Last week my new housemate's father died suddenly and I found myself with the quandary of consolation, complicated by the fact that they hadn't had a good relationship at all. The DG stood back and pondered the syntax of difficult moments, the Novelist was overcome with empathetic sorrow, the Public Servant arranged the funeral. The Bag Lady thought that it would be a good chance to get rolling drunk.

On Sunday afternoon I rode over to Bronte to see Veronika and Evan after several hours of prolonged and highly effective procrastination. It was a golden sunny afternoon etc and in the alleyway just before Centennial park (One Way- Police Horses Excepted) I happened on box of clothing which a young eastern suburbs professional had discarded outside her house, some of it still with the tags on. I came to the conclusion that despite her best bulimic efforts my benefactor had been unable to fit into size small Supre pants and being unable to say no to such a gift I stuffed the lot into my panniers and pedalled away as fast as I could, thanking Baby Jesus for my summer wardrobe. What can I say? My total inability to resist this bounty made me realise that the middle class fantasy is as unattainable as ever - the DG, the Public Servant and the Novelist share lodgings with a bag lady who has a collection of used teabags and burnt matches and spends her nights amongst a hairy mountain of stray catflesh and her days drinking metho in the cemetery.

September 20

Last week I went with Christina to get a Brazilian wax in Dulwich Hill, emerging some hours later minus mustache, eyebrows and the rest. It's a measure of how intimate we have become in recent months that we could lie there with our respective pussies open to the four winds, having our bum crack waxed and gossiping about the pervert from the pool who has been wooing Christina from a Greek Club Med where he is holidaying with his wife. I started to think about writing a linguistics thesis on the discourse of Brazilian waxing from a functional grammar perspective but had to give up the fantasy at the point where I had to explain to Jim Martin what a Brazilian wax is.

Have decided that I hate the Palestinian I work with who endlessly approaches me from my blind side talking to me in Iraqi, Gulf and god knows what other sort of Arabic, which I never understand. After feeling inferior and stupid for several months I decided that one crucial component is missing in our communication- ie the will to comprehend and be comprehended- and that it doesn't mean that I'm retarded. A comfortable conclusion.

September 11

It has been snowing somewhere - there's a cold wind off the mountains and I am negotiating with my ageing liver which is making its distaste of my drinking habits known. At the same time I am girding my loins to begin the promised campaign of systematic harassment against Klaus. Yes, if you are a serious voyeur or a disaster- monger you have come to the wrong place - if you want real news let me direct you to New Orleans where cirrhosis and immigration ordeals have been rendered irrelevant by a grand Act of God. Thank you and goodnight

September 10

This week marked by a lucky escape from avian flu after sharing my lunch with the Chatswood pigeons and the onset of study panic at about 2 o clock this morning: to add to this I am complicating my life by making bizarre plans B-Z re: what to do if Marcinski doesn't have his visa by November. Caffeine is back on the cards as my one true and faithful love and I am sitting in the library palpitating and grinding my teeth while indulging megalomaniac fantasies sponsored by Campos, and last night I had a flood dream brought on by hurricane Katrina. Now away hame to drink beer and depilate for a garden party celebrating Nathans thirtieth birthday.

Last night I had racist dreams about my house being robbed by Aboriginal children from Redfern- funny isn't it how you never imagine a burglar from Mosman. I am having a midlife crisis and deciding that I don't want to work in an office but ride through the mountains of Central Asia instead: the middle class fantasy is crashing and burning and I'm not sure if it's spring restlessness or a real change of life. Just in case I mean it I am going into training for a high altitude cycling trip by swimming up and down the pool in Victoria Park a few times a day and eating my greens.