Now I wouldn’t normally mix business with pleasure like this, but I can imagine a lot of Melbourne people will be affected by this. Melbourne Central, in their wisdom, have decided that people getting off trains and going about their business do so far too easily, and they’d like to send them on
a merry dance around through the shops, whether they want to go shopping or not.

First you’ve heard of it? Not surprised, since among all the fabulousnews trumpeted by the centreduring its redevelopment, this seems to have missed getting a mention. Could that be because they know just how pissed off most station users will be? Even the train operator claims it’s happy with the situation, and the government? Well, they approved the plan.

It seems the only people not asked are those tens of thousands who will have to negotiate a maze of corridors andtrudge an extra few hundred metres, twice every day. Community consultation? Apparently pretty much not. So, if you currently arrive at work dead on time, better plan to catch an earlier train from November.

I promise, I tried to get to bed early last night. It had been a long day. I tried. Didn’t quite make it, but I’ve had later bedtimes on work nights, so there you go.

Anyway I was happily snoozing, until I suddenly woke. Outside it was light. I lay there for a minute or two, listening to the birdsong. Damn birds always seem so cheerful, no matter how early it is. How early was it? If it’s possible to stumble while lying horizontal in bed, then I did so, as I turned to look at the clock. 5:something.

Argh. 5:something. There’s only one sensible reason to be up and awake at 5:something. Some people would say it’s having partied all night, but I don’t think I have the energy for that. No, in my book 5:something should involve transcontinental flights and moving between time zones.

Oh how I wanted it to be 7:something, or at least 6:something, so I could at least pretend I’d got a good night’s sleep. But no, it was definitely 5:something.

I rolled over and tried, not entirely successfully, to get some more sleep. The birds kept twittering, but I must have got a little sleep, because the next thing I remember is my alarm clock going off. 6:40. Not actually the time I intended to get up (must have forgotten to reset it after Monday’s early start), but certainly a better time to start the new day.

Yawn. I feel tired just thinking about it. Maybe time for a nap.

Sweating today at work. Damn the air-conditioning for breaking down on a warm day. But it was a good excuse to go out for a walk in the glorious sunshine and get some fresh (well apart from the traffic fumes and the occasional passing smoker, cough, cough) air. If it’s like this tomorrow maybe I’ll take in some bathers and a towel.

So I was going to run some errands in the car, and I thought hey: it’s about time I checked the oil. After all, it’s been a while, and I’m in no hurry for more credit card crippling repairs like last year, caused in part by leaking oil. So I reach under the seat to the bonnet release switch thingy. Pull it. Pop. Go around to the bonnet. It’s not open. Oops, I pulled the fuel door one by mistake. Reach under the seat again and pull the other one. I hear a click. But the bonnet still won’t open.

Why won’t the bonnet open? What did the repair guys to do it last time? Have they jammed it shut somehow? I peek in through the gap underneath the front. Can’t see anything untoward. I get a screwdriver and poke around in there for the catch which you usually unhook with your hand. It moves, but the bonnet still won’t budge.

I give up, and drive off, fuming that I’ll have to take it back to the repair place.

A little way down the road I look in the mirror and notice the boot lid is moving.

Sigh. Maybe I should have stayed in bed today.

Had to laugh when looking through the paper today I found an advert for K-Mart. "Men’s 3/4 length pants" it said: "25% off!" Yup. Makes sense.

My tea mug at work is rather less than spotless. It seems to have various ingrained stains around the inside. Evidently no amount of scrubbing with a soapy brush will rid me of them. I try not to worry about it, since all I drink out of it is tea, and I figure every time I pour boiling water into it, it kills any lurking germs.

On the way home tonight I remembered that due to circumstances too embarrassing to relate, my fridge had been turned off yesterday afternoon and I’d forgotten to turn it back on. When I got home I inspected it, and not willing to risk killing everyone in the house, I rang my mum for advice. ‘Cos she knows about that stuff. On her advice, the frozen food, milk and sandwich meat all got chucked out tonight. Arrgh. Off to the supermarket tomorrow after work then.

I know I said I’d stop talking about this, but it’s too freaky not to mention.

1:15, I said I’d meet them. A couple of friendly journalists,going to a ministerial press conference, wanted to talk to me afterwards. As I walked the two blocks to Treasury Place, I passed office workers coming back from lunch, Asian tourists taking their pictures of themselves outside Parliament House, a gaggle of schoolgirls seeing the sights of Spring Street.

I arrived outside 1 Treasury Place. I stood alone, watching the picnickers in the sea of green that is the Treasury Gardens. I think I’ve only ever passed this way at night or on the weekend before, when the building was all closed up. Bureaucrats wandered in and out of the building. Security guys prowled around. I wondered if they’d nab me for loitering.

My phone rang. A radio station lady wanted comments. As I spoke to her a crowd of people - the techos holding cameras and microphones and dressed in jeans, each with their reporters, better dressed and holding notepads and folders gathered in front of me.

What followed was a surreal experience. A full on press conference. A scrum of journos, me standing in front of four cameras lined up like a firing squad, and a mass of microphones.

I hope I talked sense. I hope I didn’t look too silly (I was initially told to look at one person throughout, but forgot and moved my head around a bit when different people spoke). I hope I sounded sane. I’m glad I wore a nice tie today.

They finished and I had a few quiet words with the Age journalist. I started to walk out back to the street, and passed a guy in a union shirt. Trevor Dobbyn from the RTBU, also going to talk to them. I pondered this, then went back and watched his interview, then introduced myself to him, swapped cards. Networking.

Then I walked back to the office, a nobody again.

I feel exhausted. I need a beer.

Decorative, and safe as well: Condom flowers

As the lines between new media (and I’m specifically talking about the web here) and old media start to blur, one might expect to see some of the attributes of the old starting to sneak through into the new. Like product endorsement, for example.

Could this happen? Quite possibly. Some of the new media have reached quite dizzying heights, becoming major players in their own right, especially in the IT world, where such sites as The Register andCNet have become respected and influential news sources. Even in general media, there are such players as theDrudge Report and uhhh… uhhh… I’m sure there must be others, I just can’t think of them right now.

And then there’s the minor players. The tiny minor titchy players. Like me. Now, I couldn’t claim to be influential or famous. I’ve never been recognised on the train. (Well okay maybeonce.) Could someone trying to get their message across approach me for an endorsement? Would I take on a product or cause, and if I did, would anybody at all notice?

The Burnet Institutecontacted me last week about their work in HIV, and over a hot chocolate gave me a heap of publicity info and some terrific condom flowers, which they use for publicity and fundraising. As you can see from the picture, they look rather stunning in this vase on my bookcase.

Burnet do research and education into HIV, particularly in the third world. In parts of Africa and Asia HIV is already endemic, not only among the homosexual population, but also among heterosexuals. One of Burnet’s primary aims is to help stop it spreading further by the use of education and assisting government programmes in places like Laos, as well as looking at related health issues. A worthwhile cause if ever I heard one.

Apparently you can buy the flowers at Condom Kingdom in Prahran, and Burnet will be holding a fundraiser event later in the year. And if you want to send anybody avirtual bouquet of condom flowers, well, now you can!

It’s about a year since, after being refused a Foxtel connection, I decided to patronisePBS-FM for a year by subscribing. Now it’s up for renewal, and I’m considering how I want to spend my minority arts budget this year.

A lot has changed in the past year, and these days I find that at home I’m generally listening to CDs, and in the car, which tragically lacks a CD player, I’m generally listening to the
talk stations, trying to pick up on how the media is working, the art of sound bites, as well as the latest news. And while a PBS subscription gives a warm fuzzy feeling and a handful of discounts at various prestigious institutions, my current thinking is that my $65 will go elsewhere.

These thoughts and more occurred to me last night on the train home, when a busker boarded at Richmond. He asked the carriage if we’d mind if he sang some songs. When nobody replied, he proceeded to play his guitar, and it was with some shock that I came to realise he actually had some talent. Not to the degree of "Hey, why isn’t this guy in a recording studio somewhere", but his guitar was tuned, he could strum a tune, and what’s more… he could sing. Okay, so either the songs were all very obscure, or his own compositions (or both) because I didn’t recognise any of them, but he didn’t stumble over the words at all.

I had boarded the train expecting to stand in the doorway for 15 minutes reading the freebie paper and looking out the window. To my surprise I got live music of a half-decent standard, and he got $2 of my arts patronage budget, as well as similar contributions from many of my fellow commuters. After all, you’ve gotta love a bit of unexpected live music, and a busker who can play is something to be nurtured and encouraged.