Bad Thai Pun

Only the congenitally puerile derive amusement from the Thai-English homophones in their local Thai restaurant's menu.

And so, without further ado, I give you ...

Pud Pet Pug, a lightly sautéed medley of

and

with lashings of tofu.

Choc horror!

I've just harvested a fresh batch of fifteen-hundred word essays from my pigeon hole. One of my students has attached an envelope to his pigeon, and inside the envelope sit forty grams of chocolate frog. If this is what they call bribery, then I have to say I'm all for it.

Blackguards, be ware!

Am just home from karate, where I was awarded my yellow tip. You may not be familiar with the yellow tip, but let me just say this: if I'm not required to register my feet with the local constabulary in their inventory of Lethal Weapons at Large, I'll eat my hat. I'll eat it with my special karate face. No blinking.

Yes, I admit I'm a narcissist and, yes, I do have essays to mark

This lady has my name; like, totally, my name. Time was when prospective stalkers could google me and learn that I am a petrochemical engineer and nursing mother from Brooklyn. Now they'll find I'm the world's foremost authority on The Lion King and one of Ohio's sassiest ex-cheerleaders. I can only conclude that this will enlarge my career prospects.

The sorority

This time tomorrow, one of my sistren will be competing in a ten kilometre ocean swim off Fiji. In solidarity, I will be attempting ten push-ups, dispersed over a three hour period. Stay tuned for further updates on these tests of the Harlot mettle.

Lepidoptera if you please

You see these moths? You see the two millimetres of mothly chastity twixt their sterns?


It's all a pretence. These moths have been fornicating on my parlour wall since breakfast. It's only in the last hour that they've deigned to detach, and I've had the opportunity to photograph them without looking like some kinda arthropod pornographer.

It's not that I'd object to their wanton ways, except that I have a strong suspicion that it's not going to end here. I ain't seeing any prophylactics about their persons, and when I asked them ten minutes ago where they were planning to lay their eggs, Dolores (the moth to the north) looked sort of shifty, and Raoul (the moth to the south) tried distracting me with talk of interest rates.

My name is now Elphinstone, Baron von Harlot, Director of Knowledge Management (pending)

I don't normally enjoy my Library Liaison Committee meetings. We grind our noses against such consequential matters as whether the daily fines levied against overdue library books should be staggered according to the duration of the original loan. We examine the results of the annual seating survey, which attempts to determine "how heavily each type of seating is used (individual study desks, computer workstations, group study areas, audiovisual study spaces, lockable study carrels, informal/lounge seating, etc) and the peak occupancy".* Noone ever mentions the obvious: that the survey fails to take into account the weight in kilograms of the relevant sitters. Or that "heaviness" isn't really the pertinent criterion, here; what we should be surveying is the raw scholarliness quotient of students relative to the type of seating they utilise (as qualitatively assessed by output of graffiti in proximity to seating type and analysed under a Marxio-Hegelian hermeneutic, lightly drizzled with Lacan). Personally, I would rather spend two hours stuffing sultanas up my nostrils than attend your average Library Liaison Committee meeting.

Today, however, I met the new chief librarian. She has an excellent hair cut, something like the hanging gardens of Babylon, she uses the word folksonomy (which marks her out as one cool cat, in the scheme of bibliotechnical nerderie), and – this, oh my, oh my, oh my – she is a Director of Knowledge Management. I think she may have picked this title up from Paradise Lost; it reminds me of that serpent dude; there is no doubt, at any rate, that "Director of Knowledge Management" dings a decidedly metaphysical ding. I have decided: just as soon as I get m'self redundified, I'm going to set in train Operation Turn Myself into a Director of Knowledge Management. I don't care if the dollar has been completely abolished and noone can afford to have their knowledge managed. I will set up a cardtable on the footpath in Preston Heights and direct knowledge management for free.

In other news, I am thinking of changing my name to Elphinstone.

* A real quotation, from a real Library Liaison Committee report, which I really read.

My pencil is blunt

This is just to let you know, those of you who have been following the non-event that is this blog with interest, that as of two minutes ago I have finished marking the batch of essays due back with their august authors tomorrow. That there are another sixty sitting in my office as we speak is a matter only the most malicious mind would bring to my attention. Nurse, pass the chocolate.

Sydney Domestic Terminal, where dreams do come true

I've been in Sydvillea this weekend, for a medicinal dose of sibling, with added niecephews. This was all very lovely - hugs, cake, nephewite saxophone performances - except that I am still in Sydvillea, and tomorrow's a school day. I was meant to leave twenty minutes ago, but a certain airline (let's call it "Jetstar") has deferred my flight by almost TWO HOURS. If anyone's round Mascot and got nuffing better to do, you'll find me in the Safe Internetting Room next to the Travelex, trying to keep it cool with a syringe of www dangling from a minor artery.

The flight north was enlivened by a herd of warthogs AFL players, setting forth on their post-season sojourn to Coogee. According to the warthog beside me, they'd downed two slabs of superior beer before their 9 am flight, and proceeded to buy more from the Flight Attendant of Superhuman and Frankly Slightly Creepy Tolerance. The conversation went like this:

Warthog Beside Me: Hey Protein Bar!

Protein Bar is silent.

Warthog Beside Me: Hey, P.B.! Check out this chick [points to photograph of Jennifer Hawkins in inflight magazine]. She's ridiculously hot. Hey, Knuckles! What are you eating, you dirty bugger?

Knuckles: Chips.

Warthog Beside Me: Don't give any to Protein Bar.

Lock up your daughters, Coogeeans. Here's hoping these paragons of footballitude are with me on the trip home. Another hour and a half of dialogue like that and I'll be writing the great Australian radio play before sun-up.