If I buy the "Women's 40 Plus" Breakfast Cereal in the morning, does that do something to me?

I often wonder the same thing with those vitamin B tablets. If you have a "Vitamin B for Men" when you get up in the morning, do you feel all full of beans in a manly way?

The Women's 40 Plus is yummy, by the way. I recommend it. However, if I start attending those ball-balance classes and worrying about whether to go grey naturally, I'll move on.

I do find myself increasingly keen on Lateline, and certain special reports on Compass. But I'm sure that's not the cereal. Do you think?

Okay, want to seriously turn your head inside out?

Check out this radio piece about romantic love as a construct of capitalism. This is seriously interesting radio, whatever you think of it. It took the guy who produced it three years to make. It took me about the length of time it takes to clean a particularly messy bedroom, to listen to it. But in my Radio National geekiness, I loved (whatever that means) listening to it.

Also, I would like to thank the internet for ruining the perfectly good thing I originally wrote here. Bastard.

Girls, here's an interesting reason why we rock: we read more.

Also, another reason why The Age (Melbourne's broadsheet newspaper) is simply hilarious to read in the mornings: in an article about Steve Vizard possibly perjuring himself, the reader is confronted with the alarming prospect that, and I quote,

"The possibility of a perjury charge carries a maximum 15-year jail sentence."

The possibility of a charge now carries a sentence! This is huge news. One can only imagine how onerous a conviction based on the actuality of a charge might be. The legal precedent established here is mind boggling. It could almost be argued that the possibility of a charge in relation to a breach of society's regulations exists in all of us. Certainly this is what the Catholics believe. And Dostoevsky.

I intend to stay indoors and live on canned goods until this matter is cleared up by the authorities. I advise you to do the same.

Last week, on the way back from Manly beach to the ferry if you don't mind darling, I spotted a bookshop. I can sense bookshops, just like birds with which way South is.

Anyway. So the bookshop is called Desire Books and it has that warm orange glow that brings you across from the other side of the street to "just have a look". In the window, there was this display. There was a sign on the window that said, NAME THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THESE BOOKS AND WIN ONE OF THEM.

Now, let me say that when Tim recently held a trivia night, I couldn't answer the question about what "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" was the first sentence of. For someone who majored in English, that's not terribly impressive. So when I smugly told Stewart in Manly that I definitely knew what it was that linked the books in the display, I made him promise not to make me go in and say it to the guy in the bookshop.

So Stewart went in and said it to the guy in the bookshop. And - after some discussion regarding the expression of the answer and the terms of reference of the sign on the front window - it was deemed, graciously, to be correct. So then Stew, who had pretended to have thought of the answer himself, had to select a book from the collection.

So now I'm reading Anais Ninn.

And anyway the guy in the bookshop said he'd been doing the "Guess the connection" display in the front window for years. He said it was IMPOSSIBLE to think of new displays. I immediately thought of three or four very (I thought) witty and clever ones he never would have thought of, all of which he had done several variations of. So if you think of any, let me know. I'm making a list. And if you're in Manly, go there. It's a second-hand bookshop with first editions and gorgeous old hard back copies of books they don't really want to sell. It also has a table you can sit at, with copies of The Believer on it and tea cup stains in the wood.

Another reason to love Melbourne: yesterday I purchased two torsos made of plastic (one lovely lady and one hunk of man with a vineleaf covering his bits) for seven bucks fifty each. My next few costume parties just got a hell of a lot easier. Also, I got a single bed head with a light in it (dunno, but I'm sure it will be useful) for $2, a sun hat with half a (strange) sentence on it (fifty cents), a massive big bunch of fake daisies in a basket (free, sort of forced on me), an instamatic camera with film in it that had been taking photos of people's feet all day (fifty cents), and all because the ladies at the garage sale down the road had imbibed a significant quantity of wine. "Are you sure you don't want an orange doily and a small, dusty religious figure?" they asked as I left.

Also, went to the Writers' Festival, which was fun because it was opening and there were books and also many fabulous people (ie my friends).

Yay for the purple sky.

Sometimes I think it would be good to be able to write about reality. About my own life and the things that happen to me and to the people around me.

Then I read things like this.

Things like this make me think that maybe writing about other people, or having other people writing about you, is not the most constructive excersise. Especially if the people being written about are dead, and so can't write back.

Meanwhile, I'd be quite pleased if I could write about anything at the rate I'm going today.

Things I like about Melbourne (having rather enjoyed myself outside of Melbourne and having briefly wondered today why I returned at all):

1. The fact that it was freezing and foggy all day but tonight you could wear a T shirt in the street.

2. The open contempt held by almost everyone for the "public" transport system.

3. There's always a festival.

4. The people in the Foodworks shop in Nicholson Street (previously Foodies), who have gorgeous accents, in which they pronounce things like "no worries" and "yeah, right", giving the lazy, surly confidence of the phrases a sharp, happy, politeness. Also, they laugh at my jokes.

5. No matter what time of day or night it is, people are sitting in cafes. A few years ago, when I first quit full-time work, I was astonished at how busy Brunswick Street was on a Monday. I developed a theory that fifty percent of Melbournians are freelance, unemployed, or the idle rich. I am currently two of these things, so I'd know. Pass me the caviar, Jeeves.

I loved my holiday, with the adventures and the hedonism and the lack of responsibility and the sun and the free time stretching away ahead of me. Melbourne is cold and I've spent all my money. It's good to be home.

I'm back in Melbourne today after being more or less stolen and forced to have a week long holiday, very much contrary to my original intentions.

Stew's instructions for packing were: you'll need to wear very warm clothes but take your bathers because it will be hot.

For a control freak like me, that's about as infuriating as packing instructions get.

Anyway, so in the past week I've been to the top of Mount Wellington in Tasmania (wear warm clothes), Manly beach (take your bathers), the Sydney (Art) Biennale (take your black skivvy) and Newcastle (take a camera).

And the answer is yes, I am definitely pretentious enough to tell everyone that I went to the Sydney Writers' Festival, the Melbourne Film Festival, the Sydney Biennale and the Melbourne Writers' Festival, all in a row. I suspect there was a craft festival somewhere in Tasmania or a cheese forum in Newcastle that I can take credit for as well. I really am culturally enriched, if a little pasty around the gills.

The biennale was a bit hit and miss actually. "Zones of Contact" not really the most inspiring theme, however ambitious. Having said that, some of it was excellent. The curator's tour, though, which we had planned our whole day around, was cancelled due to the fact that "he decided it wasn't worth coming". Inspiring words.

By the way, I've cheated on Crime and Punishment. I just couldn't cope with it anymore. Instead, I read the following while on my mystery birthday holiday:

- The History Boys, by Alan Bennett, one of my favourite playwrights.

- An Article in The New Yorker about Wikipedia (it's fascinating and it's here for any fellow nerds who might be interested)

- The start of The Sea, by John Banville.

Excellent holiday. Only one verdict really. Stew's hired.