This morning I was on my way into the city. I got to the station at 8:17, to find the 8:06 running a tad late. Not to worry, I was aiming for the 8:21, which couldn’t be far behind. Anyway the 8:06 was packed. Absolutely packed. No, really, I think I saw people crowd surfing in it. There was a mosh pit in the first carriage up by the driver. So I let it go by.

I let an express go by too, because frankly, sprinting down the platform trying to force open a door and jump inside is a really stupid way to die.

The 8:21 arrived pretty much on time, and was much more relaxed and comfortable.

Just approaching Parliament (where I get off the train) it slowed down and stopped, presumably because of the other trains just in front of it. I looked out of the window into the tunnel, trying to make out what the graffitti on the tunnel wall said. Something about "Gilligan". I don’t know if it was anything to do with the show, because it wasn’t exactly readable.

I mean, what kind of idiot writes graffiti in a tunnel, anyway? Yes, this tunnel has some lights, but it wasn’t near any of them. And it was in black paint. Maybe graffiti artists need to do some graphic design courses and discover how to make their work more readable.

Then I realised I forgot to bring my key and pass into the client building I’m working in. D’oh. So I went all the way home again, and… no, I got someone else to sign me in. Phew.

Last night I went down to Caulfield Police Station to get my divorce papers
signed. All going smoothly, I’ll be Officially Single again in a few months. The jovial sergeant who witnessed me signing them reminded me of Alec Peters from The Bill, but actually his name was Paul something-or-other. After I signed, he got me to swear on the bible ("Are you okay to swear on the bible?" "Umm, yeah, whatever!") that it was really me and about the forms really being filled out truthfully. Heavy stuff.

On the way back I was reminded of why sometimes it’s definitely a good thing not to drive a car everywhere. Quite by chance I met my old uni friend Peter on the tram, and we had a quick and cheerful chat about things, until he said "They’re playing my stop!" and promptly alighted.

I’m not much of an anarchist. Okay, so the US government does have me down as the author of a hacking/phreaking journal. And I was quoted by the rather subversive Crikey.com.au
earlier this year. But all that smash the state stuff? It’s not really for me.

May the 1st is looming. This is significant for me because the M1 group are planning a set of protests around the city that day. Tuesdays are the day that I work a half day so I can pick Isaac up from school, and it just so happens that M1 are planning to be blockading the building I work in at the time I intend to be leaving.

I don’t particularly fancy trying to fight my way out of the place under those sorts of conditions, so I’ll probably work at home. Presuming, that is, that they don’t find out I’m working at home and blockade my home instead. Hey, once they see this, you never know. Hmmm.. that would be a problem.

After a lovely week of sunny days most of last week, it pissed down over most of the weekend. This was never more apparent when on Sunday night I was on my way to Fitzroy.

I didn’t have the car. I was meeting someone at a pub, and as a rule, I like to have some kind of alcoholic beverage when I go to a pub. I have an understanding of how alcohol works with me: I drink it, I enjoy it, and it numbs my senses, reduces my co-ordination, and generally leaves me in the kind of state where, for my own safety and the safety of others, I shouldn’t be driving. So if I’m going out and planning to have a drink, the car doesn’t come along with me.

It wasn’t raining when I left the house, and I caught the train into the city, then stepped out of Parliament station, looking for an 11 tram going up to Fitzroy. No such vehicle was forthcoming, and if I stood around waiting for one, I was going to be late. And I don’t like being late. I guessed it was perhaps a ten minute brisk walk to where I wanted to go, which would be okay. But of course by this time, it was raining.

Having seen the amount of rain dropping out of the sky over the weekend, logic would have dictated that taking an umbrella might have been a good idea. Yes, it definitely would have been a good idea. Was it a good idea that I had followed? Hell no. So I stumbled up MacArthur Street, trying to avoid the puddles.

Then I noticed a tram coming. I bolted for the tram stop, and got on it, noticing with a silent curse that it wasn’t a number 11, it was a number 12. While numerically this was only a slight difference, geographically it was significant. This would only go a few hundred metres. I needed to go about another three blocks from where it would terminate.

I got out of the tram again a minute later when it had travelled as far as it was going to travel, and set off on foot down  Brunswick Street. Naturally as soon as I pondered the idea of hailing a cab, none were to be seen.

By this point it was becoming apparent that my coat, though warm enough, is scarcely adequate for keeping out the rain. In fact that’s being quite kind to it. It’s inadequate. After about three minutes of solid rain falling onto it, it starts to absorb water. This is not a good thing.

Eventually, of course, I got to where I was going. Amazingly I managed to avoid stepping in any really deep puddles and drowning. I felt drenched, the water was streaming down my face, and my immaculate hair (ha!) was soaked. But I wasn’t really drenched, just the coat was - taking that off and getting some beer
down my throat soon had me feeling better.

Locked myself out of the car this morning. So I rang RACV for the second time in a week - I’m certainly getting my money’s worth this month. The guy got there ten minutes later, and using some very curious looking devices, unlocked it with amazing ease. Such ease that I think I’ll start always using the steering wheel lock when I leave the car somewhere.

Well, I finally watched The Matrix. On DVD, too. Yes, I have been thrust kicking and screaming into the world of DVD. I’d been pondering buying the same model that Josh has got, as had a bunch of his other friends. Well yesterday out of the blue he brought one to me. Plugged it in, and said try it out, then return it to him or give him the money. I think I’ll give him the money - it’s very damn cool.

So I moseyed down to the video shop and borrowed The Matrix. On the way back from the video shop, I got some free entertainment at the supermarket. Some prize dickhead had tried to push a loaded trolley through the "8 items or less" lane, and they’d refused to serve him. Rather than just accept that he was in the wrong place and move to another lane, he decided to try and loudly argue it out with them. Idiot.

So I got home and cooked a humungous omelettey thing for dinner, started up the DVD and pumped up the volume nice and loud, something I can’t do Monday to Wednesday with the kids sleeping in the next room! Good stuff. I’ve been wondering about it since this movie came out, and now I can finally say Yes: they did borrow a helluva lot from the Doctor Who story "The Deadly Assassin" (like most of the concept and name of The Matrix, for a start…)

But no matter where they stole the plot from, the effects were pretty damn impressive. I’ll never look at Sydney’s city centre the same way again. The scene that included the US-style cop and the Commonwealth Autobank was pretty amusing.

This morning I got into the car with the kids, turned the ignition key and… the car groaned, then I groaned. Yep, flat battery. Dammit. The lights weren’t left on, honest. So I rang the RACV. The bloke on the phone was cheerful, probably because it wasn’t his car that had broken down. 20-40 minutes, he said. He was right, too, they got there in about 30 minutes.

There were two guys in the van. I’m guessing one was the trainee, because the other one seemed to be bossing him around a bit. The main guy was amazed the battery had lasted so long - it was the original one, and the car is eight years old. They jumpstarted the car, and I asked if they could put a new battery in, and how much it would cost. He said they could - "they" meaning the collective mass of people that the RACV consists of. He said he’d get his battery-wielding colleague to drop in and install it.

Half an hour and $129 later (the battery dude talked me into the extra super dooper high grade one, because I mostly do short trips), a shiny new blue battery was in the car, and it was starting up quicker than ever.

Last night, it happened. F day. My (almost) 6 year old son Isaac dropped his first four letter word.

Dunno where he picked it up from (my guess is Childcare or school). We were discussing teeth, and I pointed out his new big tooth, and he said:

"It’s fucked."

I didn’t believe I’d heard right, so I said "What?"

"It’s fucked."

For a second I couldn’t comprehend that he would be saying such a thing. But there’s nothing else it could’ve been.

It didn’t make any sense in that context, and I’m guessing he had no idea (even figuratively) what it meant. I told him that wasn’t a nice thing to say, and he said "Okay Dad", and I left it there.

Sigh. They grow up so fast.

Postscript: Thankfully, it may have been "It’s fat" with a funny voice.