I'm skipping town this evening. Cramming a big heap of comfortable tracksuit pants into the back of the car and going away to write.

Obviously I will take a laptop, but I will not take series one through to seven of The West Wing.

I will not take Scrubs. Or Sports Night. Or Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip. I will not take Press Gang series one through to four.

I will take possibly a nice fountain pen and a diary and a laptop and tracksuit pants. And possibly some books, but nothing too interesting. Boring books. I will take boring books.

I will be going for strictly regimented walks along the beach, and I will be drinking cups of tea only when I am two paragraphs into whatever it is I am writing (the prospect that I might write two paragraphs is almost unbearably delicious). Anthony Lane can do it, so can I.

Meanwhile, if anyone is remotely as jaded as I am about the state of the media at the moment, keep your eye on this. The idea is, it's people-driven journalism. We tell them what to write about. It's actual democracy!

When you write, it's sitting down and getting yourself into the headspace that is actually the most difficult part. Many writers obviously don't bother to do this, which I know because I read The Age online in the mornings. The Age online has a system for posting their stories. First, they post a version riddled with mistakes, typos, spelling errors, repeated paragraphs, and incomplete headlines. Then, four or five hours later, they replace these mistakes. Often with new mistakes.

It's fun for a pedant like me to watch. The other day, there was a headline that said "Vizard Account Found Alive".

Presumably this newsworthy discovery was made at about the same time Vizard's accountant was found alive, but I only know that because the Herald Sun has better sub-editors.

Anyway, the point of this is that this is an article about my favourite film reviewer, Anthony Lane, who writes like a dream and who makes me laugh even if I'm reading about The Lord of the Rings, and reading about the Lord of the Rings usually makes me want to scratch my skin off.

The article is about writing. Lane doesn't allow himself a cup of tea until TWO PARAGRAPHS IN to whatever it is he's writing. This terrifies both me and (presumably) the extended family of Earl Grey. Nevertheless, this is an interesting article and also highlights how excellent The New Yorker is. The fact-checkers can pull an article out of an issue on the basis that a comma is missing.

Imagine if The Age had standards like that. Possibly Vizard's account would still not be found.

Hello weirdly warm day.

Hello draft two of script.

Hello procrastination.

Check out this, ladies. You can sign up for free emails telling you how to "be your best with men". Check out the testimonial on the top. After making herself "less available" to her boyfriend, one woman's boyfriend responded by proposing!

How wonderful!

Aren't grown-ups sophisticated?

In other news, I officially dislike Anais Ninn, for reasons not unrelated to my disdain for the above link. Somewhere in Brunswick there is some heartfelt grafitti that declares something along the lines of "I want to love like Anais Ninn - passionately but on the surface of things", which of course means nothing, but which helps to clarify my position in relation to flowery, over-written sentences about women not quite understanding their own sexuality. I've decided to read back-issues of The New Yorker for a while.

That's my fairly grumpy update. I've been going to gym classes and my bones hurt. Most interesting to me that human beings pay money to be shouted at by other (considerably fitter) human beings until they can barely breathe and are desperate for a donught.

Speaking of which... I think a morning coffee is in order.

My boyfriend's back. Yay internet. How I missed you.

Since not having the internet at home, I have done the following:

1. Cleaned (nay, scrubbed) the bathroom.
2. Cleaned and organised and recategorised everything in my bedroom/office.
3. Done the gardening.
4. Carefully followed the instructions on the hard rubbish collection notice, rather than sneaking out on the night before the collection and stuffing unauthorised materials into other people's neatly presented bundles of twigs and broken desk chairs.
5. Read half of John Banville's book and finished Alan Bennett's.
6. Enjoyed the sunshine, including a rather comical attempt at swimming laps this afternoon (was there ever a Mr Bean episode involving an effort on his part to get fit? If not, there should have been. So much potential in lane ropes, sullen pool attendants, surprising changeroom encounters etc).
7. Almost entirely finished a first draft of something.

Of course, my social life and knowledge of the outside world have both rather collapsed, but it could be said that the former of these wasn't particularly robust to begin with, and the latter was bordering on obsessive. It is therefore with every good intention that I hereby declare I shall only use the internet when I need it.

Possibly doing a YouTube search of "funny animals" qualifies. Perhaps it doesn't. I'll be the judge of that.

So they say that some of the symptoms of concussion (see below) are:

Irritability ("snapping" at the smallest thing)

Bad memory

Lack of co-ordination (walking into things, knocking things over)

Tiredness

Inability to concentrate

This is a great relief in terms of helping to explain my experiences trying to write this morning, although it doesn't explain the other 364 days.

Last week, on the way back from Manly beach to the ferry if you don't mind darling, I spotted a bookshop. I can sense bookshops, just like birds with which way South is.

Anyway. So the bookshop is called Desire Books and it has that warm orange glow that brings you across from the other side of the street to "just have a look". In the window, there was this display. There was a sign on the window that said, NAME THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THESE BOOKS AND WIN ONE OF THEM.

Now, let me say that when Tim recently held a trivia night, I couldn't answer the question about what "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" was the first sentence of. For someone who majored in English, that's not terribly impressive. So when I smugly told Stewart in Manly that I definitely knew what it was that linked the books in the display, I made him promise not to make me go in and say it to the guy in the bookshop.

So Stewart went in and said it to the guy in the bookshop. And - after some discussion regarding the expression of the answer and the terms of reference of the sign on the front window - it was deemed, graciously, to be correct. So then Stew, who had pretended to have thought of the answer himself, had to select a book from the collection.

So now I'm reading Anais Ninn.

And anyway the guy in the bookshop said he'd been doing the "Guess the connection" display in the front window for years. He said it was IMPOSSIBLE to think of new displays. I immediately thought of three or four very (I thought) witty and clever ones he never would have thought of, all of which he had done several variations of. So if you think of any, let me know. I'm making a list. And if you're in Manly, go there. It's a second-hand bookshop with first editions and gorgeous old hard back copies of books they don't really want to sell. It also has a table you can sit at, with copies of The Believer on it and tea cup stains in the wood.

Another reason to love Melbourne: yesterday I purchased two torsos made of plastic (one lovely lady and one hunk of man with a vineleaf covering his bits) for seven bucks fifty each. My next few costume parties just got a hell of a lot easier. Also, I got a single bed head with a light in it (dunno, but I'm sure it will be useful) for $2, a sun hat with half a (strange) sentence on it (fifty cents), a massive big bunch of fake daisies in a basket (free, sort of forced on me), an instamatic camera with film in it that had been taking photos of people's feet all day (fifty cents), and all because the ladies at the garage sale down the road had imbibed a significant quantity of wine. "Are you sure you don't want an orange doily and a small, dusty religious figure?" they asked as I left.

Also, went to the Writers' Festival, which was fun because it was opening and there were books and also many fabulous people (ie my friends).

Yay for the purple sky.

Sometimes I think it would be good to be able to write about reality. About my own life and the things that happen to me and to the people around me.

Then I read things like this.

Things like this make me think that maybe writing about other people, or having other people writing about you, is not the most constructive excersise. Especially if the people being written about are dead, and so can't write back.

Meanwhile, I'd be quite pleased if I could write about anything at the rate I'm going today.