So did I mention we're in a film festival?

Maybe I didn't mention that. Our short film is in the Angry Film Festival next Tuesday night. Not sure I said. It's in a bar. The bar serves drinks. To cool people. Like you.

Anyhoo, in other news, we had rehearsals for our play all day in my living room and I am completely exhausted and going to sleep way before my bedtime.

See you Tuesday. Did I mention Tuesday? See you there.

Hey so guess what?

We're preparing for our comedy festival show and we're gearing up for an extremely busy month and suddenly, out of nowhere, we receive notification that our short film, I Could Be Anybody, is a finalist in the Angry Film Festival.

How. Exciting.

Anyhoo, you ALL MUST COME. This includes those of you who live overseas, on Mars, and in other dimensions as yet undiscovered by human beings.

Tuesday 13th, it's on. At First Floor in Brunswick Street. Go here to see what I'm talking about.

I can't wait to go and see it on a screen with other films. It's an exciting night, and it will be extremely cool to have a house packed with people we know and love, especially those of you who worked on it so many light years ago. See you there! Yay!

PS If you don't come, be prepared for name calling.

Every person who writes or studies or thinks or reads has a favourite place where they are most productive. I have recently rediscovered mine: here. Quiet, light, friendly, inspiring, divided in subsections that don't distract you away from what you're doing. There's even a cafe next door with newspapers and sunlight and staff squinting at you through hangovers. It's so perfect. I completely adore it and I always have. I used to study there when I was in year twelve and then again during university, but I moped away when it was closed for renovations and I've only just made it back.

I'm sorry State Library. I have loved you all along.

You know, now, they give you free internet, a beanbag room with computer games and a gallery!

But the part I love the most is that I feel so overwhelmed by everybody else's studious determination that I suddenly feel as though I'm running out of time (which of course I am) and perhaps I should get on with things, like these other people are getting on with things, and like I have been known to get on with things in the past (cut to flashback of me in year twelve)... All of which means that I have done more work on my script in three days in the State Library than I probably had pre-harddrive-crash (or pre-crash for short).

Also, after the Library, because I worked so hard, I rewarded myself and saw two films: a documentary about the making of a Cuban film called I Am Cuba, and an actual Will Farrel film called Stranger Than Fiction.

See what you can achieve when you nerd up? GO LIBRARIES!

As part of the show I am writing, I'm researching Paris Hilton. Paris is already the most googled person in the world, so I'm doing our global reputation no good, not to mention the filters I've had to install in my search options (yeesh!).

Anyhoo, check out this mistake in a newspaper article about Paris. A nice little twist.

Also, just so Anthony Lane doesn't think he's the only New Yorker film reviewer I like (because obviously he is a big fan of the Standing There Diary), here is an article about film production and distribution, by David Denby. As with all New Yorker articles, it's probably a good idea to print it out and take it with you everywhere you go. Then one day, maybe three years from now, a train will break down when you're two hours from anywhere and you'll thank me for the David Denby article. There are still several unwrapped New Yorkers next to my bed. They span a very busy period in my life known as 2004, and I still haven't got around to reading them. One day I will. I might be a grandmother by then, but I'll be grateful for something excellent to read.

Do you think anyone would find it cool if I started an Anthony Lane fan site? Is there any way in which that's socially acceptable? Could I do it with irony? Under a false name? Under his name?

Probably I should go back to googling Paris Hilton.

It has now reached the stage where I have received a fake email from a friend of mine pretending to be Anthony Lane wanting to meet me for coffee.

People know about my weakness for the film pages of The New Yorker and they are starting to exploit me for it.

Very funny, people. You tease me now, but read this. If I'm going to fall in love with writing, I may as well fall in love with someone who uses the word "scumbled" as though it's the sort of thing people say at the breakfast table.

Meanwhile, I went to the physiotherapist today to check up on my (previously broken) wrist. She said it would be fine for work. No worries, she said. Writing and typing and working? Fine. Gym? Brilliant. Not a worry. Manual labour? Ace.

Frisbee? At least a month. Six weeks, maybe more. No frisbee. Ever. Scouts Honor.

Stupid dumb broken wrist. How is that fair?

I was at university for six and a half years. I studied a variety of things, from the Australian Constitution to the formulation of a social jurisprudence in the Bridget Jones books.

While studying at the university, I honed one skill in particular. I became very good at working to deadlines. I can feel a deadline. I can sense it. At the start of the semester, I would write down the deadlines in my new diary with my new pen and I would know when they were and I was certain that this year I would start studying, researching, or writing several weeks before the due date.

There's a scene in the upcoming movie Happy Feet, which a group of us saw yesterday at a charity screening, where a penguin is terrified of jumping off a cliff. "It's okay", he says to himself, "Trick yourself". Then, teetering on the edge of the cliff face, he shouts "Look over there!" at which point he looks backwards while walking forwards, saying "Where?" and topples over the cliff.

The joke is funny because you can't trick yourself. You can't tell yourself the deadline for your essay is two weeks earlier than it actually is. You can't tell yourself the exam isn't on the 30th, it's on the third. You get really good at knowing how long you're going to need and you leave it until then. Then you research and practice and study and write and then on the Friday of the due date you submit your work and you go to the pub and by Monday you don't remember a single thing about the entire subject matter you've been learning about for the last six months.

So I've been trained like this - the bad habits of a tertiary education often come in the form of caffeine and nicotine, but in my case it's definitely an inability to work without a deadline, and a habit of leaving everything up to the last minute.

The Comedy Festival is in April. In university lingo, that's getting close to the time where you ask for an extension.

Better get myself down to the library.

Also, why is this conversation happening? (Or in the stupendously irritating Age)? I know why. It's because these kinds of people are so loathed and detested by women with any self regard whatsoever that they don't actually know any, which is sad because there is no better feeling than laughing tea out of your nose because your friends are the funniest people on earth. For the record, two of the top three funniest people I know are women, and the other one is frankly just an unfortunate product of genetics.

My handwriting with my left hand is getting better.

My GP told me that when he broke his arm one time, he was so ambidexterous by the time his plaster cast came off that he could write two different words with two hands at the same time.

I am now in training to be as clever as my doctor by the time my cast comes off. Surely that can't be too hard, right?

Saw Children of Men last night. Stew loved it and I hated it, which is a sure sign that the dialogue and script were dull and clunky, but it was very cleverly made and shot by an Eastern European cinematographer.

Also interesting to see in the papers today that John Howard is prioritising talks on climate change and Bush might ratify Kyoto. Also, Hugh Heffner has decided to become a feminist and Molly Meldrum has finished a complete sentence.