(no subject)

I was going to do you a lovely report of the Minicon (or Mini-con or MiniCon - it seems to have developed a bunch of variants) but it struck me as a tad silly. The whole record is online, from Canberra ghost stories to Granny geting everyone in the Lounge drunk... often. The thing you'll miss in the recorded version is the numbers. For every person asking questions, there were ten in the wings. What I want to know is what the ten in the wings were thinking. I guess we'll never know.

I had more announcements to make. If I could remember what they were about, I would announce wildly, but I don't, so I'm going to bed instead. I'm going to try not to dream tonight, because I made the mistake of watching Good News Week and listening to a Federal MP offer to get into Olympic wrestling garb and jellywrestle.

(no subject)

Today I had many good intentions. I decided I would be doing massive and amazing world-beating feats. Instead, I watched anime in Japnese (with English subtitles) and nodded sagely to myself when I heard a word I knew ('kohi,' 'honto,' 'ohayo' - crucial stuff). I think that I shall have a quiet afternoon tomorrow, too, after teaching is over.

It's not just the Conflux stuff. This week is the twentieth anniversary of my father's death. He died on 8/8/88.

I've something planned for Friday, but I didn't realise I'd be missing him so much this week. His voice is murmuring gently in the back of my mind half the time. I'm hoping he won't start singing. My mother and my kid sister and I keep ringing each other with no apparent excuse.

My beautiful new niece-in-law just emailed me from the other side of the world, asking if I feel alone, so far away. And I think, no, not really. I don't get time to be alone, right now. Between my family, my friends, my memories, my writing and Conflux, I just can't seem to manage loneliness. I'm very lucky, I think, except in the matter of fathers who die. And whose memory is about to break into song*.

Can I ask anyone who is punny a big favour? Dad's favourite hobby was excruciating puns. Please lard the comments with them this week, if you can. Don't worry about how serious the post is. Dad never worried about such things. He made bad jokes right up to his final coma.

*seven keys in each line, we used to joke