Writers are supposed to be eavesdroppers, right?

Even so, it feels so wrong. So delicious when you hear some pearl worth keeping, but so wrong all the same. Almost pervy. It is pervy, I guess.

Here's the latest. Smith Street supermarket:

Short Size 16 Woman: (Bumps into someone) Oh, gosh.

Tall, Dangerously Skinny Woman: Sorry.

SS16W: You scared the hell out of me.

TDSW: I know, I know. Sorry.

SS16W: No, sorry, you're right.

TDSW: I'm used to it.

SS16W: Beg your pardon?

TDSW: I'm used to it.

SS16W: What, scaring the hell out of me?

TDSW: No. Scaring people. Freaking people out. I freak people out. I'm sorry.

Tall Dangerously Skinny Woman backs away during last sentence and leaves. Small Size 16 Woman stands next to the beetroots with her partner.

Partner: What'd she say?

....

This is the point where the couple choose to leave the beetroots in search of breakfast cereal or eggs or chicken or cheese.

This is the point where one of three things happens:

1) The eavesdropper (that's me) stands among the crates of vegies, wondering what the Small Size 16 Woman says next.

2) The eavesdropper takes that pervy habit a little bit further, and follows the couple to the cereal section, where the eavesdropper repeatedly turns over a box of porridge while straining to hear the analysis of the previous conversation (already overheard near the beetroots) pretending that her interest in the nutritional facts on the porridge packet is nothing short of forensic.

3) The eavesdropper is interrupted with not even a moment's consideration by the person the eavesdropper has gone shopping with, who wants the eavesdropper's opinion about something particularly inane, such as the eavesdropper's choice between two different sorts of bread. No matter how many times the eavesdropper tells the people she loves that she is an eavesdropper who MUST NOT BE INTERRUPTED WHEN SHE IS OBVIOUSLY WORKING, people she loves insist on interrupting at juicy conversational climaxes with inane questions... or even interesting questions... hell, even if they interrupted with CAKE AND ALE, it is still no excuse. Having invested so much in the conversation about the skinny tall girl and her presumption that the shorter, not-so-skinny girl had been referring in an inapropriately personal way to her body, the eavesdropper wants closure!

... Anyway, in this case, the very well-trained person-who-I-love has come to realise that asking me questions in supermarkets requires a pause and a head-check before lift-off. So, in this case, option (1) was settled upon, because I was in a hurry.

Still, these conversations happen all around me. This means they must also happen all around everything else. This means that RIGHT NOW, I am missing out on overhearing a conversation. This is an appalling state for a writer to live in.

I must go out immediately and stand around in Safeway.

This will all be claimed on tax. I'm watching you, Peter Costello. And my ears are peeled.

So I've got the post festival bug.

This time, it comes in the form of the common cold. Touch wood. If it becomes the post festival secondary infection, then I'll be really annoyed.

By the way, here is a reason why finishing your show in the comedy festival can be good:

... other stuff exists!...

Here's some other stuff:

Anthony Lane has reviewed Spidey 3 here. Worth it just for his description of Harry Osborne's "agonized, drawn-out desire to make Spider-Man pay", which Anthony Lane reckons "makes Hamlet’s revenge look like a snap decision". Apeehee.

Since the comedy festival, I have also read What Is The What, by the ever so slightly clever Dave Eggers. It's an astonshing story, about this guy. Wow.

Also, check out this film. Stew and Rita worked on it, which is obviously why it's getting such brilliant reviews. (The involvement of Matthew, Trevor, Laszlo, and the entire rest of the cast and crew might have something to do with it, but you guys can make up your own minds. Who am I to say?).

Other things I have found myself doing on the way to recovering from the comedy festival:

1. Saw this sci-fi movie, despite the flimsy premise.

2. Saw this, which is a massive waste of money, especially if you compare it with the book I've just finished reading.

3. Slept.

So now I'm back in the real world and I'm crawling through work and I am so tired I can hardly see. I'm basically walking around with arms and legs but that's about all I'm doing. I'm doing an impression of myself. An impersonation. I'm doing a Lorin impersonation. Not a very good one.

Tonight, after another day catching up at work, I had a shiatsu massage at my favourite place in Melbourne, possibly the universe: the Japanese Bathhouse. Oh my lordy, that place is really something.

Aaaaaaaaanyhoo, once the goddess there had finished turning my body to liquid, she asked why I was so tired. I said I'd just done a comedy festival show.

She said, "Ah. The Comedy Festival. We've had a few of those."

I felt like I was the veteran of some shattered, defeated, crippled, brave army.

And in a way I guess I am.

Look at me, back in the first week of production, setting up my office outside the Kino Dendy in Collins Place. Just look at me. So awake. So focussed. So ready for the challenges of the weeks to come. WHAT A FOOL!

What a crazy, carefree fool!

I think, for now, I will aim for loftier things.

I think perhaps I should aim for more of this....

.... Now that's something I'm good at.

Tonight is the final night of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival for 2007. Last night was the awards night. We were invited to a special invite-only VIP showpony room.

It turned out to be a hot, steamy glass box serving watered down cordial and cheesy rice balls. There's a photo of it here. We're the ones in the fish tank up the top.

We were invited because we were nominated for a Golden Gibbo Award, which we didn't win.

However, the jury is still out on the competition that matters: perhaps we will never know who won the inaugural Melbourne Comedy Festival Cartwheel Competition we held in Trades Hall last Saturday night, because in retrospect it seems there was no independent arbiter. Perhaps we should have noticed this at the time. Should documentary footage ever emerge, however, my money is on Michael Roper, whose technique (honed by years of aerobic dance training at high school) is close to a 9.5 in my professional opinion.

So, what does all this mean? It means the festival is over.

It means we have to go back to our real lives.

It means, in other words, that all we do for the next two weeks is talk about how much fun we had and bask in our retrospective glory.

To make this easier for everyone, here is a snapshot:

Over a thousand people saw our show over three weeks (14 shows).
One of those people was my grade 4/5/6 teacher!
We were reviewed very nicely in The Age, The Groggy Squirrel and The Pun.
Up until now, we had never been reviewed in a public newspaper, ever, by anyone, at any time.
Some of us were misquoted in the press and consequently have updated ASIO files.
Some of us were photographed looking like children with special needs for the local papers.
Our first festival show was nominated for an award.
There were 288 shows in the festival.
My favourite was ours
Because...

These people are now my friends. I choose to get the giggles with these guys.

So guess what?

After our final show (which was enormously fun) For We Are Young And Free was nominated for a Golden Gibbo Award. For more details, see the news items on our homepage. Here is a clandestine video recording of the shortlist being announced...

Dear Everyone,

Tonight is our final show in the Melbourne Comedy Festival.

For We Are Young And Free has had a fantastic run. Lots of lovely audiences, heaps of fun shows, nice reviews, great cast, gorgeous crew, and then there's me, skulking around getting nervous.

So. Here it is. You get one more chance. Come along tonight and farewell Emily, Miriam, Michael, Dylan, Stew, Vic, and... me... on the final night of my nervous skulking.

We plan to go out with a bang.

No idea what I'll be doing this time next week. Someone remember to call me. Please.

Here's my favourite celebrity again. We love you too, Paris.

... three nights to go until the end of our season. All let us rejoice...