1. Saying riveting things about Patrick White's autobiography to an audience of American exchange students. It may interest you to know (although it certainly didn't interest my august audience) that White constructs a direct relationship between his sexuality and his narrative method. He takes "the freedom ... conferred on me to range through every variation of the human mind, to play so many roles in so many contradictory envelopes of flesh" and implies that the shifting narrative point of view in his novels is just this same playing of different roles, reprised in ink rather than (avert your eyes, children) semen. I said semen, oh august audience! Does a single eyelid bat? No. They make 'em tough up in Amerikay.
2. Taking heart in my first year tutorials, where the dear emerging scholars (bless their cotton socks) tolerate my harangue about the importance of right and proper punctuation.
If I should die think only this of me,
There is some corner of a foreign field (Melbourne)
With greater knowledge of the apostrophe.
3. Bleeding profusely. Bring on the 'Pause, I say.
4. Trotting down to Readings bookshop for the humdinger of a launch of a humdinger of a book: Gail Jones' Sorry. I'm only forty pages in – no thanks, Patrick White – but I'm enraptured. She's Jeanette Winterson plus narrative drive. I'm waiting in some trepidation for the full weight of the political allegory to come thudding down, which it will, I'm fairly certain.
5. Buying up stocks in cauliflower. I'm not a great cauliflower enthusiast, but ten days ago it was retailing at Coles New World for $7.95 a head, and at the Thornbury Vegetable Emporium for $6.95. When I saw it going for $2.99 a head on sunday afternoon, I seized my chance. It's like my dad always told me, buy cheap, sell dear. If I'm not sitting atop a multinational cauliflower empire by the end of the month, then Bob's my monkey's uncle.