It’s something I’d have never expected. A miracle. If I were a Catholic, I’d be shouting for someone involved to be beatified.

My car is in for repair. And it’s not going to cost me a cent.

It’s been making a nunga-nunga-nunga sound for a while now. I finally waited until my credit card was clear enough that I could stomach yet another repair bill, then took it to get it looked at. The repair bloke rang me to tell me it was a fault in the wotsit and affecting the thingamajig. O no! Not the thingamajig! O woe is me!

But then he said the words that were magic to my ears: "Because you just had a new engine put in, it’s covered under warranty".

I couldn’t believe it. Was it my lucky day or what?

Well I wanted the car last night, so I picked it up, then dropped it off again with them today. The engine place were going to haul it down to some godforsaken spot in Clayton and work on it today, and all being well I’ll pick it up tomorrow. And it’ll cost me zilch. Wow.

Obviously this chain of events has left me in something of a state of shock, because after dropping the car off this morning, as I walked to the station to go to work, I realised I didn’t have my wallet. I’d left it somewhere at home. Oops. I suddenly felt very flustered. My normal wallet pocket didn’t feel right.

Once upon a time
I had a mental checklist that I used to reel off every time I left the house going to work. Diary, phone, hankie, wallet, lunch… that kind of thing. Maybe I need to do something like that again.

Thankfully I had $3 with me, enough to buy a $2.70 ticket to get me either to work on the train or back to home on the bus to find my wallet. But diverting via home would mean another hour or so before I got to work. And while I have fairly flexible working hours, it was already 9:20 - to roll up to work around 10:30 might be pushing it. So I went to work instead, safe in the knowledge that one of my good colleagues would lend me a few shekels to last the rest of the day. Which they did. What nice people they are.

The other night just as I was going to bed, I heard a kind of yowling, screeching sound outside. Cats. Cats fighting. In my generously appointed backyard, it sounded like. I put on a dressing gown (because a thick cotton gown is ample protection against the howling wind and cold of a Melbourne night in September, before Mother Nature has twigged it’s meant to be spring) and took a look outside the back door.

Two cats were rolling in the grass, claws out, fighting for truth, justice, and what they knew was right. And making that kind of cat fighty noise that cats do, but for which I am struggling to come up with a suitable verb.

Thanks to the fact that you have the internet installed on your computermachine, you can listen to it, just by pointing your mousey thing here and clicking: catfight.mp3 (63Kb)

They noticed my presence, and stopped fighting. Like a couple of little kids caught doing something they quite obviously shouldn’t, they stared at me in the dark. I stared back.

I paused. We all kept staring at each other. Then deliberately fast, and putting my best intimidating foot forward, I took a half pace towards them. They bolted into the night.

7am. Argh. Until a couple of minutes ago, I thought it was 8am. My alarm clock is an hour fast. No wonder I found it so hard to get out of bed this morning at smegging 6 o’clock in the morning, an hour before I normally get up. If I wasn’t so awake, I’d go back to bed now.

11:30am. I’m so damn forgetful. And for someone who has an online diary, I don’t seem to be very good at writing things in my real diary. Imagine triple-booking a lunch. Well, maybe not a triple booking, but certainly a double-and-a-half booking. I not only forgot I was having lunch with a bunch of mates, I also forgot I was having lunch with a couple ofout-of-towners who are in Melbourne for the day, AND I brought in leftover pizza to have for lunch too.

Oops. Well the pizza will keep until tomorrow, and one of the lunches has been morphed to an afternoon coffee.

Maybe I need a secretary.

From time to time there comes a point in every online diary when one writes amedia release about oneself. I helped write one the other day, not purely about myself, but I certainly rated a mention. The difference is it actually went out to the media, though I’m not sure it was newsworthy. Still, in the interests of my ego and in documenting any significant (or, let’s face it, tiny and trivial) event in my life, here’s the headline and an excerpt.

MEDIA RELEASE - 12 September 2003 - All Change at PTUA HQ

Melbourne’s key public transport advocacy group has some new faces with the retirement of two prominent campaigners on Thursday night. … At the meeting PTUA members elected Daniel Bowen as President and Anthony Morton as Secretary for 2003-04. Both are experienced campaigners, with Mr Bowen editing PTUA News since 2001 and Dr Morton serving as the PTUA’s Policy Director for a number of years.

No caption, my most prominent pimple was showing, and the reporter got the organisation’s name wrong. Even though I watched as she wrote it down in her notes. Oh well. And I’m not really that thin.

Eventually it should be online here. Now, it would be easy to dismiss the Public Transport Users Association as a tiny fringe group. Or conversely, to assume it’s a monolithic organisation like the RACV. It’s neither - it sits somewhere in the middle, with 700-odd members (and some of them are quite odd, I’ll wager) and a small core of about a dozen active volunteers who do the actual legwork. And I’m one of them, though I’m still not sure where I find the time.

Being President of an organisation run by volunteers doesn’t actually give me any power. I can’t get them all to lobby for a train every 5 minutes from my local station to the city, 24 hours a day. They’d tell me quite rightly to piss off. It’s just a figurehead position. I wouldn’t have nominated for it, but nobody else did.

On Wednesday, it was Channel 7’s turn to give me (and more correctly, the association) a few seconds of the limelight, though to Channel 7 viewers, I was a nameless talking head from the Public Transport Association (sic).

Oh well, at least I was wearing a nice tie.

I had stood in front of Parliament station for a few minutes earlier in the day, chatting to the reporter. I’ve now relaxed in front of the camera, but now I’ve got to stop relaxing so much that I forget to say vital things for The Cause. They also did the bit where they film the grillee shooting the breeze with the griller. As well as the obligatory "walk towards the camera" shot. None of which they used, but someone in the office still recognised me the next day.

Amongst all this egotistical swollen hot air balloon head drivel I do have a serious question to ponder. The two TV reporters I’ve met recently have both been women. Both seemed very pleasant, easygoing and intelligent, and it was noticeable that neither were bimbos. Perhaps (one can hope) the theory that women on TV and in the entertainment industry generally are past it at 30 is only a myth? Or is it just that neither of them will ever get to host Today Tonight? But then, maybe they’re too intelligent to care.

9am. I just heard that theSt Kilda Pier Kiosk burnt down overnight. Memories of the pier have come flooding back to me. It won’t be the same there with it gone.

Okay, cloth bags are definitely going mainstream. On Saturday I went for a haircut at my usual barber. I’m definitely going to have to study the football before going next time - he talked almost non-stop about it and I was barely able to contribute anything other than make agreeable noises and bemoan the fact that Geelong’s season was over quite some time ago. Afterwards I nipped into the supermarket for a few things.

I found myself in the checkout queue, with the bloke in front and the bloke behind me both having brought cloth bags with them. I felt ashamed that I’d left mine behind at home. I almost decided to buy another one there and then before deciding that I would let it slip just this once, since I already have more than enough cloth bags, and ironically I’m short on plastic bags for re-using for garbage and things.

Then last night I was back at the supermarket (I’m incapable of doing one shop a week), and at least two of us in the queue had cloth bags. Perhaps even without the big stick of charging for plastic bags, cloth has reached critical mass, where people concerned about plastics see enough cloth bags around that they don’t feel self-conscious joining in. Quite frankly, just seeing the other bloke with his made me want to give him a high-five.

But before I get too self-congratulatory, on the other side of the environmental balance sheet, I noticed on Sunday night that an oil column heater in an unused room had been needlessly left turned on since Thursday morning. Oops.

So there was this Volvo right behind me as I drove down Grange Road. The woman driving it was trying her best to live up to theVolvo tradition - weaving all over road, trying to see if she could overtake me on the inside, for a couple of Ks down Grange Road.

We got to the T-junction at South Road, where the left lane can turn left or right, and the right lane can only turn right. I was turning right from the left lane. You following this? Okay. I saw the Volvo pull up behind me, noting its lack of indicator. Yup, the Volvo tradition. I was quietly pondering how outrageously difficult it is to use one’s indicator (the switch is, after all, right by your hand, which is normally located on the steering wheel in such situations) when she flashed me.

Why was she flashing me? Did she want to turn left and couldn’t figure out the arrows painted on the road, and therefore assumed I was in the wrong lane? Was she flashing me because I wasusing my indicators, and being a graduate of Volvo University Of Dodgy Driving she found it offensive and unnecessary to do so? The traffic light changed and we drove off, she turning right as I did, leaving me wondering what she was on about.

Around the corner was my destination:
Kathmandu. Of all the outdoors shops named after Asian cities, this is probably my favourite. This was the Hampton East branch, and don’t get me started on the stupidity of the locality of "Hampton East" extending to a point literally across the street from central
Moorabbin.

They have a sale on at the moment, and I wanted a jumper. The Kathmandu sales are well known, but I’m still struggling to understand some of the logic behind them.

1. They seem to have sales every few months, and they last for about a month each. With the high level of discounts, I contend that you’d have to be out of your mind to pay full price. Or else they’re counting on the "Pack your bags, we leave for the Arctic tomorrow!" market.
2. They announce the sale in advance, including within the store, so if you’re shopping there the week before, you have full knowledge of whether or not the product you’re going to buy will be cheaper (considerably cheaper usually - 50% is not unusual) if you just wait and come back.
3. Further, I’ve been told by someone who should know that before the sale they start preparing sale goods, roping it off in isolation from the other stuff, so even if you are desperate to buy a particular item they won’t let you have it. "Sorry". "But I really want it! I’ll pay full retail!" "Come back on Thursday."

No matter, I found a nice jumper at half price, bought it, and went back to my car, whereupon a lady passing by pointed out that my petrol cap door thingy was open. Ah. Okay Volvo lady, I forgive you.

I’m tempted when in the street being asked if I have change, replying "no, I haven’t", and handing over a $20 note.

I’m tempted to stick "Keep left unless overtaking" signs on the escalators at Parliament station so the 2% of people who haven’t worked out escalator etiquette will get the hell out of my way.

I’m tempted to take all the speakerphones belonging to people at work who don’t have their own offices and replace them with non-speakerphones.

I’m tempted to spend all of Saturday sitting at home, eating chips and pizza, drinking beer, and catching up on all the movies over the past decade that I meant to go see but didn’t get around to. Or maybe I’d just end up watching all of The Young Ones and Bottom.

I’m tempted to let the grass and bushes in the garden grow into a jungle.

I’m tempted not to tell the Tax Office I’ve moved.

I’m tempted to never get the car serviced again, to just run it into the ground, then replace it. With something cool, like a new Mini.

I’m tempted to blow a bunch of money and/or frequent flyer points on a holiday somewhere far away and exotic.

I’m tempted to eat all the Tim Tams in the packet.

I’m tempted to upgrade my mobile phone to one of those superduper ones with a camera and Java games and all sorts of other diversions for the train ride home.

I’m tempted to ring up work and tell them I can’t be arsed going in, and then spend the day in bed reading the paper and munching on toast.

I’m tempted to climb over the bonnet of the next car that stops blocking the pedestrian crossing that I’m trying to use.

I’m tempted to poke my head through the trapdoor in the ceiling, to have a look around with a torch and try and see if I can spot the possum I suspect has been doing callisthenics up there.

I’m tempted to buy every Doctor Who DVD available and watch them all back to back.

I’m tempted to get this PC upgraded. I’m sure it didn’t used to be this slow.

I’m tempted to go for a long long bike ride this weekend.

I’m tempted to buy a pinball machine so I can play pinball in the comfort of my own home.

I’m tempted to scrap the spam-ridden e-mail address I’ve been using for the last 7 years and get a new one.

I’m tempted to dance naked in the moonlight in my back yard. Maybe when it’s warmer.

I’m tempted to go right through the house, chucking out anything that I know for certain I haven’t used, looked at, or thought of using, in the last 6 months.

I’m tempted to drop what I’m doing and get to bed by 11 tonight.

…

but I probably won’t.