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.
8 comments:
Break a leg, and here's hoping you have a Glenn Ridge-less Third experience.
You'll let us know when it airs, won't you?
Thanks, Mr P. I'll reserve the right not to tell you when it airs, given the high probability that I'll thoroughly embarrass myself. Should things go better 'n that, course I'll let you know.
I bought New Weekly magazine yesterday (for the first time ever) to brush up on my celebrity trivia. The results probably deserve a post all of their own.
Dear Doctor,
A moral quandry to ponder on your plane trip to the 'bourne, as reported by my friend. ... This friend's friend was catching a train to Helensburgh, when a fellow embarked weilding a still-smoking cigarette. Being not enamoured of tobacco smoke, and bolstered by the no smoking signs adorning the train carriage, friend's friend politeley asked Mr Smoky if he could put out his cigarette. Rather than obliging, Mr S. puffed smoke into the carriage and kept the butt alight. Mustering up some bravery, my friend's friend tried again: "But you can smoke in Helensburgh". Mr S continued puffing away, challenging FoaF to complain to the guards if dissatisfied. Now, Doctor H, my question is what should my friend's friend have said?
"YOU CAN SMOKE IN HELL!"
The To Do list is getting very full, Dr H. Don't forget that you are also working this week on mastering the art of doing two consecutive pushups. How's it going?
Oh yes, the push-ups. Funnily enough, I was just lying in bed contemplating the parlous state of my biceps and thinking that a push-up or two wouldn't go astray. I will hop to it forthwith.
Thanks Doctor Harlot, I'll pass on your advice. I wish my friend's friend was as clever as you. and best wishes with the push-ups, and the game show.
Thanks, friendofafriend, especially for furnishing me with an opportunity to use your line, which I'll repeat now, for the benefit of tobacconists, civil libertarians, and Lucifer: "YOU CAN SMOKE IN HELL".
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