Monday, 26th June, 2006.

Last week I went to see Richard E. Grant's autobiographical film, Wah-Wah, a wonderful portrayal of life lived among the silly, pompous Brits as they clung to the remnants of Empire, this particular piece of Empire being Swaziland. This is not to say I did not feel a genuine affection for these people and the very odd life they had created where one maintained standards at all costs while keeping the natives at a friendly distance. After all, I grew up in England at a time when there were only two nationalities: British and Foreigners - and the Foreigners were the unlucky ones (and, yes, I am blushing as I'm writing this).

I've been aware of this question of nationality recently because of the World Cup where it seems (and I don't know the rules, of course) that anyone can play for any team - as a commentator said of the Australia/Croatia match the other day, "Our Croations beat their Croations". And tomorrow "our" Italians play "their" Italians and Norton Street, Leichhardt (Little Italy) will be closed for eight hours while this win-win situation is joyfully celebrated - mama mia! The only people losing out during the World Cup seem to be the referees who are now definitely the baddies no matter what their nationality.

Anyway, I have been awake during the early hours to watch the Socceroos and the dogs have raised their heads in mild surprise as I yell and throw my hands in the air and utter expletives. I'm cheering on the Socceroos and the Poms so it's good that I'm home alone with my divided loyalties: I once cheered the West Indies at a one day match at the Sydney Cricket Ground - very nasty. I won't be making that mistake again!

16th June, 2006.

I've had a bit of a blog problem lately. The last posting came out in a smaller, different font and I've no idea why. My computer probably knows but as it is so whimsical that it tells me I've performed an illegal operation if I simply touch the space bar, what hope do I have that it will reveal all? Yesterday was my birthday and I was surrounded with love. Well, I'm always surrounded with love but a birthday puts love right in your face and I sucked it all right in, thank you all my darlings.

Anyway, I've embarked on another year now which is a bit ridiculous as only a nanosecond ago I was riding home from school on my bike. I spent many of those years wanting to be a spiritual being until I had an epiphany and realised the bleedin' obvious that I already was a spiritual being and it was my non-acceptance of being a human being which was causing the hiccups. I've chopped off my wings to walk the Earth with six billion others, experiencing individual and collective humanity. As Krishnamurti says (God bless him): "I do not lead a personal life - I lead the life of humanity". So here we all are then, together, as one, creating the epic and starring in it. Awesome. Cecil B. De Mille, eat your heart out.

I wonder which type size and font my computer will choose for this post? I am at its mercy.

Thursday, 8th June, 2006.

Good Lord, it's stopped raining. We've just had a three day deluge called "occasional showers" by the weather man. I've been in Sydney for 25 years now and I've never experienced a shower yet. Anyway, this morning is bright and clear and brand new and the harbour is a-sparkle. I still get a surge of excitement when I'm driving across the Harbour Bridge - after years of looking at pictures of it in books and postcards, I'm actually on it and I can't take it casually - there's always a "Wow!" factor.

I've noticed that the Aussies are very possessive about their icons - they say, "our Harbour Bridge", "our Opera House", "our beaches", etc. which sounds quite strange when one isn't used to it. I can't imagine saying "our Big Ben" or "our Tower of London" as an indication of national ownership - or do I mean pride? It's showing off a bit, I suppose - and why not? Australia is but a teenager, constantly looking in the mirror and seeking reassurance as to her identity. The ancient wisdom of the Dreamtime has been killed off and hasn't yet been replaced with anything substantial to feed the heart and soul. Early days, yet - and as Bill Hicks' newsreader says: "It's all going to work out. Here's the sport."

Sunday, 4th June 2006.

Friday night. Pizza and chocolate cake and red red wine and we hurt ourselves laughing. We linger on past midnight, tired, loath to leave - one more cigarette, one more anecdote - and the dogs move amongst us, press against us, love being with us, joyful beings that we are, buoying one another up with smart repartee, bringing out the best of ourselves and suprising ourselves. Laughter around the kitchen table. Maybe there is something better but I haven't found it yet.