Anna the Activist spent last night at Hôtel Harlot after a hard day of saving the world, board meeting style. The accommodations at Hôtel Harlot are still primitive, on account of my delayed acquisition of spare beds, but we managed to find a foam mattress stuffed above my wardrobe, a sheet or two, and this morning Anna politely claimed to have slept well. I think what she meant was, "as opposed to John Howard, and his league of inveterate misanthropes, whose sleep, by rights, should be troubled by the beating wings of a thousand sleep-sucking remorses, but quite frankly I'd have been more comfortable if you'd chopped this foam mattress into small flakes and fed it to me for breakfast".
Or perhaps, in fact, she slept well. You never know with these Sydney gals. They make 'em tough up there.
Anna the Activist spearheads a mass influx of temporary visitors to Hôtel Harlot: modernists, Australian-Literatologists, and poets. I am planning a rolling menu of typical Melburnean cuisine ("Peach Melbourne", "Crown Casino Lentil Casserole", and "Yarra Valley sun-dried beer nuts glazed with jus de Carlton Lager"), with which I hope to lure them into permanent migration.
Amongst my various visitors, it turns out, have come the freeloading fleas of doom. Ctenocephalides felis was dining on my lower leg this morning. I didn't mention to Anna that she'd been sharing a room with him, although her democratising proclivities may have forbad objection. Me, I'm not so sold on the sorority of woman and flea, and I object. Vehemently. I object so much that come saturday morning, I and my various parasites are going to go buy ourselves a decent vacuum cleaner.