Let's Put an End to This.

It's becoming a bit disgraceful, isn't it? It's becoming a pattern. Whenever I actually bother to show up, it's the same old thing: no sooner have I strolled in the back door, whistling like I'd just nipped out for a packet of cigarettes a half hour instead of a month ago, than I'm talking about myself again. Telling you how great I look in a poncho or showing you my brand new water-skiing trophy. And you stand there, tears of fury collecting in the corner of your eye, as I do a little dance - a foxtrot even - on the kitchen linoleum, kiss you on the mouth and ask what's for dinner.

So, what's for dinner?

Here's the thing. I'm giving a talk later this month at the Victorian Writers Centre, as part of a seminar called 'Writers & the Web: An insight into the possibilities for writers online'. Also on the panel: Michele Sabto, Michael Farrell and Dr David Reiter. As you can see, they're all much more famous than me. More info down the bottom of this page.

Oh, and another thing I forgot to tell you: I had something published a while back over at Cornerfold. It's in flash - click on the picture of the doll to launch, and turn your speakers on.

Anyhow.

Later, after I've mopped the gravy up with a torn piece of vienna loaf, sung a few bars of push it in your ear, and then made your eyelids flutter with four hours of breathtaking, super-human, 'Hey, I'm home now baby and I ain't never gonna leave you again until the next time' sex, it's time for you to go downstairs. I'm fast asleep, and my snoring's rattling your collection of carnival glass. There's a shovel in the laundry and a vegetable patch beneath the jacaranda tree the size of a grown man, if that man was lying down. You know what you have to do, and I can't say as I blame you. You know I meant everything I promised, but you've just got to make sure.

Sweetpea, I ain't never gonna leave you.