Day 9... Maybe: any resemblance to anyone's pants, living or dead is purely coincidental,'also their bottom size.

I have just woken from a dream in which I had some sort of super power. As I was dispatching by my wicked enemies. I recall thinking that it would make an excellent story, and, in the way of dreams, it slipped away from me. It is very likely that it wouldn't have made sense in the real world, though, the more optimistic part of me things that it could have been a best seller.

But writing is not all I hack away at, I also make noises with my voice and a guitar. So, when presented with the chance to play to an adoring Australian public, I leapt at the chance.

Discounting the bar man, my friend who got me the gig, and a small and rather rowdy dog, there was but one person... There may have been a lizard, though it didn't make itself known. I assume that my other potential audience were off poking crocodiles in the eye, playing the wobble board and other such things that tv has depicted Australian's doing.

I am sitting outside on the bogan as the son winks at me from behind suggestive clouds. We are planning a day on the beach, a big sandy thing like a field, but dead and populated by life guards, yoga practitioners... So picture bossy farmers and flexible cows, and I think you'll get the picture.

The other, most gripping alternative, is to do some washing. Eye the air is so humid that a bedraggled pair of pants can hang from the washing line for days on end; soggy, and a thing of great curiosity for little lizards.... Unless the pants in question happen to be from someone with a large bottom, in which case the size of the lizard can be proportionally bigger. And there I go again, turning to mention of pants...

Day... Sod it, lost track... A wet day anyway

Well, that thirty five seconds of sun was worth the journey... I am no longer paper white, rather I have the tone of a ghost that's been on a son bed. I am a veritable vitamin d machine.

I am sorry to be so typically British, this blog reads like a weather report of the biblical flooding of the world. We do love to talk about the weather.

I ventured out last night to utterly miss some jazz and talk about the rain. Luckily my bank card didn't seem to be working so my partner in crime had to buy all my drinks. I always take the brighter view when faced with such issues.

Sarah and bridge have just left for work, it would appear that my annoyance at the weather doesn't make for an attractive quality in a house mate... They were running as they left, leaving a slight stench in their wake. Bridge, ever careful with money, has refused to buy a new pair of jeans, even though the pair that he currently wears and persistently forgets to wash, has developed more culture in its creases and folds than the country in which both jeans and owner reside.

I have been preparing for a gig, trying to remember songs and attempting to clean some clothes. The air is so damp that days pass and by shorts, shirts and pants still drip as if shedding lavender scented fears over the high albedo of their owner and sometimes inhabitant. My clothes and I are on the same page.