Amongst my various foibles are fondnesses for (a) competition, (b) public exhibition, and (c) getting free stuff. It's a dangerous combination, which in the past has led to appearances on "Sale of the NEW Century" (at the tender age of 21) and "Wheel of Fortune" (at the less tender age of 25). The free stuff has been stupendous. I've bagged teddy bears valued at $1510, a shiny red lawnmower (my pride and joy), unwearable costume jewellery, a couple of boardgames, a "hostess set" (patriarchalese for a cakeslice and two salad servers), more chocolate than you can poke a stick at, and a Germani Jeweller Gold Sale of the Century lapel pin. I think the bin ate it. Whether or not the free stuff has warranted the strain of being asked by Glenn Ridge on national television if I can bellydance and bagpipe at the same time is a moot point. It's free stuff.
I was in a state of mild panic on Wednesday afternoon, induced by the thought of everything I have to do before I saunter down to the Deep South on Saturday week. I cannot fit in another thing, I told myself. Not another lunch with another friend, not another entry on this infernally procrastinatogenic blog, not so much as ONE MORE CROSSWORD. Nothing, I said. Just say no, Harlot. Nixarama. But then I got home, and there was a message, enquiring as to my availability next week to record My Third Televised Game Show appearance.* Suddenly I found myself contriving to flex my schedule around a day trip to My Third Televised Game Show's recording studios - studios which just so happen to be in the 'Bourn.
Should I be doing this? Undoubtedly not. Firstly, taking two flights from Sydney to Melbourne in the space of four days just isn't environmentally responsible. Secondly, I have lectures to write, a house to move, dearly beloveds to farewell, essays to mark, sleep to sleep. Thirdly, and most troublingly, My Third Televised Game Show (not to give too much away) is a jumped-up trivia competition. And I am infamously poo at trivia competitions. Ask me about Victorian literature, the Julio-Claudian emperors, fleas, or extinct megafauna, and I'm Bob, who is your uncle. Anything else, though, the name of Tom Cruise's baby, the lead singer of the BeeGees, the Wimbledon runner-up, and I am a gibbering ignoramus.
From the Latin, for "we do not know why she didn't just tell them to call back after she'd moved".
* Haven't seen a contract yet, but I suspect I am not allowed to identify My Third Televised Game Show before it is screened, hence my cunning ruse of calling it "My Third Televised Game Show". This is not, in fact, it's real name.