It's not often I post twice in one day, but that's just how prolific we are over here at Bundanon. Here's what Stew's been up to:

By the way, for those of you who have heard my lecture series about kids' TV,

here's some back up

. Fairly cute backup.

Yesterday, after probably the most productive bout of work I've done the whole time I've been here, my hard drive died.

I swear it has comic timing.

It did this before, just after the most productive bout of work I'd done on our 2007 comedy festival script, an adaptation of which I am now working on. Maybe it's the project. Either way, I am, and shall remain, unimpressed.

They day before this happened, we had just driven to Nowra. Driving to Nowra is a metaphor for progress and civilisation if ever there was one. It's a rough road to get there, it has coffee and an art deco movie theatre and lovely people who do small talk and run bookshops, but its main achievement is a sprawling pod of enormous, cheap shopping centres around which bored youths gather, in many cases with their own children, and eat fried chicken with plastic forks. In the carpark prowls a man in a luminous jacket. The parking ticket guy. "Watch him", say the locals, their eyes narrowing.

If you're at Bundanon, you really have to want to go to Nowra, in order to go to Nowra. You really have to need supplies. If you could eat grubs and moss, you probably would. But, the day before yesterday, we went to stock up. Stew needed a cable from Dick Smiths. I needed a coffee and some fresh vegies. It took forever. The parking ticket guy was prowling, there were products here that were cheaper over there, there we youths eating chicken and effectionately giving each other the finger everywhere you looked. Knowing I didn't want to come back, I had two coffees in order to make it worthwhile. Not having had a coffee for two weeks, I then went completely silly and had to go for an hour-long walk upon my return to Bundanon. Pacing around the farm past wombats, birds, and kangaroos, I promised myself I wouldn't go back to Nowra unless there was some kind of national emergency. Then, fuelled by my two coffees, I wrote prolifically (noticing briefly that there was a funny noise in the computer) and went to bed.

HA HA! said my hard drive. THIS IS MY CUE!

Please, I beg you, back up. Do it now! Leave! Back your stuff up! All it takes is one tiny little thing to go wrong and you lose everything. Doing a backup the previous day, Stew had called from his studio, "Has that file trasnfer finished?" and I had replied, "Yes".

I was wrong. Although I have backed up recently, and I sent one of the most recent versions of the thing I was writing in an email to Stew yesterday, I am yet to discover what terrifyingly important things I have sent off into the ether. Not to mention my software. Not to mention my internet bookmarks from the research I'd been doing. My hard drive, somewhere in hard drive hell, is raising a patronising eyebrow and saying, "Well, you could have backed it all up. It's not like you haven't been here before." It's probably hanging out with my previous hard drive. Playing cards and reading all my old stuff.

So we had to go to frigging Nowra again. The day after I swore we never would. So we did, we went straight back to Dick Smith's and bought another expensive cable. Thanks to some seriously impressive nerd work on Stew's part, although my hard drive is wiped, I have my computer back and I can start afresh, resurrecting the files I did back up.

Still, if there wasn't a gallah outside my window and a week-old lamb in  a cardboard box in the studio next to mine (had a cold night, rejected by mum) then I doubt I would be coping quite so well with my hard drive's sense of humour.

Thanks to Stew for helping me. Thanks to Nowra, as a metaphor for civilisation, for saving me by providing a cable. Thanks to the wonderful Julia for taking me through the Boyd archives yesterday and letting me wear white gloves and marvel at the original Picasso and all the Boyds and Nolans and therefore making an otherwise terrible day completely and utterly worthwhile. I doubt you could every truly complain of a wasted day at Bundanon. Hurrah for that.

So this is just to dispell any myths that might be generating as a result of my rather nature-based reports of late along the lines that I am doing very little else with my time than wombat-spotting. This is not true. I am also working, thinking, writing. This is the wall of my studio:

Please note the bull outside. I don't know who put that there but that's just cheeky. This wall makes a lot of sense to me and has proven extremely helpful for the writing I do in that chair (from which I witness many dramas including the hilarious daily pantomime entitled "Bird Does A Dance On Bull Who Can't Do Anything About It" which is a real David and Goliath show-stopper).

And for those of you who think my obsession with wombats is a little over the top, please direct your attention to my other studio wall, where this has been painted, presumably by a previous artist in residence:

Definitely the unofficial Bundanon mascot. I saw about twenty of these on my walk to the river today. Seriously I've never seen more of them in my life. Never get sick of them though. Hilarious little things. Better go and attempt to decipher my wall now. Goodie.

Well, Rita Walsh has done it again.

Just when we thought the word "congratulations" was starting to become a cliche, Rita's short film, Hugo (which has already won Grand Prize for Fantasy at the Rhode Island Film Festival, won an AWGIE and been selected for Palm Springs) has been selected for the Chicago International Childrens FIlm Festival, which is extremely exciting. Rita is now in Palm Springs and will be greeted with considerable respect when she arrives at Bundanon, where word has spread of her ridiculously heady achievements.

Meanwhile, at Bundanon, the biggest event on our social calendar was last night's "Artists' Drinks" which consisted of some very delicious local wines, some lovely artists and some of the Bunanon peeps (including the person responsible for the excellent Bundanon website, go here). After the drinks, someone decided it would be nice to have an unofficial tour of Arthur Boyd's studio. It's the actual studio he worked in, left completely as it was when he died (his paint-splattered slippers are still under his chair). It was amazing. It was even more amazing because we couldn't find the light switch so the studio tour was done under torch light.

With the lights out, you smell everything much more than you might otherwise. The smell of paints in an art studio are so exciting to me. They speak of possibility. I wish laptops had such an inspiring smell. That way, I might create with a greater fervour. As it is, I sit here in my own studio, with my own view out the window and the laptop in front of me and I discover that other great inspirer: headspace. Having nothing else to do really is such a luxury. Arthur and Yvonne Boyd must have known that. I've had more thinking time than I ever usually would, as well as more writing time, and... I'm allowed to write on the walls! I'm starting to fear what it might be like to return to civilian life.

The best thing in the world is not having to worry about work, or dishes, or having to go and do social things (which are lovely, but which are not an option here, so that distraction doesn't exist!). In fact, here, nobody cares enough to interrupt you. They're all busy doing their own thing. Here is a photo of nobody caring about what I'm doing:

That cow on the right is particularly disinterested.

These guys don't care either:

So really, it's just me with my own mind. Which is being stimulated constantly by views like this:

That's Arhur and Yvonne Boyd's the original owners' Aboriginal stockman's hut (sorry, got that wrong originally). It's teensy weensy. Behind it is Australian bush, featuring about a trillion kangaroos about the size of Wayne Carey, and not dissimilar in appearance. Here is Arthur and Yvonne's house:

There's a tour of the house on Sunday, which I hope to go to. Whenever Sunday might be.

I'm going to try to remember for another reason too. Rita is on radio at 8am Australian time on this station. Of course she is. Captain Famous Pants talks to the peeps. Can't wait to hear it. Go Rita!

Before I write about Bundanon, where we have finally arrived and in which I am already completely in love, let me fill you in on stops 2, 3 and 4.

Our second stop after Mansfield (of Subway fame) was Bright. We drove there via Jamieson, which has a population of 88 humans and maybe a billion birds. It's completely gorgeous. Here's a sample:

As you can see, the locals kept to themselves a bit.

Then we went to the snow. How awesome is nature? It did this all by itself!

Then of course, coming up against nature all the time is humankind. I have a friend who discovered when he came to Australia for the first time that Australians don't like littering.

They don't like it, but they do it anyway, using what they seem to think is a littering loophole: it's not litter if you stand it up.

Slot a chip packet between two boards in a fence: not litter. Stand a beer bottle up on a pub window: not litter. Apparently, the same rule goes for the snow.

Good way of keeping your beer cold I guess.

Mind you, we enjoyed our own beverages on our food and wine tour, OH YES WE DID! Check it:

So much more sophisticated. We were driven to this place in a stretched limo and we tasted cheese, olives, wines and at one point Stewart went missing and was discovered behind a sign that said FUDGE TASTING.

This leg of our trip was a present. It was the most lovely present in the world. Well, that and the new set of tyres we got just before we left (thanks dad!) which have been tested many times along the way, and will be again I'm sure, due to the fact that the driveway to Bundanon is longer and more filled with holes than a long thing filled with holes.

More when the photos have downloaded. We're off for a quick walk with the wombats. Seriously.

Report on first leg of road trip to Bundanon Artists' Residency.

KEY STATISTICS

Expected time of departure: 10am.

Actual time of departure: 1.30pm.

Reason for delayed departure: technological malfunction (Stew's iPhone died).

Kilometres traveled: approx 190 kms.

Percentage of those kilometres traveled in the Carlton/North Fitzroy area making "final arrangements" before leaving: 10%

Number of arguments regarding the packing of the car: none. This is due to Stewart's superior skills in this area. Here is a month's worth of stuff and both of our offices packed into a ford laser:

By the way, probably the number one thing it's best not to forget by thinking "That's obvious, I'll pack that later" when packing for a month of writing: your laptop. Yairs... Don't worry, Stew found it in time.

I write this from the freezing cold but very gorgeous Mansfield. Somewhere near this squiggly line:

In fact, we're right near the Subway, which, as Stew noticed, is 15 metres from here:

Also, I see from the cinema screen someone has erected in the local pub above the bar that the Australian women have been swimming back-to-back relays all day. They must be exhausted. From my calculations, they've won nineteen medals since dinner time. Good for them. Either that or they are REPLAYING THE SAME RACE OVER AND OVER AND WE NEVER SEE ANY OTHER FOOTAGE OF ANYTHING EVER AGAIN IN OUR LIVES. Dunno.

Tomorrow: Jamieson, Bright, cold, rain, potentially snow... life is good.

So I'm a techno loser and I linked to the wrong thing. For photos of the action with Captain Famous Pants (our Rita Walsh, see my previous post)... go here.

Why, when you're about to take time off work for three and half weeks to write and think and plan and produce...

Why, when you're about to take four days to drive up to Nowra from Melbourne...

Why, when the film festival is in its final week and you've just spent seventy extra bucks on tickets...

Why, four days before your birthday...

Why, when you've been working full time and you could have been sick AT ANY POINT DURING THAT TIME...

Does your head decide to infest itself with throaty, snotty I-need-to-lie-down-and-be-useless-now style illness?

Why?

PS Yes I am aware there are wars and famines and that I have a cold and a job and a writers residency and that I should pipe down and stop being such a drama queen but shoosh please. This is clearly some kind of law of nature and it is my job as a writer to report it. 

PPS. I saw a really good film last night at MIFF. Boy A. Apart from a few mental Japanese films (huzzah!) it's been mostly doccos that have piqued my interest, but I can't get Boy A out of my head. Look out for a release.

 Dear The Rest Of The World, 

Just in case you were wondering why we treasure our free speech over here in Australia, I thought I'd explain to you how the billions of dollars spent by media organisations, including our public broadcaster, were utilised today to stimulate discussion and promote democratic ideals such as freedom of expression, freedom of thought, and the right of the public to access information. 

Our glorious news outlets have revealed the following to an enthusiastic public this morning:

1. Apparently a person appeared on television. The person was attractive and had an X chromosome. As a result of this person appearing on a top-rating television show about a sport nobody outside of this country plays, this person was subject to "lewd" comments from a "colourful" "celebrity" whose public relations platform consists of apologising to people with X chromosomes. The X chromosomed person in this instance has now been hospitalised. These elements have been mentioned by newspapers without any explicit links being drawn or any independent research having been done. 

2. As we speak, discussions are taking place on the national airwaves regarding the crucial question of whether Australian sportsmen playing the abovementioned sport are role models. Should they be role models? Do we expect too much from them? Are they a symptom of a broader problem in Australian society, namely binge drinking, or are they just boys making mistakes in hundred thousand dollar cars with alcohol running through their TAC sponsored bloodstreams? This is a particularly important question when considered alongside figures on Aboriginal life expectancy.

3. Heath Ledger remains deceased.

Excellent work, media.