As I was splashing about in my typical graceless manner, I noticed that the lane next to me housed a superfish mother and her two eel-like children. She was training them - "OK, now another 75 of free' and 50 of 'fly. You lead. On the quarter-to," and similar pool talk. I was disheartened because the three of them were parting water like human jet skis.

I turned to the unknown woman sharing my own lane.

Me: I find it incredibly depressing that those tiny tiny children can swim faster than I ever will.

Her: Yeah, but they have less resistance than we do up front.

Me: But I've got a whole lot more buoyancy.

Her: Think of it this way. They're young. There's plenty of time for them to get hooked on crack and stop swimming.

The Curmudgeon is terrible about using a diary. He just can't wrap his otherwise large and brilliant head around this task. Fortunately he has a prodigious memory (for all but my regular and banal ramblings about verandah posts, grand garden schemes and obscure family friends - but I do talk a lot of shit and half the time I tune out when I open my mouth, too) and he rarely suffers ill-effects from lack of diary. Nevertheless, his new and shiny job demanded some kind of new and shiny calendar. Enter: THE MOLESKINE.

He was so very pleased with his 'mole-skyne' that I didn't have the heart to tell him "It's pronounced 'mole-skin', you silly git."

Oh, small black book of overpricedness, genius marketing and bizarre cultish following. I've always liked them but I admit to being full-blown stationery nerd who used to have palpatations upon entry to Officeworks because OH MY LORD, IT'S A WHOLE WAREHOUSE OF PAPER GOODS. I'm doing better these days. I still love lists, records, notes and other foolish means of tying my life down to a logical and paper-based existence. But some meandering internettage revealed that my habits are so very mild compared with those who carry The Little Black Book.

It's not just a cult. It's an obsessed, pedantic, insane hoard of people who buy them by the dozens. You can read blogs full of moleskinheads banging on about how splendid they are. There are thousands of photos on flickr. Oooh, don't forget the exhibitions, the hacks and customisations, explanations of organisation and cross-referencing systems, reviews of good pens to use with them, suitability for various pockets in various garments, folklore and myths, testaments, manifestos...

Also, apparently it's pronounced 'mole-a-skeen-a' so who's the silly git now? I reckon it's anyone who walks into Brunswick St Books and requests one using that pronunciation. You are likely to be decked by a terminally bored and beautiful Fitzroy hipster. Or at least induce a very impassioned roll of the eyes.

She deserves it. All self-inflicted. I'm sure she spent the entire 4-day bucket ordeal scheming to scratch the hell out of her little eye wound the moment it came off, because that's what she did, and now we're back to square one. So very exasperating. She either has a heart of coal or a peanut for a brain, or possibly both.

Behold beneath her delicate feets the former 'beige' floor covering - I call it thus because it was not originally beige, and without any semblance of pile, I don't think it can be accurately termed 'carpet'. Investigation in the corners that have been covered by furniture for decades revealed that it was once an orange and cream shagpile, since worn down to the hessian. "Cleaning" was possible only through use of a straw broom. The new stuff may be pink (gasp!) but it's clean and fluffy and completely free of the evils that graced the previous layer between me and the concrete slab. So, me and Squid moving up in the world. Next we'll be adopting fancy airs and graces, for I believe such things go hand in hand with plush surfaces beneath ones' feet. Pass the caviar, dahling, and let's watch some ABC.

In other news: VISITORS. I am very excited about the impending arrival, however fleeting, of a couple of Budapestians. The lovely Fiona and her grouchy but lovely beau (perhaps he and the Curmudgeon will have much in common?) are hitting Melbourne for a flying visit next month. Wherever shall I take them with only 24 hours to show them why my city is one of the grousest around? There are also rumblings afoot in California where Jeff & Amy dwell... perhaps, just perhaps, they will cross the Pacific to play with me. That would be several types of splendid because they are among my favourite people in the world. Yes, they are deserving of sweeping hyperbole. We can ride bikes and look at cool plants and listen to community radio like the nerds that we are, and it will be good.

Why have I suddenly had so many site hits from Israel?

There be new carpet underfoot at my house thanks to a team of volunteers. It's the old stuff from Ma's house, nothing fancy, but it's not shagpile worn bare or covered in bongwater stains like the old stuff. Hell, I might even start vacuuming every now and then.

As I think I've said before, my dad has a theory that just when you're ready to believe your dog is really a small hairy human, what with all that sensitivity and intelligence and friendliness, they are obliged to go and do something truly repulsive to remind you that they're just a dog. Usually this involves eating or rolling in putrid matter that was once inside another animal (or themselves).

Quirky thing that she is, Squidoo has chosen a different project to disgust me. She scratched the skin above eye on some wire about 1.5 weeks ago and lo, her new hobby was born. Several times a day, she seems to deliberately scratch off the scab from the wound and daintily lick it and her own blood off her paw. Lovely.

This morning she trotted up to me with a fresh ooze of blood abover her eye. I called the vet and we reached the inevitable conclusion - darlin' Squid was presented with a bucket to wear over her head. To say that she is displeased by the arrangement does not begin to describe the look of horror, confusion, embarassment, dread and misery on her face as I left her. I confess that while I feel terrible for inflicting it upon her, it is more than a bit funny, and the damn dog brought it upon herself. She seemed disinterested in my observation that she was among the designed elite, as her collar was made in Denmark.

I dragged K into a "all books five bucks! Madness! Warehouse madness!" sort of place on Sunday and, just one is told never to do, snagged a book just because I liked its cover design. Reading the first few words of the blurb illuminated its general themes... grieving man jumps on old bike, rides to save his soul, etc... sounded orright to me. It wasn't until later that I read the rest of the thing. Among the hyperbolic quotes about stunning debut novels and shining new talents, was the revelation that the protagonist's voice was akin to Forrest Gump's. Let that be a lesson to you when caught up in the frenzy of cheapness.

Frenzy of cheapness was a recurring theme of my two-week break. My lovely Ma popped down to the city one day for some mother-daughter time, most of which we spent trawling op shops. The car boot was full of booty by the end of the day. Selected highlights: telephone table, a clock from someone's 'den' with a cedar frame and red ceramic face, a wee bit of enamel dishery, fabric, shiny things for me to wear... it was a stupendous haul.

Another stupendous hall (I am Queen of Segue, non?) is my house's own - since its makeover. I was permitted entry to my new(ish) housemate's studio and admired all the pretty things within. She showed me some panels she had woven (she is a Goddess of High Craft) and were floating about, somewhat homeless. I requested that we hang 'em at home because they were splendid. Soon after, we got out the hammer drill and mortar bit and ladder, and up they went, accompanied by a suite of bingo cards I had been meaning to hang for eons. And lo, a nifty hall - so long as you ignore the brick dust and dog-hair-dust-bunnies. Note well the hard rubbish hat-stand lurking in the shadows...

But standing (promise, last segue... they're getting a little forced) is the thing I have been unable to do for the past few days, having offended my apparently unstable spine somehow. Imagine my joy at spending the last four days of my holiday lying flat on the floor as my tortured back had its own little hissy fit. Bah. Made ever the more pleasant by two things: firstly I have abandoned vacuuming of the carpet because it's about to be torn out and replaced, and just didn’t see the point, so I was amid a sea of dog hair, grit, and general domestic detritus. Secondly it was BERLOODY STINKING HOT, especially in my uninsulated back room where the telly, friend to the invalid, is located. By Saturday I was grumpy and unpleasant indeed. My back is slowly emerging from its incapacitated state and now I'm just sore rather than sore and doubled over.

Working back through the break now... New Year's Eve was fairly quiet, but pleasantly shared with the dregs of my liquor cabinet and a merry posse. Despite my Scroogey attitude to this season of stupidity, Hexmas was really great. The Curmudgeon's family - previously strangers to me - were warm and friendly and welcoming and gave me the thumbs up. And he and I, through some miracle probably sent to us by Lil' Bebe Jebus himself, managed to share a kitchen without stabbing one another with my lovely set of German knives and produced a feast - he did the white and brown foods, and I did the green and sweet foods. There was a mighty bird, which was roasted, and reduced to carcassness. The wee nieces and nephews had a grouse time (see previous post) and lo, I declareth it a rampaging success.

Other than a dearth of good open cafes this time of year (reference: Worst Breakfast Evah with K on Sunday), life has thusly resumed its regular programming. Speaking of programming, the Australian series of the Fatties returns to the dinky screen shortly and I am cheered to a worrying extent by this fact. Whenever Channel 10 runs a promo ad for it claiming that it's 'coming soon' I am almost screaming "When? OH, but WHEN?" at the telly. I do love to watch them while eating ice cream or similar. I wonder if it will suffer the difficult-second-season-syndrome of most 'reality' shows (better called cruel-ality?) and quickly fall into disfavour. I recall my unfortunate addiction to the first season of The Block, whereas I watched the second season for about 37 minutes before flicking off.

New Year's Resolution: floss my teeth more. Join me. It's the feel-good resolution that doesn't judge.

And finally, just in case you were worried...

Squid is just fine. Shown here hangin' tough with her pal Hoss.

Whiplash entry!

DILEMMA: What on earth do you give as Christmas presents to a tribe of your beloved's nieces and nephews when

a) you've never met them

b) your limited contact with small people means that you have no idea what kids are into these days

c) the assortment includes males and females between the ages of 2 and 10

d) time and money aren't endless?

ANSWER: you whip up a bevvy of customised aliens!

This is a pattern I drew up some time ago for these little green men of the Hungry Zine 'space' issue...

It has been modified in a couple of ways. I used safety eyes ringed with felt instead of detachable-and-chokeable-onable buttons due to the age of the recipients. I also made them smiley because I was worried that they might be a little spooky for young folks when they had their original penetrating stare.

They are made from various scraps of vintage and appropriated fabrics - curtains, clothing, and furnishing fabric. They are stuffed with polyester in their extremities and a belly full of bulgar wheat so that they have a satisfying bean-bag feel when you throw one at your sibling.

Here they are mid-assembly when I was putting them together during a train journey...

...and all completed, adding intrigue to an otherwise ordinary bunch of Christmas lilies...

They were a real hit with their new owners (except the youngest, who liked her Fisher Price truck much more because it had buttons that made noise) who instantly wanted help to make them clothes. The pink one with blue eyes ended up as an angel called Talia with a pink felt dress, and pipe cleaner halo and wings. The green one became a bad-ass bikie with a black waistcoat and bandanna with eye holes. The purple one became a super-alien with belt and wings.

Next mission: make some aliens for myself that I actually get to keep!

Behold, my sophisticated cutting and pasting and colouring-in using Microsoft Paint. I am like, totally, a trained visual artist. Can't you tell? Two years at TAFE baby, yeah!

Newtonmas is the alternative seasonal shebang for secular scientists like myself. We all know that Lil' Baby Jebus was not really born on December 25th and that the Christians conveniently appropriated a big fat pagan party. "If the heathens are already at it, we'll just switch gods on 'em and they won't even notice," and lo, it was so. That's why Christmas has such a bizarre blend of churchy blah-blah and pagan trees and yule logs and feasting.

ANYWAY. Sir Isaac Newton, inventor of gravity and glass prisms and other cool stuff WAS genuinely born on December 25th. This is fact. Thusly I am celebrating Newtonmas by throwing an apple in the air and watching it fall to the ground to toast the old bloke with the big hair.

I'm probably not going to post anything for a while because, well, I can't be arsed. I plan to spend the next couple of weeks doing some dedicated eating and noodling. I will leave y'all with a splendid anecdote that a collegue told me. She witnessed a child of a yummy-mummy-latte-set type announce the figures in a nativity scene as "The wise men, and that's Joseph, and Mary, and Little Babycino."

Happy Newtonmas. As I wrote in the printed version of the card above, may you observe this occasion with the gravity it deserves.

The Curmudgeon's family have started arriving for Hexmas. They aren't just a tribe... they are several amalgamated tribes. There appear to be several hundred children orbiting the two primary parents, but that is an illusion fostered by their speedy and erratic movement and that they bear six heads of matching white-blonde hair. I can't remember which is which, let alone keep track of them... I have to stop and count out loud to see whether there has been a net gain or loss after any particular burst of energy.

I have been a bit of a princess (moi?) about the descent of his family because I'm very fond of my livebird-centric and comfortable existence where I can fully indulge my Curmudgeonettely tendencies and curse Christmas and all that it stands for. But I must recant. The kids are nice. They are bright and friendly and curious. They were looking after one another rather than running feral and brandishing weapons. It was very cool to see them stare, mouths gaping, at everyday Melbourne stuff like wacky buskers and public art, in the way that only the very young or very regional can do (and they are both). The Pater Familias arrives this evening.

Truth be told, I have always been a little bit jealous of folks who had large and unruly families who filled every moment of time in late December. But most of all, the Curmudgeon is pleased and proud to introduce me to his tribe, and I'm pretty lucky for that. Not that previous love interests have hidden me in a cupboard or made me wear a paper bag on my head, but it's been a while since someone was so genuinely delighted to have me hanging about. 'Tis a privilege and I mustn't be so flippant about it.

Maybe I should buy myself a lavish birthday present. Because lord knows, I deprive myself of so many shiny things all the year long... and wouldn't it go nicely with my new red shiny telly cabinet thing? And all the other orange shiny things I seem to have acquired, almost by accident, recently?

Actually I should be thinking about a more practical splash-out (ha) on a water tank. It's been on the cards since I moved into the house almost exactly a year ago. I want to water my vegies without guilt - we're on serious water restrictions now due to the drought, and while I don't give a shit about having brown and crispy grass (Squid loves it because it's good and scratchy for rolling on), I need to keep the drink up on the young fruit trees and the other garden edibles. I got some very lovely contributions to the tank fund for my birthday.   

Recent adventure of note: birthday visit to the Australian Garden at the Royal Botanic Gardens Cranbourne. It's unlike any botanic garden I've ever seen. Very sculptural, and with astonishing bursts of colour. It reminded me of the visual boredom I felt about the European landscapes with unending emerald greens, and how I longed for the complexity of my native country. It's harsh and spiky and by no means lush, and I love it. The 400-year-old Xanthorrhoea grass trees are enormous and venerable. In the centre is a huge splash of red soil from the Top End... it's soo.. RED!

Did I mention it was my birthday?