1. This evening I have a date. A date with a man I have not only never met, but with whom I have not even spoken on the phone. Why am I going on a date with this man? Because he has the funniest profile I have so far read on the internet dating site I prowl (I had trouble with that verb: prowl? trawl? skim? stalk? flaunt? skulk? frequent? haunt?).
He listed his interests as ‘watching porn and kicking puppies’ and his height as ‘6 feet tall, but only if you cut off my head’ which is, at least, a mildly irreverant change from all the men who list ‘The Shawshank Redemption’ as their all-time favourite film and ‘long walks on the beach’ as their recreational interest. *Yawn*
His name is Mike so if he turns out to be an axe-wielding serial killer you should be able to help the police with their enquiries.
2. I have just discovered that the frankly marvellous Stephen Fry has a twitter account and am now following it, agog.
3. Somehow, I never thought I’d write a post which featured both a hot date and Stephen Fry. Not that he’s not hot, of course, but I’m female so, you know, tepid at best as far as he’d be concerned.
4. This month I’m applying for Residency here in Australia. For the two years since I moved here I’ve been on a sponsored temporary business visa, which is fine except that if I lose my job (my background in terrorist book illustration may yet return to haunt me) I have to skedaddle out of the country within 3 weeks. I don’t *think* I’m in any immediate danger of losing my job. After all, I was extremely careful to bury all the bodies at the last place. Who knew that watching CSI would be so inordinately useful? But, in the current economic climate of financial shit-freakery, who among us can be certain they’ll still be gainfully employed next month?
So, Residency. Not Citizenship, mind you. I’m not at all sure I’ll ever bother with that and yet my dear Mother will doubtless still conflate the two and convince herself that her eldest daughter is now Lost To Her Forever, and will upset herself by imagining me eventually dying here, alone and riddled with skin-cancer, covered in venomous spider bites and with a chunk bitten out of my leg by a shark the size of Belgium. That is, of course, if the bushfires don’t char me to a crisp first.