil sibling and her family. It contains a pencil, an eraser, a card that came wrapped in about 6 layers of paper, and some Buffy cards. Mum bought me a new pair of slacks when we went shopping this afternoon, too. This is as close to New Year presents as we get in my family, and the opening of parcels was fun. You don't want to know what I gave. Trust me, you don't.

I nearly forgot the less-serious news. I found a resin budgie on a stick while we were shopping. It looks so much like Tiger Polack, the budgie of my almost-sane childhood, that I'm offering it (or an equally silly prize agreed to by myself and the winner) to the person who puts the best rendition of the poem below on somewhere linkable or embeddable in this blog (unless you do a text rendition, in which case you can put it in the comments or email it to me). The poem is the one my grandmother taught to the inestimable Tiger Polack and which is the source of one of my favourite family stories.

"Tiger Polack is no good
Chop him up for firewood.
If he is no good for that
Feed him to the old tom cat."

You have until 24 September to charm us, horrify us or amuse us with your renditions.