Wednesday, 30 September 2015

Spies like us

There I was, walking innocently through Bishopdale Park, minding my own business, when a group of youths opened fire on me.

At least, I think it was the youths. It could have been the Mum with the stroller, carefully hiding a mobile phone on top of her baby, or the old couple sitting on the bench looking like butter wouldn't melt.

It's hard to be sure these days. I've chosen the minority team on Ingress, so the enemy spies are all about me. Opening fire just because I'm trying to hack their portal. Opening fire just because I opened fire on them first.

The only one I think I'm sure of is the young man who was walking toward me as I gave up and walked away. At least, I think I'm sure. He had a mobile phone in his hand and a blank expression on his face so it seems most likely. On second thoughts that could describe half of the teenagers hanging around the mall on their school holidays so that could be a bit harsh.

OMG. If I described half of the teenagers hanging around Bishopdale Mall maybe they're all at it. Maybe I escaped only through sheer good luck and a canny ability to not notice people on account of pets, plants, and rocks are far more interesting.

This was my first time playing Ingress. I didn't do very well. All of my hacks were unsuccessful, and although I picked up a lot of objects my inventory description assures me that they're all very common.

Still, at least it got me out of the house.

Not that I'm making that mistake again. Out of the house is how they get you. I'm staying indoors, and maybe applying for a portal on my clothes line out back so I can play happily by myself as all the best children adults do.

Monday, 28 September 2015


After waiting this afternoon for three hours for an email confirmation to turn up in my inbox to no avail, I remembered that I have a spam folder on gmail which I rarely visit.

I quickly located my lost email, and the second one that had been sent when I clicked on the 'If an email hasn't turned up press this button to send it again,' button, and the third and fourth which had been sent similarly before I became distracted by a 'dogs getting themselves into situations they immediately regret' montage.

It having been a while, I had quite a good nosy around my spam folder. I must say, at the end of my investigation I think I like it rather better than my inbox.

My inbox regularly receives invoices and bills to be paid. My spam folder, on the other hand, seems to cultivate a class of sender who is determined to send me money. There was an offer from a lovely man who works at a bank in China, and another from a Russian who I presume wants the same but I can't translate well enough to be entirely sure.

My inbox regularly receives notifications that the opportunities I've applied for have been graciously turned down. Even the ones when I offer to pay large sums of money.

To the contrary, in my spam folder the opportunities are flooding in. All that's required is for me to confirm that my email address is still valid and the opportunities will be tremendous and nett me a sweet profit for no effort at all.

Someone called me a dear friend, and wanted to know if I wanted to become fashion. Another person told me I'd won a Euro lottery which I hadn't even entered simply by virtue of owning an email address.

Somebody was even soliciting for a representative for their lumber company based in Vinh Niem and thought I might like the job. I don't even work with lumber. It's too sweet really.

My life would be so different if my spam folder was everything I received in the way of email. I'd grow close to random Nigerian princes as I fleeced their government of billions of dollars. I would rule the lumber industry, and I would win so many lotteries that I wouldn't even bother to claim them if they were worth less than 10 million.

Sunday, 27 September 2015

Sunday Sadness

A few weeks into my experiment with career breaking, and I've started to notice a strange thing.

On Sunday evening, previously, I would start to feel a little bit sad. The working week meant I had to get up early in the morning which I don't enjoy, and although I enjoyed my job, working is just a hard thing to do.

So there'd be the sadness that it was coming along again, and there'd also be the sadness that I hadn't done enough with my weekend, or I'd done too much so hadn't really relaxed the way I wanted to.

But then last Sunday I noticed, nothing.

I wasn't exactly looking forward to the working week, but I wasn't sad about it either. I didn't find it took another hour to fall asleep, and I didn't add a new worry onto my thought list a moment before I was about to drop off.

So another week has passed. I have continued to force myself to work during work hours, and take advantage of the 'no commute required' to surf the internet before I do so.

I have safely managed to accomplish things that I needed to, wanted to, and even things I thought I wouldn't get around to for a while yet.

Then I had a weekend off, doing barely anything, because how else would I delineate my week if not for that?

Tonight is Sunday night again. Once again I'm pleased to announce that I don't have that Sunday feeling.

I also have maintained that I enjoyed my job out in the real world, but I'm starting to wonder if that enjoyment was perhaps a smokescreen for not really enjoying it but having to do it anyway.

If seeing no mood changes on a Sunday night is a true predictor of enjoying a job, then I think I've finally managed it.

Now, if only there was some way I could make this one pay...

Check out Breathe and Release only $3.99 for a 'roller coaster ride; up and down, up and down and just when you think you are coming to the end, nice and slow and smooth, there is a sharp right turn and back up we go!' - Gayle Boyce It's a Mystery blog

Friday, 25 September 2015

Enforced Weight Loss

I think it's fair to say that our society is not one that encourages weight gain, or handles the appearance of the larger section of the community well.

I understand that some people may be aghast at the fact that I've gained a fair bit of weight over the last year. I could explain in great detail how the drugs that I take so that my brain can feel emotions again, happen to act on receptors that are located in my stomach thereby initiating a powerful hunger and act in a dual way by making my body move slower thereby ensuring that I take in more calories and burn off less calories, and altogether this results in weight gain.

Or, I could just say it's not my fault. It's the drugs.

I weighed (huh, weighed - get it?) up the situation before I went back on my SSRI drugs again, and decided that yes I would like to not commit suicide more than I want to stay a size twelve.

It's a hard choice, and one that you have to make for yourself.

Notice, I said FOR YOURSELF.

I don't know what you were thinking, Pizza Hut, when you decided that the monthly treat that my darling and I allow ourselves should be amended.

Yeah, okay, I'm overweight. I still paid $3.50 for my cookies and cream mousse, and I expected it to be in the bag when it arrived home.

I see that you've teamed up with Domino's Pizza in ensuring that I never receive a full dessert order with my pizza ever again. Well, guess what?


I can't boycott you. You're the only pizza left that I like.

But I'm very upset. Take that.

Thursday, 24 September 2015

Giant Pandas

Okay, hands up who has spent more time in the past month watching the Giant Panda cub at the Smithsonian, than pondering the plight of Syrian refugees.

Yeah, I thought it couldn't just be me. Little cub is so cute.

And not too little anymore as it clocked in at 2.95 lbs at the last weigh-in.

This has been especially interesting as debate is renewed by Wellington Zoo seeking a couple of Giant Pandas for its fabulous zoo. It's even considering swapping a couple of Kiwis to sweeten the deal. The birds that is, not some random New Zealanders who don't know what they're getting into.

Who would've thought that a vegetarian single-food-source animal from a foreign land (unless you're Chinese) would have proved to be so popular worldwide?

Apparently, the expected cost for such an addition would run to about $100 million. And then they have to pay for the bamboo on top of that!

Still, having a look at the Giant Panda cam does make it seem worth it. I'm sure a lot more people would want Pandas than a new flag.

Just an idea, but maybe if they had Syrian Refugee cam, and trained it on the littlest and cutest, we'd pay more attention.

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

Flagging Interest

Up until today, I thought when I filled out my voting form for the New Zealand flag change, I was going to strike through the whole paper and write 'Red Peak' out to the side.

Like many New Zealanders, I was quite upset when the four finalists were selected and the laser kiwi didn't top the list. What sort of flag referenda can you possibly run without a kiwi shooting green lasers from its eyes?

The laser eye trope has a long history, if you're into comic books and scifi television. Surely, there's no better way to demonstrate the sometimes churlish kiwi attitude but to represent it with burning lasers.

Alas, it was not to be.

Then, out of the disgruntled wilderness, there was a rallying cry 'What about Red Peak?'

I didn't know what about Red Peak as it didn't contain lasers therefore had escaped my attention during the whole process. I looked at Red Peak, and it seemed nice enough.

It was simple, it had a peak, and some colours. It looked very similar to a company's trademark so it had obvious commercial appeal.

Now, however, it looks like it may make it through to the ballot paper and I've gone off it again.

It's one thing to strike through the options on a voting paper and writing down a choice clearly not allowed. That's civil disobedience and should be encouraged even though it's been a long time since I was a teenager.

It's another to select a popular option from a presented choice. Yuck. Not really the point, people.

So, I now have the option of striking through the five new presented options and writing 'Laser Kiwi' next to it (thus invalidating my vote and making a mockery of Kate Shepherd's fight and being part of a civil disobedience unit of one) or just voting to retain the flag we've already got.

Just in case you wanted to fully understand my conundrum I have sourced the flag options available:

The first four choices:

The latest addition:

Our current flag:

And the flag of my dreams:

In other exciting news my latest short story, 'The Breaking Wave', has gone live for pre-order on Amazon. You can find it right HERE - BUY BUY BUY BUY BUY

And, of course, you can still access any other of my books on Amazon HERE - BUY BUY BUY BUY BUY

Phew, marketing obligations for the day met.

Sunday, 20 September 2015

Lost pages

My first novel, 'Found, Near Water' was last updated through Kindle Direct Publishing in October last year. Due to an upcoming sale, I decided it was time I gave it a revamp to update it with my later works and also formulate the ebook a bit better with the things I've learned in the last eleven months.

So far, so good. The updated file looked amazing compared to the original. The pages linked up properly (instead of having half the dedication on the copyright page, etc, etc) and I had a nice shiny new end-piece to show I wasn't a one-hit wonder.

I uploaded the lovely new file into Amazon, and waited for the bookshelf to update.

Less than twelve hours later I was told my book had been published, and the shiny new version was now available for download to any new purchasers.

Excellent news.

Except today I went into my Bookshelf and discovered that forty-five pages of my book have disappeared.

Not for the readers, they still get the whole thing, but for my KENPC or Kindle Edition Normalized Page Count.

Where, previously, they'd clocked in at 366 pages, they'd now dropped down to 321.

Where did they go?

With a horrible feeling of doom, I checked that the entire book had actually made it across to the publishing platform. Uploading a copy into Calibre, I made sure that each and every page was exactly where it should be. It was.

So what had changed? Should better formatting result in a lower royalty?

The answer is IDK and NO!

At least, looking about on the Kindle boards, it appears that other people have encountered this problem. Some people changed a few words and reloaded to find a hundred pages gone, and others did the same to gain an extra forty.

I'd never worried about the secret formula that Amazon used to calculate the KENPC. For my books, until today, the results had been in line with the word count, and then the rest was just unknowable made-up stuff. Like all your best business partners should have.

Looking through the vast array of commentary, it appears that the worse your formatting, the higher the page count.

If I load up a file already in .mobi format, then my page count would be expected to tumble. If I loaded up a file in .docx then I could expect a wee boon from the page fairies.

The problem being, that if I've created a mobi file, it's going to look a hell of a lot better than if I chuck a word document in there and let the programming elves convert it.

Somebody pointed out that if I took an ePub file and converted it to a mobi file then I might gain my extra pages back. I don't know whether I would or not; I couldn't in good conscience upload the result because the conversion decided that what the reading public is hankering for are extra Tables of Content.

The one at the front was mine, and looked okay, but I'm not sure about the ones that got affixed to the back. Kind of irrelevant by the time you make it that far.

But what does this goobledegook all mean at the end of the day?

I think I'll be about 22c worse off every time somebody reads by first novel through the Kindle Unlimited program. Amazon, I think the least you owe me is a cup of coffee.

Friday, 18 September 2015

Wherefore art thou, Typo?

Ah, the humble typo. Proof indeed that the proofing I've invested so much money in, hasn't worked again.

One of the reasons that I wait with baited breath for the first reviews to come in on my novels, is not to find out how the world is going to react to them (although, you know, that too) but to find out if this time around I've invested my editing money wisely in a competent proofreader.

My standards aren't that high. Just find every single mistake so that I don't have to. Or, even worse, my readers don't have to. This is why I outlay the princely sum of [insert current spend here $50.00, $350.00, $599.00 but with a $50.00 return customer voucher] before I go to publish my latest work of ridiculously excellent prose.

Sometimes, I can easily find out early enough that the outlay wasn't worth it. I've had manuscripts back accompanied by emails in which the proofreader mangles the English language, and then find on the first page the words circled for correction are fine, but there are three other obvious mistakes that have made it through.

Other times, it all looks okay to me. I read through the paperback proof copy labouriously, not finding anything that needs correction. Then, within a week of publishing, have feedback saying I may want to check that again.

It would be nice if proofreaders came with some sort of money back guarantee. For every typo spotted by a reader, I get a refund of $5.00 off the proofreading fee, for instance. If anyone finds this deal out there, feel free to drop me a comment with a link.

I expect it will be as widely available as a doctor who you only pay when you're cured.

Some may think that this is the scourge of the self-publishing industry, but it's not so. I notice errors in every book I read, and take great delight and comfort from them. If they're self-published I even do the courtesy of letting them know.

My all-time favourite isn't really a typo. In Stephen King's Apt Pupil there's a line near the beginning which explains how Todd's parents met:
His mom was a housewife and a secretarial school graduate (she had met Todd's father one day when he needed a secretary from the pool)

And then later:
He looked at her for a moment, frowning, then shook his head a little. Je ne comprends pas, cherie.' His limping French was a joke between them; he had met her in college when he was flunking his language requirement.

I look that up every time I need a reminder that these things happen to the best of us. Apt Pupil was turned into a movie and it still hasn't been corrected.

Apparently typos are also due to my brain's function. Well, not just mine, yours too. When my brain is on higher minded things like conveying meaning through the use of language, it just doesn't have time to get bogged down by the lower mind functions of things such as spelling and word choice. No. It's operating on higher level functions, baby.

Unfortunately, when extracting said meaning from those words as a reader, spelling and word choice becomes far more important. Damn.

Maybe readers would be less annoyed if I offered a reward. Find five typos and send them in to me, and I'll reward you with the money that I used to foolishly pay to proofreaders!

Would probably go very well, except for the day when five hundred readers find the same five typos at the same time.

Further suggestions welcome.

Wednesday, 16 September 2015

Outside world

It's only been three days that I've been away from work (apart from my holiday which I didn't count because I would've had that anyway) and already the strain is starting to show.

Previously, when I walked through the door at the end of a hard day at work, or even a lazy day at work, I didn't particularly want to engage in conversation. A riled-up complaint sometimes, but really just what had already been repeating through my head for half the day.

Now, when my darling arrives home, I suddenly recover the art of conversation. I can talk about all the things that have happened all day long, and even though not a lot happens I can spin it out for a while. I can even follow him into the bedroom while he's changing in order to continue my very-much-one-sided conversation.

For some reason, he hasn't changed to be receptive.

The same expression that used to flitter across my features when he started to moan on about a bunch of people I'd met about as often as I could remember their names, now flitters across his.

When I was contemplating taking six months off from the real world to pursue my dreams, I occasionally joked that it was similar to other women taking maternity leave.

I didn't realise then that I too would be craving adult company after a day dealing with babbling children.

(ps Babbling children being my new nickname for myself)

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

Until Dawn

Having hit my word count for the day, and needing to keep my exercise promises to myself, I fired up the PS4 yesterday and jumped on the treadmill.

Well, not jumped really. Just cautiously put my feet down when it started off at 1km per hour and then acclimatised myself gradually.

You'll be please to know that I no longer cling onto the arms of the treadmill while I'm using the machine. I have graduated to walking and balancing on my own two feet. Yes siree, I'm as accomplished as a toddler.

Unfortunately, I discovered an unpleasant feature of my newest game, Until Dawn, is a tendency to crash part-way through the game. I followed the instructions and deleted it off my hard-drive, and then redownloaded and reinstalled it - a mere three hour wait - but it wasn't having any of it.

It's very hard to find out online if this is a common feature as well. The premise of Until Dawn is a teen slasher thriller, and the game changes depending on the choices you make throughout in a butterfly effect fashion which is labouriously explained in a sequence that I found you can't skip.

Due to this, when people are trying to pinpoint the common point of where the game crashes, it becomes a bit hard. Apparently there are a few folks who find it crashes when teen A, B & C meet in the mines. Sounds great. Unfortunately, in the sequence a few cut-scenes back, I chose to let teen B die, so he's not there, and teen D who I miraculously saved hasn't made it out of the lodge yet.

Not to mention that I think they may have missed a trick, because when teen E met her maker, she also took teen A with her in my version, so I would have only teen C wandering around in the mine, not finding any help whatsoever.

So at the point where my version crashes, I have teen F and teen D wandering around the lodge, and lord knows what happened to teen G who barely seems to be participating at this point ever since teen H was dispatched.

It gets very confusing writing this down, but I don't want to have any spoilers in there in case people make exactly the same pattern of choices as me and end up in my version of the game.

Which is a pity, because if I did trail spoilers through here at least I would know if they crashed in the same place. Not that they'd be looking up Until Dawn Crashing in order to find this blog if they didn't.

Anyhow, I have managed to start the game again successfully because it's difficult to stay committed to the treadmill when all you have by way of entertainment is the blue screen of Playstation death, or the downloading symbol gradually advancing from 3% to 16%

I'm deliberately trying to change my decisions so that I don't end up at the same point, and therefore won't have to worry about it crashing in the same scene (and I accidentally killed the wrong teen at one point because I thought you pointed to the picture of the person you wanted to kill, not the person you wanted to save) but that's probably about four hours of gameplay and treadmill from the start.

As a minor distraction I tried to play a few rounds of the Binding of Isaac, but every time I got to a boss fight to get to the next level I'd wander off the side of the treadmill, so I had to give that up.

And they wonder why it's so hard to get people to exercise regularly.

Saturday, 12 September 2015


The other day I was idly looking through a selection of photos wondering which of them was worth splashing out the princely sum of $1.00 for in order to put it on my next cover, when I made a decision which I will no doubt regret.

I was looking for a photo of old letters, maybe with a red seal on them, maybe typewritten but more probably handwritten. Lots of sepia tones and with the feel of a quill about them.

I knew exactly what I was after. And that was when the fatal idea appeared in my head.

Why don't I just take the photo myself?

First of all, it would save me one dollar. Second of all, I could take it from a lot of different angles and end up with something that looks exactly like the picture inside my head rather than just the closest I could get.


Of course it's not brilliant. Now I have to do a whole lot of work that I didn't scope out before committing to the project. And don't think that I can just turn around and change my mind back. That would make me a failure.

So I gathered up a variety of materials that I thought would work. My partner has an old seal with a supply of red wax (no I don't know why he just does, okay) and I found an envelope that was already sepia toned. A wonderful start.

Then I just needed to get some sepia toned paper and get my handwriting skills on.

Every young child reads at some stage about how to make paper look old-timey. You just get a nice selection of tea and you spill a few drops on the page, and then sweep it about a bit and dry.

I set to work. I already had some strong tea, leftovers from the morning, so I was one-up there. I also had paper, shiny-white and pulled from the gleaming brightness of a newly opened ream.

So white.

Never mind. That was all about to change. I dribbled a few drops of cold tea on the page and wah-lah! I had a bright white sheet with a few wrinkling tea coloured drops on it.

Okay, not to worry. I'd just wipe them about a bit with my hand, and then they'd start to look like old paper. Yip. Nothing to it. Or, since that wasn't working, I'd just add a few grains, or a pinch, or a quarter-teaspoon, of instant coffee and that would give the right... okay. That just doesn't really work at all.

Crafts though. You can't fail. You just find yourself making things you weren't anticipating. I'm sure they'll look fine when they dry up.

Oh! Tea leaves. That's my mistake. I'm meant to use tea leaves, not tea.

Except they kind of adhere to the paper, don't they? Just a moment. No. Definitely tea. Not leaves. Just tea. And coffee.

Well, that's all just put to the side anyway because I need to practice my good old handwriting. Just like I learned in intermediate school for one term because we had an old teacher who refused to let go.

First off, I obviously need a fountain pen. A sharpie just isn't going to cut it.

Who would've thought it. I don't actually have a fountain pen. But, really, do I need one? The photo isn't going to be in all that close focus - certainly not now anyway, the tea leaves would be a bit too offputting - so I could probably get away with a ballpoint.

Well, not a ballpoint, so actually I will try that Sharpie.

And wah-lah!

Only a $1.00 for one of those pre-prepared photos you say? What a bargain.

Wednesday, 9 September 2015

Banned Books

Back at the beginning of January I wrote a blog post on censorship.

I don't like it. The thought that someone else gets to tell me what I can and can't read, play, or watch, drives me absolutely crazy. It makes me feel like I'm a little kid again, and my parents are in total control.

So it wasn't much of a surprise that I didn't greet the ban of "Into the River" by Ted Dawe with a lot of gratitude this week. I also don't thank anyone pointing out that it's not a "ban" it's subject to an interim restriction order pending a decision by the Film and Literature Board of Review is much help.

Can I buy it? No. Or, at least not in New Zealand, and if I order it from overseas Customs could seize it upon entry to our country.

Can I take it out of the library? No. Unless I go overseas and a library there has a copy.

Can I borrow it from a friend? No.

So, what's the practical difference between an interim restriction order and a total ban?


Of course, the only reason I want to read the book is because I can't. That's probably going to be very good for Ted Dawe's if the interim order is replaced by something showing insight and forethought, because I'm pretty sure it's a lot more popular this week than it was last week.

Family First also have taken pains to point out that when they did their Christian Lobbying thing they were only trying to restrict the sale to young people, not ban it entirely.

Well that's good to know.

So, what's so appalling about the content of this book that a young man or woman wouldn't be trusted with making up their own mind as to whether or not they wish to read it?

It has the C-word. Ohhhhh. It also has the S-word and the F-word. Ahhhhh. There's also a bit of sexual activity and some of it isn't in a consensual type way. Yuck. Sex. What teenager wants to read about that? What are the chances of a teenager encountering coercion as part of sexual activity?

No wonder the book got unrestricted, restricted, unrestricted, banned. What other type of book written for young adults contains that level of filth?

Funny you should ask that question. Mine does. Mine also comes with a warning label that I voluntarily put on the book suggesting that it wouldn't necessarily be suitable under the age of 17. I was rather hoping that teenagers would read that and want to buy it more.

So, if anyone wants to read a book that's just as horrifying but isn't subject to an interim restriction order a ban you can click on this link and purchase away.

Unlike Into the River, it won't come up with a polite sign saying "This title is not currently available for purchase."

Monday, 7 September 2015

If you Thync it...

As a reward for the harrowing trip home yesterday, I had arranged for the delivery of a present to lighten my load.

It may have been the result of excellent planning. It may have been a coincidental dispatch delay from Amazon, and the extra days incurred in having a parcel valid for US delivery only delivered to New Zealand instead.

Whatever, it was a nice happenstance anyhow.

Being me, the present I'd decided to order was a new gadget. But not just any old gadget, no.

This isn't a bog-standard gadget for wasting my time pleasantly, or keeping me connected, or even keeping me entertained. This was a new Thync and its purpose is to perform mind control experiments on myself.

*Hand claps with excitement*

The unboxing ceremony was exquisite. There was the outer packaging box, then the paper, then the actual outer box of the item, then two soft packets containing vibe strips, then a note thanking me for purchasing, then a short user guide, then an inner box with the Thync module and another two user guides, then under the inner box where there was a carry pouch and another two soft pouches of vibe strips, and then the bottom of the box.

It was quite tiring, and after all that unboxing I went to bed.

The purpose of the Thync module is to connect to your head using either an energising or a calming "vibe" strip (which is a sticky thing which snaps onto the module and runs electric pulses to certain points) and then use an app to control the strength of the pulses. This is meant to result in either an energy boost, or a calming effect.

So, seriously. Mind control.

I had been looking forward to the arrival of the gadget for many weeks. A lot of that enthusiasm drained away however, as I attached the sticky patches to my face and neck and then prepared to electrocute myself.

I can't have been the only one to have seen 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.' I made sure there was a water fountain nearby for a quick getaway.

With trepidation I started up the app for the energising vibe. Maybe if it works I could replace my early morning cup of coffee which takes four minutes to prepare and consume from start to finish with a fifteen minute vibe pulse which takes twenty minutes from start to finish.

Well, not unless something radically different happens tomorrow morning when I strap it on. Nothing. Apart from some lovely buzzing around my scalp which felt a bit like someone running an orgasmatron across my head. But far more expensive.

Never mind. Tonight I was less phased out by the weirdness of the whole operation and leaped straight into the calming vibe. It offered a range of modes and I opted for Sleepy which was the strongest one, because why not go whole hog.

Yawn-time. In a good way. I was yawning half-way through, and by the end of the twenty minute session my eyes were at half-mast.

Good going so far, and rather exciting for a good ole insomniac like me. If it continues to provide a sleep time vibe like this I may have found a rather easy replacement for Zopiclone which comes without potential liver damage or an extremely horrid bitter taste that lasts all day long.

Whoop whoop, snooze.

Saturday, 5 September 2015

Adding to injury

Sigh. The time has come to pack up and make the long trek home.

It's currently 26 degrees Celsius outside, and back home they're expecting snow to low levels tomorrow. This can't be happening.

At least I've had a lovely long holiday, and managed to gather the world's largest collection of sandfly bites. They, along with my tan (and my peeling flesh from where I overdid it on day one), will no doubt be hidden under long layers of clothing for another couple of months so no one gets to see.

This afternoon I was staring out at the path that runs along the length of the beach, saying goodbye to it all, when a pair of women came along the path dressed to the nines.

I sometimes worry that I overdress when I'm in such sunny climes, but I've never gone so over the top as to wear a full-length royal blue dress made out of what looks like silk. The woman thus clothed would have stood out like a sore thumb, except her companion was wearing a floor-length (or sandy-beach-path-length) black lace dress. They were perfectly, though oddly, matched.

Fifteen minutes later another group of younger, slightly less overdressed whilst still being significantly overdressed, people walked slowly past the door. There was definitely something going on, and I didn't think it was to do with the free palm readings at the vegetarian cafe.

Half an hour passed, and then a group came wandering along explaining everything I'd seen before. Cream silk is an odd choice of fabric to wear when you're going to the beach, but judging from the tiara it was a meticulously planned outfit and quite obviously something that only a bride would wear.

Only a bride, or me on Halloween when accompanying it with an emailed story around the office, a noose, and copious white and black makeup.

If the bride dressed all in (almost) white wasn't enough of a pointer, the little girl dressed in gold and cream almost-matching silk cinched it. She didn't have a basket of petals yet, but I could see where this was heading.

The flower girl stopped briefly outside our rental house to fight with a long stick, then make friends with a long stick, then play with a long stick, but was soon scooped up by a well-dressed father-of-the-bride who promptly turned her upside-down to examine the soles of her feet AS THOUGH WALKING A SANDY PATH WAS SOMETHING A GIRL COULD DO WITHOUT GETTING HER FEET DIRTY!

I can still feel empathetic indignation.

I found the whole parade quite rude. Not only am I leaving paradise tomorrow, but a group of people partaking of an event that I'll sadly never be asked to partake of was just unnecessary.

The bride may have thought that today was all about her, but I know it was all about me. Now it's time to go and say goodbye to the pool.

Thursday, 3 September 2015

Sad feelings

The only problem with holidays (and I may be wrong on this as I haven't researched them too extensively, although I'd love the opportunity) is that they come to an end.

While I'm not quite in that boat at the moment, the event horizon is visible and starting to exert some gentle sucking.

Sunday morning, we'll wake up as though it's just another day in paradise, and then have to pack up all our stuff into mysteriously smaller bags than we started with and begin the trek home.

Sometimes that seems impossibly far off. Impossible in the, "I can't believe it's really going to happen so I'll ignore it until it does," type way. Other times, well, sigh.

If our holiday was a pottle of yoghurt, the tip of our teaspoon has just scraped along the bottom. There's still a fair whack of dairy goodness left, but we're on notice for what's coming next.

And the worst thing about these holiday niggles, is that nobody who isn't on holiday at the moment facing the same conundrum doesn't express any sympathy whatsoever. You unfeeling illegitimate children.

I suppose it would also be going to far to ask for empathy as I say that right at the minute I'm feeling uncomfortably hot from all of the unending sunshine, and I can't work up the enthusiasm to get into my swimsuit for another swim. Poor me. #firstworldholidayproblems

I'm certainly far too hot to keep typing. I don't want to accidentally sweat any more symbols off my laptop keyboard.

Tuesday, 1 September 2015

Beach Art

Today, in Mission Beach, we've held a 'Beach Art' competition on the main beach. The contestants each had to pick a spot, and then roll the sand into little balls which they then formed into intricate works of art, with more or less success.

Here's a shot of the practice area so you can understand the basic concept.

Once the contestants got the hang of the process they staked out areas on the sand to try their hand at creation.

This is from one of our juvenile contestants, and won the prize for 'Best First Attempt'

That officially means that no one could work out what the picture was of, but at least he gave it a go.

The next award was given out for an abstract work, which is entitled, 'Warrior on Back of Fire Breathing Dragon.'

Maybe if you tilt your head to the side and squint a little?

Second Runner Up award went to a good effort, albeit a little plain, 'Two Flowers.'

Why, yes. Yes it is.

Next up is the First Runner Up, or the alternative title of First Loser, with a work called, 'Man with Spiky Hair, Pointing Backward.'

Perhaps next year he'll submit under the Abstract section, and be in with a real chance.

Now we're getting down to it. Now we're into prize territory or, at least, bragging rights. Third place went to a lovely piece under the heading of 'Firework.'

Beautiful detail, thought it's apparent that the artist ran out of time to finish completely.

Tied for second are two pieces. I realise that usually this would have knocked out the third place award, but we had a long of young contestants this year and couldn't be bothered explaining the finer points of placing competitions, so hush now. The first of the second place entries is entitled, 'Jellyfish with Trailing Tentacles'

and the second is entitled, 'Flower Bursting Open with Puff of Pollen.'

Oooooh. Aaaaah. Right, enough of the non-winning entries. Onto the main event.

The winner of the Mission Beach Art Award for the 1st September 2015 goes to... (drum roll) 'Dragonfly.'

A truly stunning entry from a challenging field effort. If we try we may be able to catch a word with the winning artist... Sir?


Please, sir. If I could just have a word?

Nope. He's gone. Well, that's the end of the coverage for today. Beach clean-up begins tonight, although the tide should probably have that covered, and we'll start a new competition again tomorrow at mid-tide. See you then.