Mass Effect

Let's talk about mass. Because quite frankly, it's weighing on me.

It's been years, if at all, since I publicly griped about my size on this site. One, because it's generally boring. Two, because I've never really been, for want of a more PC phrase "fat enough". And three, because I've never wanted to make slimming pledges I knew in my heart of hearts I probably couldn't keep.

But I feel I need to write about it now, because it's become an issue that I no longer feel I have any control over. I need to take some control back, and perhaps clearly elucidating my thoughts can be a small step in that direction.

I have reached - for me, it is important to note - the "fat enough" stage.

I can't even bear to tell you what my mass is. I can't bear it. I'm ashamed, and embarrassed.

But I will tell you these facts.

I am 20 kilograms over my "ideal" mass.

I am 15 kilograms over my "goal" mass.

And I am 10 kilograms over my "that's really the upper limit" mass.

Much of this mass gain has been in the past 7 months, after I badly injured my left ankle the start of July, then spent the rest of winter hibernating in a den of carbohydrates.

It was only in September that I got the diagnosis of a torn tibia-fibular ligament, and with travel and starting a new job, then Christmas, now floods, I've yet to get the physio I really need for it.

But that doesn't really matter anymore. The ankle is well enough to move. I just haven't been moving it.

And so I'm comfortable writing here now because I realise this isn't about me, as good-opinion-seeking Natalie, wanting to hear platitudes of "You're not fat".

I'm writing because I am carrying too much mass on my frame. Yes, I'm tall, and I'm still in relative proportion, and they are the only reasons it doesn't "show" as much. What you don't see is the pain in my knees and ankles, which surely would be helped by having to haul less mass around. You don't see the increasing tightness of my bras, as my bust inflates. You don't feel the weight of excess flesh on your thighs, feeling like you're wearing sacks of flour strapped just above the knee.

Exercise - I've got to get back into it. I bought a FitBit late last year and have been wearing it religiously to monitor my steps every day. My target is the baseline 10,000 steps a day, but often I fall short, around the 8000 mark. But if I keep at it, and finally get into a daily walking routine, I might start seeing... I don't know. Something. Anything.

Diet-wise - I don't know what I'm going to do. I have all the knowledge for a healthy diet - lots of vegetables, lean protein, small amounts of carbs and sugar. And yet, I get bored cooking. I don't know how to make enough exciting healthy dishes. I don't have time, for God's sake.

My biggest problem has been junk food. I'm constantly snacking, constantly looking for something to put in my mouth. It's must be the same motor memory as smokers. I'd say I self-medicate with food, but that wouldn't be altogether true - mostly I'm just eating things because I can't stop eating things.

However, in July 2012 I made a promise to myself to cut out McDonald's and KFC for a month. I had the habit of dropping in and grabbing things off their $2 menus. It was a bad habit, so I stopped. For a month. I did it. I did have KFC later in 2012, but have stopped again as of January 1. And apart from the odd ice-cream or drink, I have not had any McDonald's food since July.

Good habits can be formed.

So I'm going to try something this month that could be tangentially beneficial.

I've placed a self-imposed ban on buying any new clothing, footwear or make-up.

This might not seem like much to those of you averse to shopping, but wandering through the Queen Street Mall is one of my key ways of relaxing.

This is not financially disruptive - I never buy ridiculously expensive stuff, and almost always buy on sale - but it is a way of hiding my increasing mass. "Nobody need know the size", I think, or "This brand always runs small", as I reach for a looser garment.

Well, bollocks to that. Time to face facts. I've got a shitload of clothes. I recently gave five bags of no-longer-worn gear to a charity shop, and I've still got a wardrobe full.

I'm going to try to wear all them across the month of February. That's 28 days of outfits. Once an outfit has been worn, it can't be repeated. I *may* have to reuse some bottoms as I don't have as many skirts and pants as I do tops, but I'm going to limit it to twice for each garment.

I'm pretty sure this is going to be as hellish as all get-out, and require a fair bit more planning than I probably realise. But I'm going to give it a go.

If nothing else, it should confirm to me exactly what doesn't fit/what I don't like wearing anymore, and I can reduce my wardrobe down even further. Then, come March, I can re-examine what it is I actually want to wear, and what I need to do diet/exercise wise to make it happen without the heartache.

I started on Friday 1 February with this Maiocchi cherry dress:

It's a lovely frock, but already getting tight across the bust. And while I was wearing it, the cherry pin at the front of the belt just popped off as I was walking. Just popped off! That's not a good sign.

Then on Saturday night I dressed down to attend Cliff Richard in concert:

It's nothing fancy, because I had the realisation that I probably shouldn't burn the nice stuff too early. On the plus side, this outfit plus accompanying multi-coloured Converse sneakers meant I got asked for ID at the casino as my Mum and I went in to have pre-Cliff dinner. Why yes, I could be under 18, thank you for asking.

Every few days I'll post more photographs - mostly so I can keep track of what I've worn.

The Most Amazing Shop

It wasn't always The Most Amazing Shop.

"Originally it was Carol's Shop," says Carol, owner and manager, cutting plastic-covered sea shells from protective foam wrapping and placing them onto the counter in front of her.

"But people kept coming in and saying 'This is the most amazing shop!', so eventually I changed the name.

"People come in here for something odd. Something different."

The Most Amazing Shop delivers.

In Praise of Losers

We may be farewelling the London Olympics, but we're probably still in for another few weeks of hand-wringing and chest-beating about Australia's "under performance" at the Games. There have already been dozens of stories about the cost of our Olympic campaign, and how the seven or so gold medals we bagged was a disappointment and a betrayal of our sporting kudos, all of them followed by reactionary pieces that say 'Come on, they did better than you could have'.

I found this collection of photographs taken of athletes at the point of defeat, and it got me thinking.

Bear with me while I take you through some rudimentary Googling. From what I can tell, there were seven qualifying rounds of the men's 100m sprint. If each round had eight competitors, that's 56 men who tried to run 100 metres the fastest. Of those, only eight made the final, and only three were "winners". That leaves 53 men who leave London as losers in the 100m sprint.

Multiply those sorts of figures over dozens of events in dozens of athletic disciplines, and you wind up with the biggest, most high-profile gathering of losers in the world. You don't get more accomplished sporting losers. Nobody is as big a loser as these guys. They have achieved a pinnacle in the world of losing by losing at the Olympics.

And bravo to them, I say. For without losing, there can be no winning. The joy engendered in athletes and their home nations upon a victory could not be possible had not a few dozen other people in that same event LOST.

I don't want to try to mollify their pain with platitudes like "You tried your best" and "It still took courage" and "You're an inspiration". Yes, they may be well-adjusted types with realistic expectations. But you can't tell me that most of them didn't have a tiny little part of them hoping, believing that maybe they wouldn't be the loser this time. If they didn't have that little piece of hope, they would've sat at home on the couch and watched the Games on shoddy Channel Nine coverage like the rest of us. So the loss sucks, big time, and I'm not about to take that away from them.

But by and large, most Earth humans will be losers in life on more occasions then they'll be winners. For every job promotion you get, there's someone else doing better than you, or another job you miss out on. For every bit of recognition, there'll be a dozen things nobody noticed or cared that you did. For every feeling of love expressed and received, there'll be more that are denied, suppressed, ignored or rejected. And that's just the small stuff; start thinking in terms of poverty versus wealth and relative security and stability, and you realise Australian athletes, compared to some other nations, are still big winners in some pretty big ways, while the scale of loserdom can be measured in the millions.

At the end of the day, more people LOST at the Olympics than won. This was not a case of "every kid wins a prize". Years of hard work go unrewarded for these athletes. Losers are not bad people. And so that's why I'd like you all to take a moment to salute Australia's losers, because they stepped up and played the role nobody ever wants to play. Let the Australian public give them a ticker tape parade for being brave enough to put themselves on the international stage and lose like a champion.

This theory of loserdom is big. This theory goes right to the top. This theory complements fricking Darwinism. As a mass of humanity, we simply cannot advance without our losers. For what is "natural selection" but a recognition of all the losers that went before us?

Thank you, losers. Yours are the gigantic shoulders upon which our species stands.

Will the real Clive Palmer please Stand Up?

Billionaire mining magnate Clive Palmer treated us all to another one of his trademark media conferences yesterday.

I've attended a few of these in my time, and they're always interesting affairs. The good Professor (Mr Palmer likes to be known by his honorary title) loves nothing more than holding court, throwing out crazy schemes and eccentric fancies like running for political office or setting up an online newspaper for all soon-to-be-retrenched Fairfax journalists.

Listening to the audio of yesterday's 20 minute long debriefing on blueprints for his Titanic replica (aptly named Titanic II), a realisation hit me like an iceberg.

Clive Palmer is a thwarted stand-up comedian.

I put it to you, gentle readers, that Queensland's richest man built up his a multi-billion dollar business empire as well as significant political sway - in order to get an audience for his jokes.

"I'm on a boat."

There is some physical evidence to back up this idea. Clive's Brisbane CBD headquarters, Mineralogy House, is equipped with a large media briefing room, as well as a smaller secondary one. Both can be customised with backing banners to suit whatever happens to be the Professor's message of the day. Both have ample seating for media hordes. He has been known to use both for different media conferences within minutes of each other; indeed, I attended the most famous recent instance of this in late April (the Titanic announcement, followed quickly by his now-abandoned plan to run in the federal seat of Lilley).

It's a staging set-up that as a sometime theatre director I can only admire. But it's not a necessity; if there is signage at a media conference, it's usually a pull-up standee. Then again, Clive Palmer is no ordinary subject. He's a comedian. Comedians need a stage. And comedians need an audience.

The evidence on tape and in print adds weight to this (pardon the pun, Professor).

Clive - I should probably use the honorific Mr Palmer, but Clive just seems to suit him better - can't resist cracking wise. Even a fiery media conferences will still contain jokes, even if it's the one about how he's giving the press a headline (he loves that one).

Yesterday's blueprint debrief attracted attention because the 58-year-old Palmer declared pensioners would be banned from the first-class casino on Titanic II. This was not, Clive said, because they were lesser beings, but rather because Clive doesn't want them to lose money.

I mean, the very concept of that is hilarious. Someone who's forked out the thousands of dollars it will cost, even for a third-class berth on Clive's unsinkable ship, is surely not beyond dropping a couple of hundred bucks on roulette? It's not like he's setting up a leagues club up on the Sun Deck, ready to lure in tracksuit clad OAPs in oversize sunglasses and plastic visors for a few hours trying to win a free game feature on the pokies.

During this beneficent declaration, Clive dropped some pithy one-liners. If you don't believe me, click open this instant rimshot sound effect in a separate tab, and hit that big red button at the end of every sentence.


On who should be allowed to gamble: "If you can afford a first-class ticket … you can probably afford to go to the casino."

On how casinos aren't that great anyway: "Go third class, that's where I'll be - that's where the fun will be."

On possibly causing offence: "I love pensioners. My closest relations are pensioners."

Every one of them, with the addition of a post-statement rimshot, works as a dodgy stand-up routine zinger.

I came to Tahiti to get lei'd. Get it? Lei'd?

Clive was born in 1954, placing him as a youth in the mid-1970s, when stand-up comedy as an entertainment form didn't really exist - in Queensland at any rate. I imagine young Clive, whose early career as a journalist segued into real estate, then National Party politics and state government (he worked for Sir Joh Bjelke-Peterson), wouldn't have had the time or outlet to develop his comedic skills professionally, before the lure of coal mining drew him away.

Now, he's a gajillonaire (I believe that's a billionaire several times over). He's got money, he's got a venue, and he's realised he can get an audience any time he wants, for new material as well as the old favourites. We, the media, are the conduits for his performance fantasy; allowing you to share them on social media like you would a good clip of Louis C.K. or Patton Oswalt.

Clive - I beg you. Accept your inner desire to be a stand up. Put together a tight five and hit the comedy clubs. You will let off some of that steam that's built up from not being able to express yourself the way you really want to. You've already got a backlog of jokes ready to go; plus there's that killer bit from earlier this year about the Greens being tools of the CIA.  And don't worry - from my experience in the world of amateur stand-up, you wouldn't be half-bad.

Four Legs Good

It's nice when a fairly selfish desire turns out to produce quite a happy day for many people.

Video by animal and heavy metal lover Andrew Saltmarsh.
You can read his take on the day here.

I received so many thank-yous from people today, that you'd think I'd have done something impressive. But all I did was book a baby animal farm... so I could play with baby animals for a few hours. As we set up the enclosure this morning, and I sat on the grass with goats clamouring over me, I called out to The Wah, entreating him to come in and play.

"Someone has to take charge out here. You've already lost all cognitive function."

And he was right. They had me at "Here are the piglets."

You complete me.

I think it was the enthusiasm with which others embraced the idea of the Baby Animal Farm that made it something truly impressive. By the time the petting zoo officially opened at 10:30 Saturday morning, there was already a decent gathering of 15 or so. That swelled over the following hour; at its peak, I reckon around 100 people were milling around Hardgrave Park, enjoying the picture perfect autumn sunshine, the sausages and cupcakes, and of course, the calm and happy animals.

It was lovely to welcome the RSPCA Qld community outreach volunteers on site as well, selling fundraising merch and raising awareness about their excellent Adopt-a-Pet program.  This was enhanced in no small way by the addition of two beautiful Irish Wolfhound puppies, both up for adoption.

I'd say I knew or recognised perhaps half of all the people who attended; a testament, I think, to the power of a charming idea and social media. It wasn't so much a case of the Horse Whisperer, as the Hey-There's-Two-Shetland-Ponies Shouterer.

But whether I knew them or not, it was the surprising sweetness of a communal affair that proved the most satisfying. A whole lot of people just chilling out and having a nice time doing something a little different. Something that just happened to turn the cuteness right up to 11.

Which one of these creatures is not acting the goat?

The money aspect was icing on the cake. You might remember from my original post that I spent the $700 required to hire the petting zoo, hoping to recoup costs through a "Choose Your Own" donation strategy. With general donation entries, plus $2 a pop Shetland pony rides and $1 cups of feed - I wound up making $400 profit. All of that will go to charity; I'm planning $200 each to RSPCA Qld and Best Friends Rescue.

I'm starting to get reports about just how generous some people were, and it's enough to make one come over all heart-bursty. I am very, very grateful to you all.

Props.

I mentioned above how the real success of the day was its true community feel, and that was due to recruiting eager local small businesses, non-profits, charities and volunteers.

I can highly recommend Brisbane Pony Parties if anyone else in South-East Queensland is looking to hold their own animal farm. Sandra was professional, helpful, fun and incredibly generous with her animals. You could tell the critters are well looked after, and their behaviour was delightful. I dubbed one of the piglets "Hyper Piggie" due to his exuberance in the paddock, and the only roughness I saw were a few sly kicks aimed at him by Missy the month-old calf.

A bunch of dedicated Brisbane Arts Theatre members ran the tasty sausage sizzle. There are some great productions on at the theatre at moment: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, as well as Pinocchio for children. Coming up in June is the hugely popular comedy musical Avenue Q. The BAT gets no government or corporate support, so when you buy a ticket and see a show there, you truly are supporting a community organisation that gives creative people space to perform and develop skills.

RSPCA Qld has been great to me during this whole adventure; and again, I would urge anyone looking to get a pet to consider adoption. Thanks to their community outreach volunteers for sharing their time - and their puppies! - with us.

Greg and Dan - aka science podcasters from Smart Enough to Know Better - came up early with me to help set up, and along with the delightful Simm and Sarah, did the bulk of the collections work. A number of others took turns holding the fort so others could play/leave. Thanks to you all.

Kate Rohde rose to my challenge to bake cupcakes for the event admirably. Kate's developing her own small boutique cake business, and her delicious wares quickly sold out. Congratulations, Kate.

Thanks must go to my electrician, who's been waiting on the $700 I owe him for installing new lights for a few weeks now. Turns out I found another use for it; and I didn't feel too bad because you know you messed me around a bit (that's a whole other post right there). The good news is, I recouped the cash! So you'll get your pound of flesh next week, freshly laundered through the goodwill of punters and goodwool of animals.

Most importantly, I'd like to thank EVERYONE who took some time out and came along, and who were so brilliant in spreading the word. Your enthusiasm and kindness means a whimsically foolish idea I had turned out to bring more smiles to my face than I could have imagined; and even better, a bit of extra dosh for animal welfare groups, a very good cause indeed. 

Finally, it would be remiss of me to not credit that person who mistakenly sent me that email with quotes for a baby animal farm. That one action set in motion a chain of somewhat fantastical decisions that resulted in today's amazing experience. Most unwanted emails are spam... this one actually proved to be real ham.

WTF? New Clumsy!

Welcome to the refreshed, rejuvenated, revived and renaissance-d Girl Clumsy HQ.

For several months now, I have been working diligently with the divine Ms Sharon Carpenter, Esquire-ess, Supplier of Fine Boutique Websites for the Distinguished and World Domination-Inclined.

This week, Ms Carpenter and I have been holed up in her three-storey underground eco-lair near the Melbourne seaside, emerging only to restock the lair's supply of flavoured sparkling mineral water and scare pelicans off the satellite dish.

Cuffed

Last weekend saw ImproMafia stage its Off the Cuff Festival at the Brisbane Powerhouse.

It was a tremendously successful three days, featuring six shows on Thursday and Friday, and culminating in the Theatresports National Championships on Saturday.

Our audiences grew remarkably across the three nights - we actually sold out the Saturday night show two days early and had numerous people chasing tickets!

In the end, comedy was the real winner. Also: Victoria.

Our interstate guests all reported having a great time, which is a credit to ImproMafia, and in particular, to the dedicated group of organisers pulling all the strings. I helped with marketing and publicity, and the large crowds really were a balm to the publicist's soul.

Most important though were the shows themselves - and all were a wonderful quality. It really was a showcase event. I was thrilled to be able to perform four times, plus co-host the Nationals with my good buddy Wade.

After the show, we had to go kill some supervillains.

I wanted to thank everyone who came along to the festival and made it such a success. Your support really was invaluable, and being able to entertain people is the reward for the hard slog of organising a major event. And thanks again to Kris Anderson, our wonderful musician, for letting me use his lovely photographs (given that I was too busy to remember to take any of my own).

I also wanted to apologise again for using my blog as my own private pimpdom. I promise I will restrain myself from blatant self-promotion for the next few months.

Oh, but one more thing?

Girl Clumsy lies.

Bring on 12 November, baby. Mama's got some more people to offend...

Build the Clumsy Playlist

I bought my second Apple product recently - an 8GB iPod Nano. My old mp3 player was just starting to conk out everytime I moved suddenly, and having a MacBook now, I just decided I may as well pip for an iPod.

I was just going to get a Shuffle, but you know what convinced me to go for the Nano?

The inbuilt pedometer function.

Yep, that's right, I'm that easily upsold.

Still, I've been enjoying the pedometer function - realising just how sedentary my job can be, and trying to be a bit more active and get closer to that 10,000 steps per day target I've heard so much about.

Slightly more problematic is the actual MUSIC content of the iPod.

The move to an Apple MacBook computer meant losing all my music - not that it was a particularly huge collection, but still, it was something. The iPod has forced me into the rather scary world of iTunes, but all I've managed is to register for a few podcasts.

My friend Dan very kindly sent me Lady Gaga's The Fame Monster album as a gift, which has been awesome. Have I mentioned before how much I love Lady Gaga? She's fabulous, and I tell you, I get more steps on the pedometer when I'm pounding along listening to a bit of "Ga-ga-ooh-la-la/want your bad romance".

Remember kids, when you get out of the egg,
don't forget to slip, slop, slap.

Dan also sent me a bunch of free songs from the internet, which mostly consisted of Jonathan Coulton numbers and other whimsical parody songs. Apart from that, I've got NO music.

So here's a challenge for you - help me build a music collection.

But... there's a catch (It's GirlClumsy, there's always a catch).

See, I found out that these days, people are all ethical and shit. People actually BUY their music now. I mean, what is this, a new Dark Ages?

Now I simply don't have to sort of moola it would require to buy all of your favourites - or indeed, my own.

So you get ONE song.

Leave a comment, telling me ONE song that I should download - and why. Any genre, any style, any artist, any era. It can be a favourite song of yours, or simply a song you think I would like. Either way, you have to make a call.

I will then buy - yes, BUY - all the songs I get from registered commenters, and write up what I think of each song. I'm afraid I can't accept suggestions from "Anonymous" commenters, because it could be one person making lots of recommendations.

So.

ONE SONG.

What will it be?

New Look

A big thank you to Dan for creating my new website header, and to Aurelie for taking the photo. Both are very skilled people - I'm terrible when it comes to photography, Photoshop, all of that stuff, and I'm very fortunate to know so many talented people who are willing to help a noob like me.

The site makeover did happen a touch faster than I'd planned, so it's not properly finished yet. Just warning you in case you notice further fiddling going on.

Please let me know if you'd like to see anything else on the site - I'm always open to suggestions, ideas or challenges. I do like to stretch and flex my writing and other creative skills, and sometimes I feel like I've got nothing left in the tank, beyond promoting my beloved show The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco, of course.

Finally, a big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read Girl Clumsy - and props to those of you who comment. I really appreciate everyone's two cents!

In the Arena

I wandered down to the little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on Petrie Terrace this morning to get some flat whites and cappucinos for the brave souls of my cast & crew, who'd begun work nice and early at 8am for bump-in (that's the ol' theatrical parlance for "build the set and do the lights and props and stuff").

I noticed a poem pinned to the side of the bench.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Sure, someone probably had just seen Invictus and been inspired by Morgan Freeman's dulcet tones to put up the eponymous poem. But it was certainly nice to read in the early morning autumn sunshine, while gearing up for a challenging week ahead.

Checking Wikipedia this evening, I was disappointed to read that the filmmakers made up the part in the movie about Nelson Mandela inspiring the Springboks to rugby glory with William Ernest Henley's verse. That was until I read what Mandela actually gave captain Francois Pienaar to use as literary rallying cry:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

 -Theodore Roosevelt, 1910.

No wonder the Springboks won that World Cup.

And as much as I think Nelson Mandela is wonderful...

....I think this week is going to be a Teddy Roosevelt kind of week.

Brisbane Festival: The Trial of the Catonsville Nine

What does it mean to struggle against injustice? What does it mean to "take action"? And how do you stand up to your own country when you wholeheartedly believe its policies and decisions are wrong?

These are questions at the core of The Trial of the Catonsville Nine, one of the showpieces of the 2009 Brisbane Festival. A product of the Los Angeles theatre company The Actors' Gang (whose artistic director is Tim Robbins), it's a beautifully lyrical play about protest and revolution that enriches its courtroom drama structure with bold and dynamic physicality. It's playing at the Powerhouse Visy Theatre until Sunday 27 September - make all attempts to catch it if you can.

The Candyman

In which, Girl Clumsy details the Rescue of a Bad Day by an Encounter with a Lovely Gentleman.

I had a SHIT of a day at work today.

Oh, there were the usual self-remonstrations about my current role as political journalist ("Useless! I'm useless!"), but today's problems were in fact real, not just me making mountains out of molehills. They were real, and all directly attributable to my work lap-top computer.

Ever since the damn thing was passed to me in a journo-to-journo rite of passage, it's been giving me trouble. Editing audio is the main problem; it either doesn't play it at all, or it plays, then stops, and scratches, and stops again, then bursts into double speed. It's hard to cut grabs of our Illustrious State Leader when he sounds like Mickey Mouse on helium.

Anyway, the problems were so chronic today, and so frustrating, I wound up in tears on the phone not only to the journos back at the newsroom (I was based in the city all day), but to our head tech, who was - unbeknowst to me until I called - on holiday at Fraser Island. Whoops. Still, he did well to deal with my hysteric rantings. You may ask why said tech has not repaired problems before now. Well, it hasn't been for a want of trying on both our parts. But the laptop is like a trained monkey - it performs perfectly for its master (ie, the tech) when it's in the studio, but out on the road with a boorish technophobe (ie, yours clumsily), it's harder to control than Hugh Heffner at a "Viagra-and-Naked-Girls" party.

Once I'd officially downed tools (and profanities) this evening, I decided only a vast amount of junk food would rescue my bad day. With no junk food in the flat, I drove out to Toombul Coles to stock up on Pepsi Max and Cheezels. Toombul Coles is not the nearest Coles to me, but it is near another venue that I wanted to visit.

Tom's Confectionery Warehouse.

I had two reasons for wanting to visit this magic place - a Brisbane institution. As part of my publicity work with the Briz Improv Fest, I had suggested the idea of selling lollies on performance nights, and had been perculating the idea of talking with Tom for a while. It also seemed like a good opportunity to hunt down some of the few remaining Red Tulip Easter eggs, now sadly gone from supermarket shelves for another year. Little did I know how successful I would be on both counts!

I only found Tom himself as I was leaving the warehouse, unloading some cartons from the back of a car. I introduced myself, and asked him first about the recent post-Easter robbery. Poor guy - he had a safe containing tens of thousands of dollars stolen overnight on Easter Monday - a good deal of his holiday takings. Tom has been really shaken up by it - mostly because he's been in business at Hendra for 25 years, and has only ever had one minor burglary before. He thought he'd done all the right things - installing security doors and grills on the windows, closed circuit cameras, encoded door passes, the lot. But they still got in, and it's left a deep impression on Tom.

Like most people who are robbed, Tom didn't deserve it. For Tom is a top bloke. And I'm so glad I got the chance to chat to him tonight.

I asked him to run me through buying lollies for resale, which he could have done standing outside the store as we were. But instead, he took me into the shed opposite the warehouse, which is one of his production sheds. I hadn't realised how big the business was, but SIX of the buildings around the shed open to the public are Tom's. The one we went into was - the lolly factory. Where the lollies get stored and mixed together and packed.

He kept apologising for "boring me".

"You don't understand, Tom I'm in a lolly factory. Life doesn't get any better than this!"

He showed me the bag making machine, and the lolly sorter, and the printer that can print your own logo on your order of lollybags. Imported machinery, costing over one hundred thousand dollars. Much of his business comes from doing corporate orders - companies that give away lollies to their employees or children for special occasions, or charities hoping to raise funds. He showed me samples of the different sizes of bags. We stood surrounded by boxes of chocolates, and snakes, and Minties and everything nice, and Tom told me about starting his business as a popcorn-making firm back in 1966. "Captain Corn" brand popcorn is still made on-site, but these days he only makes the coloured variety, and he no longer supplies it to the major supermarkets, as their demands for smaller margins wasn't worth the business.

I spot a stack of Red Tulip crates, and tell him about my obsession with the Easter-time-only brand of chocolate. He dutifully grabs about eight of the eggs, and puts them into a box for me. For free.

"Samples, see? You're a potential customer, we've got to look after you!"

We stood at the door to the shed, and Tom told me about the changing nature of the business. The confectionery side only began in 1982, as a sideline to the popcorn. As that floundered, the lollies biz took off. But it's cost Tom. He divorced about ten years ago, unable to pull back from the business his whole life's been built upon. There was no bad feelings between us, he says of his wife, it's just she wanted to live a different kind of life. "I was very generous, though, in the settlement." He says he misses his beautiful old house at Cleveland, although it's not clear if this was a casualty of the divorce. I didn't want to pry, and wasn't in fact prying. Tom was just happy to have a chat, even though he did say he normally wasn't given to rabbiting on about himself. That was what he said when I suggested he'd be a fascinating radio interviewee, anyway.

The cruellest irony for me came with an astonishing revelation: Tom's a diabetic.

Type 2, diagnosed about ten years ago. He tries to manage it, but eating right and exercising isn't easy with his working hours (the store is open 8am-9pm every day except Christmas Day). He's on six different pills a day, the same amount as his beloved dog, Pepe.

Take a moment to consider that - Tom, the Candyman, King of the Confectionery Warehouse. Can't have sugar.

Our conversation ended about an hour after it had begun, there in the carpark of the Confectionery Warehouse. I had been held captive by this lovely man, and his stories of building up a business, and seeing it through despite professional and personal hardships along the way. We all have problems, and sometimes they can seem overwhelming - even if it is just a dodgy lap-top computer playing up on you. But having a chat to Tom was a wonderful tonic to my bad day and bad mood. The simple joy of talking with a man who's had his fair share of ups and downs, but is still plugging away, still giving it his best, worked better than any massage or meditation.

Tom wants to retire soon, but he also wants to expand the business.

At the very least, he's hoping to holiday at Maroochydore in a unit that allows small dogs.

-Girl Clumsy

Readers who love chocolates, sweets and popcorn should definitely visit Tom's Confectionery Warehouse. Have a chat to Tom if he's there. You won't regret it. Just don't ask for Red Tulip Easter eggs - they're mine!

Pimp my Marselan

Last night I held my first ever (and certainly last for a while) housewarming party. It was a lot of fun, with lots of lovely people in attendance, who brought us wonderful gifts. We have so many household products now I don't think we'll need to visit a shopping centre cleaning aisle for at least two years. And boy, did we over cater. We have so much food stuffed into our Westinghouse, I'll be shoving cubes of cabanossi and cheese down my gullet for the next fortnight.

Being overexcited by seeing so many friends and family members, I actually forgot to get my camera out to take phots. Until, of course, later in the evening - once most people had departed - I noticed this:

How could one not take a photo of this? For those of you unfamiliar with the work of Marselan, he's a great friend we know through the theatre (specifically, Arts Theatre productions of Terry Pratchett plays). He's also the proud owner of a pair of leather pants, which you'll notice he's wearing in this picture. I didn't think there was anything that could make my red lounge suite sexier, but I hadn't reckoned with Marselan's self-described "wild, unkempt masculinity". ;)

Thank you once again to everyone who came along to the party; and especially to those who brought gifts for us. We are like, totally stoked that we know so many awesome people. Awesome!

P.S. In case you didn't believe me about the overstocked fridge:

Stacked to the max!

Daydreaming

My friends, it's been too long. Stuff has been happening in the ol' Land O'Nat, but I've been waiting for some motivation to write to kick in before plastering my thoughts all over the interwebby once more. That same mental blockage is also hampering my attempts to update my movie review page - I really must take a long drink of creative Metamucil to really get things flowing again (possibly the wrong choice of metaphor there, but I'm sure you get the picture).

But let me start by listing a few recent points of interest.

Wedding belles. Last weekend I tripped up to the lovely Daydream Island, for the nuptials of my dear friend Jacqueline (or "Jax" as we call her) to her English beau Ben. The couple have the cutest kid this side of the Jolie-Pitt family, and young Harrison was on hand to be the page-boy at their charming sunset ceremony in a chapel overlooking the sea. Everyone had a great time, and looked fabulous - as you can see in my pictures, including this one:

Yours truly, Briony, Carly, Jax, Clare, Alisha & Debbi

These are "the girls", and although we have our scrapes from time to time, I love 'em all really. ;) Thanks Jax & Ben for inviting me - I know you'll have the Best. Marriage. Ever.

Working girl. I've been back at 4BC for a few weeks now working casually, and I've been enjoying myself immensely. I've jumped back into the movie-reviewing lark, and have seen about 7 films in the past couple of weeks. Hence the difficulty of getting all my thoughts on paper for the aforementioned review site.

Breaking the Girl. Well, breaking the boy really. The one and only Wah was shocked to learn his bones were not actually made of adamantium, when he went arse-over-handlebars on his bike and fractured his elbow. He does however possess something of Wolverine's mutant healing ability in that he RODE HOME with only slight pain, and it wasn't until two hours after the crash did he phone me saying "I think I've broken my arm - will you take me to hospital?". We'll find out soon how long he'll have to remain in a cast/sling.

Homegirl. Life in an inner-city apartment is even better than it looked like in "Sex and the City". (Except for the shoes... I really need to get a lot more shoes). We still have very little furniture, and we still have a garbage sorting area instead of a living room, but the location is great, the street is surprisingly quiet at night, and I love my kitchen. But that's about as domestic as I get. There's a lot of clothes-washing that needs to be done, let me tell you.

Well, that should be enough for now. I plan to write more in this blog, but I'd like to write more interesting things than "Today I got up and went to work"-style posts.

Anyone got any suggestions for starters?