Maybe I’ll buy my mum a new phone for Christmas. She really needs a new one. I was trying to have a conversation with her, and it was hopeless.

Me: [blah blah, telling her something]

She: Pardon?

Me: [Repeat]

She: I can’t hear you. I’m on the bus.

(Not sure why the bus is relevant, but okay, I can work with that.)

Me: [Repeat again]

She: Can you hear me?

Me: Look, shall I SMS you?!

She: No no, that’s okay.

(Oh, she heard that all right)

Me: [Repeat again, loudly and clearly]

Eventually I got the message across. But man, either she needs a new phone, or the old one needs some adjustment in the volume department.

Time to sort out the laundry.

Look, I know it’s hard to use your car’s indicators properly. Having that little switch so close to your hands on the steering wheel, and remembering to use it to… err… indicate… obviously there isn’t enough training in this when learning to drive.

I’ll give you a few specific hints though.

• To the guy in Prahran on Sunday morning: When you’re driving straight across an intersection, don’t put your left indicator on. Naturally I, the pedestrian who is crossing in front of you, am going to step back when realising what you’re really up to. The little wave to acknowledge this was gracious, but I’m hardly likely to do anything different, am I? Jumping in front of your car doesn’t seem like a sensible option. My repeatedly opening/closing my hand at you wasn’t designed to prompt that puzzled look you gave, but to prompt you to look at your damn indicator, which was still merrily flashing as you went past.
• Same guy: I suppose on some levels it’s kind of amusing that you kept driving down to the end of that street with your indicator on, then turned it off at the end to turn. It doesn’t matter if it was a T-junction — you’re still meant to indicate when you turn. Either your indicators need some maintenance work, or perhaps you need to be sent to a re-education camp to learn how they’re really meant to be used.
• The guy coming out of the service station in Carnegie on Sunday afternoon: you were turning right out of the servo to get to the intersection. Fine, all very good, first class. But your indicator stayed on afterwards. Which is why I drove around you. It was still clicking away. Since you weren’t turning at the intersection, switching the indicator off would have been a good idea, to avoid me thinking I can zoom away from the lights and then merge right… straight into your car.
• The guy in South Caulfield on Monday morning: I drove up behind you to join the line waiting at the traffic lights. Yeah I could have taken the nearly empty left-hand lane, but it’s kinda bad etiquette if everyone else is queuing and nobody’s turning right. Besides you have the hassle of merging back. So I queued. We must have all been there a good thirty seconds. I even left a gap in case someone further up in the line decided at the last minute to turn. What I didn’t expect or appreciate was you waiting until the light turned green and we all started moving (including more cars coming up behind and to the left of me) and then changing your mind. That’s why I beeped my horn in frustration as I drove around you. Hint: the indicator is for indicating. Indicating to turn. Indicating to turn before you actually do it. A little forward planning is required, that’s all I’m saying.
• To the P-plater zooming along behind me in Carnegie on Saturday: Yes I saw you back there. Yes your car zooms along. Very — yawn — impressive. You can tailgate with the best of them. Bully for you for living up to the P-plater cliché. I indicated a right hand turn in plenty of time, so you could spot it, slow down, and get around me. You only have yourself to blame that you took no notice until I’d slowed right down, then had to jerkily get around me at speed. I indicate, you notice and take timely appropriate action. That’s how it’s meant to work.

The BBC have released the logo for the new Doctor Who series coming in 2005.

I quite like it, and I’m certainly looking forward to seeing it on TV.

PS 11pm. Stylistically they’ve broken away from the tradition of having the “WHO” in big letters underneath “DOCTOR”. And while I think to judge it fairly, it has to be seen in its native context (eg in a title sequence, presumably as an animation), the programme is also a very powerful brand in its own right, so it’s true it’ll also be adorning static media such as books, magazines, T-shirts, DVDs and so on.

The fact that the BBC publicity machine has even released it is interesting. They got a lot of media coverage when announcing the Daleks would return, and obviously they’re hoping to keep public interest bubbling along until the series airs.

After the puppetry, we sat in the train on Friday night at Flinders Street, waiting for the 10:12pm departure (for Sandringham — not my usual line — long story), munching on the banana cake and sipping our hot chocolates from the concourse snack purveyor. Both were, frankly, much better than I expected them to be, and just what was called for on a dark cold night.

A bloke got on with his bicycle, and lifted it to shove the front wheel into the gap behind the door railing. It nudged the intercom alarm button, and the light around the button started silently flashing. Unaware, he sat down.

We watched. Nothing happened. No squads of security personnel, no dramatic entrance of police.

(Tangent: A mate of mine once worked at a Timezone arcade, clearing money out of the video game machines. One day the boss got him to work in an office upstairs in a cash booth, counting money. He saw a button underneath the desk and wondered what it did. He was curious and pressed it. Ten minutes later his boss came in and asked if he pressed the button. “Yes, why?” “Because five police just came in with their guns drawn.”)

Nobody came. Not even a curious Connex employee poking his head round the door. Maybe the driver was having a smoko or something.

10:12 rolled around. Ding. Announcement. Beep-beep-beep. Doors close, we were off, the light still flashing.

Halfway through the tunnel out towards Richmond, a voice came from the intercom. “You have pressed the emergency button! What is your emergency?” All those in the carriage who hadn’t seen the button get pressed looked around bewildered, including the cyclist. The rest wondered what to do.

“Which emergency service do you require?” demanded the driver, sounding more urgent. No way was anybody going to get mugged on his train.

Blank look continues from cyclist. I stood up and went over to the wedged-in bicycle and the intercom. “It’s all right, the button got pressed by mistake.”

The driver replied “Okay, thanks mate.”

The cyclist stood up, having worked out what happened. He looked embarassed, and mumbled “sorry” in direction of the intercom, and unwedged his bike, moving it to the other side where there was no button. Bit late, but oh well, no harm done.

The train kept rolling into the night, thankfully emergency-free.

One thing’s for sure: you don’t book for a Ronnie Burkett piece unless your timekeeping and your bladder are up to the task. You’re either in the door for kick-off, or you’re locked out. (Due to circumstances a little too complicated to describe, I made it by only a few minutes, and that was only after a run across Princes Bridge.) Feel the urge to leave during the two and a bit hour performance (with no interval) and they won’t let you back in.

And fair enough too. This isn’t the Knox multiplex, and you’re not seeing the latest Hollywood fluff piece. This is Canada’s — and one of the world’s — finest puppeteer at work. And if you’re thinking Being John Malkovich, don’t.

Another piece full of music, humour, and sometimes brutal drama, Provenance (like Tinka’s New Dress before it) covers a number of intertwining themes. Burkett received burns last week due to an off-stage accident, but showed no sign of ongoing suffering. It was deep without being impenetrable. At times you could almost sense the audience gazing down on him, tense, waiting to see what would happen next. Great stuff.

• The Age’s review: Myth of the puppet-master

Post a picture of your shower… Link in the Trackbacks or comments.

• As usual, move your mouse over the picture for descriptions of various bits (note Firefox may abbreviate. Apparently you can fix it with this extension if you turn multi-line tooltips on.)
• Past photos in this series
• Notes on creating the image map/hot spots with text

Why I love plastic currency: I can find $15 that I’ve put through the washing machine (like I did the other day), and it’s not only intact, it’s unaffected apart from a few drops of water. Shake them off, and it’s ready to spend.

Tomorrow there’s an auction. It’s next door. I might have a look, purely for interest’s sake. The house is lovely, but way beyond my price limit, and too big for what I want. (What? 5 bedrooms? Who’s going to clean them all?) It’s at 11am. If my morning hair is still intact, I’ll just open the bedroom window and listen-in from the comfort of bed. Shouldn’t be too hard to hear. Auctioneers love shouting.

More money. I also posted an entry called “Money” to geekrant.org this morning. Synchonicity.