I haven't written much lately.

It's like Life knew that I was escaping it during Bundanon and now it's catching me up.

Talk amongst yourself. I'll be back in a minute.

 So I know day jobs are necessary when one isn't, let's face it, Richard Branson, but good lord they take away the ability for one to concentrate on creative projects for more than five minutes. 

Last night, at midnight, I came home from three days of working in Wangaratta.

I now intend to sleep for nine years.

Until then,

L

While we were at Bundanon, we were called upon to describe our work to people (students, other artists, Bundanon staff who wondered what the hell the three of us were doing the whole time). After a while, we had a little three act play (I was the first act, Rita the second and Stew the third) which described us succinctly and interestingly but without making any bold claims we couldn't back up (expressions like "in development" and "workshopping" usually help here).

Now, I'm back at work. I'm a project manager. Simple as that. I'm going to Wangaratta today for work and I'm project managing until Thursday. It sounds much simpler than a three act play. It's not. It includes:

- Project management

- Catering

- Being the AV and IT girl (I know, I know, shoosh please)

- Workmate Liaison Officer

- Writer (some of my best material, I'm sure, is one day to emerge from my "day jobs". Day jobs are fascinating and sometimes - when I'm not trying to work out how to configure the laptop to the projector - I reckon I wouldn't trade a crazy job for anything).

Describing my writing, and my work with Standing There Productions, is a lot more difficult than describing my work in my day job, but on the days when I'm completely exhausted and my brain is total oatmeal, I reckon I would, in fact, trade my day job for anything. So maybe simplicity is in the eye of the jobholder. Wish me luck. So long!

 So. It has come to this. 

Stew and I are leaving tomorrow for Arthur Boyd's farm. We're doing a four day road trip and we're packing pretty much every camera ever invented (Stew) and several pairs of tracksuit pants (me) into a red ford laser. 

Rita Walsh, who is (see below) galavanting in the US of A, will join us in a few weeks. It will be a case of culture meeting nature and may the best man win. 

Seriously. This is getting exciting. To see more about our artist residency and where we're going and what the people who've been there appear to have done (worn boxes on their heads by the looks of things! HUZZAH! ONE OF MY ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE THINGS!)... please go here.

You will, on the whole and there are some notable exceptions and you know who you are, be greatly missed and thought of often. So long!

Sometimes having three different jobs means they're in competition with each other. Sometimes though, when you're in regional Victoria organising a free legal information program, you meet the head of a local community group and you've just met a character who's going in a play.

I'm in Wangaratta. There's a character storm over here. Clearing late this afternoon.

In both my "day jobs", I have excellent views. Not of the sea, or the mountains, or the city, but of other people. Something I know about people: they never look up.   It's amazing what people will do when they think nobody is watching them. They will, I happen to know:   1. Pick their noses. 2. Engage in the purchase and/or supply of quantities of drugs and/or totally innocent goods in small packages that require sales to be made on street corners from old Ford Falcons. 3. Yank their undies out of uncomfortable places. 4. Argue. 5. Talk to themselves.   It's this last one that's my favourite. I do that. Look up, people.   I promise, a writer is buiding you into a script.

Some people I know are grown-ups. They have proper jobs and pay tax on time and donate blood regularly and know about superannuation.

They presumably have tidy bedrooms and clean cars and they enjoy cooking and plan things on weekends and go to gym regularly. They do their washing and FOLD THE CLOTHES IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARDS, and, probably they are all wearing two socks right now that are the same.

I am wearing, so far as anyone can tell, a skirt with stockings. This is a trick. I dislike stockings. they make me feel like I'm not who I am. Like I'm sitting an exam for a subject I didn't attend the classes for. Like I'm a size twenty wearing a size four. Like I'm a Bloodhound pretending to be a poodle. So the plan was to avoid wearing stockings and instead to wear nice leggings with warm socks and still look semi respectable while at work. This went very well. For a time.

However, due to the fact that I did not do my washing and fold the clothes immediately afterwards and in fact the clothes remain in a huge pile on my floor, it was a miracle that I found any socks this morning, let alone two that were the same colour. Having two socks that are the same colour is a poor substitute for having your life in order, though. I have thus been walking around with two black socks, one of which is knee-high and one of which PRETENDS to be kne--high and then slips back down as soon as you start walking. Walking has been a bit of a feature of my day.

Hence: girl with two black legs stands up, takes a few steps thus revealing one black leg and one leg sporting a huge white band of luminscent skin (satellite images reveal that you can in fact see my legs from the moon). Girl stops, yanks up recalcitrant sock, continues on. Stops. Repeats.

My attempts to cheat at being a grown-up have failed. One should never pretend to be someone one is not, which is why I was trying not to wear stockings in the first place. Perhaps I should wear a tracksuit everywhere and just be honest about it. At least then I'd be totally hot.