I got suckered in to watching the rugby tonight. It's amazing how sport can morph you from sane person to Pom-hating monster in a few short minutes. Yes, I'm aware there's more to the British Lions team than Englishmen, but it's much more fun to rage against a Pom than the other three countries. Anyway, the Wallabies got soundly beaten, despite me yelling "die you pasty faced bastards!" at the telly. It's amazing how quickly you forget your own very pasty complexion and English ancestry at these times.

My sister, who has about the same knowledge of rugby as me (sweet bugger all) had a tantrum, maintaining that it's unfair that England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland get to combine for this superteam, they're got such a big pool to choose from, and we're such a tiny innocent sparsely populated nation! Therefore the only way it could possibly be fair would be if the Lions played the cream of the Aussies, South Africa and the All Blacks!

Sore losers? Us? Never! :P

I don't know if it's my rosy complexion or lack of dress sense that gives me that look of youth, but twice today I've had random strangers in the lifts look at me and my temporary staff pass and say, "Hi there, you must be here on work experience from the high school?". I sputter indignantly and say, "I'm a contractor from A Big Nasty Company! I'm 23.5 years old! I have a car loan and everything!"

Mmmmm, pizza. We wanted it bad last night. Or rather, we were too lazy to cook. Plus it's a good 5 degrees colder in our kitchen than it is outside. I'd got home late and my sister was parked in front of the heater in her pj's with no intent of moving. So we decided on pizza. Not the greasy home-delivered kind, but the yum and cheap Zeffirelli kind. So I called them with our order and then we headed out to pick it up.

"I'll drive and you run in and get it," said my sister, "coz I'm in my PJs"

"Okay."

"Is it legal to drive in slippers?"

"Sure it is."

She double parked while I ran in and grabbed the large San Luca, only $8.80! The place was packed as usual so it took me awhile. Finally I was outside again and Rhi had managed to find a park. She licked her chops and eyed the pizzas as she started the car.

The headlights flickered, once, twice, then nothing.

"Faaaaark!" I announced to passing strangers. "Not again!"

She turned the key again but nothing. Not a single light on the dash, nothing. "That's a brand new battery!" I ranted. "I paid $110 for that!"

"And I'm in my pyjamas!"

"But even if the battery had died it would still try to start, it'd make that dying cow sound like last week, so it can't be that..."

"I've got ugg boots on dammit!"

"I'll have to call the NRMA. Can I use your phone?"

"My phone's at home, don't you have your phone?"

"You know I never take that thing anywhere!"

"Well either do I!"

"There's no public phones around here, we'll have to go look for one"

"YOU have to go look for one! I've got blue PJ pants with clouds on them!"

It was too bloody cold to traipse around looking for a phone, so I took my chances at Ocean Master Seafood. It's a local, dodgy chain - a poor man's McDonalds, except with fish instead of... whatevers. The guy behind the counter beamed as I walked into the empty shop, behold! a customer! He was crestfallen when I said I just wanted to borrow the phone, but was kind enough to let me. The NRMA chick cackled at our predicament and said someone would be there in an hour.

"Look at this as an opportunity for us to have meaningful conversation," said my sister.

"The pizza looks good."

"Yes, yes it does."

The guy arrived at about 8.30. Rhiannon dived into the back seat. The guy poked and prodded around the battery and asked, "Who the hell installed this?"

"Some place that the last NRMA guy I saw recommended to me!"

"Oh. Well, they didn't do it properly!"

"Bah!"

Five minutes later he was gone with a slice and we were on the road again. Incidentally, the pizza was lovely.

There was a lady walking in front of me today who produced a perfect disco beat. As she pounded the footpath most rhythmically with her Nikes, her thighs smashed together, making her polyester pants swoosh deliciously, back and forth like hi-hats, chh chh chh chh. Initially it was a slow, sauntering Stayin' Alive pace but then she built up a good, swift tempo and I found myself humming You Should Be Dancin' and shaking my booty until I tripped over a magpie.

Those little bastards are everywhere in the city. They strut around making that trademark arrrrrrrrrrrrrk that sounds like a cow being strangled. They fluff up their feathers in the cold so they look like black and white pompoms with legs and insist on scrounging around for food right beneath my feet.They're Canberra's answer to pigeons. Although we have those too. Hmm.

I've been pimped out to a government department for the week to peform extra shitty mind-numbing shoulder-breaking trained monkey hijinks, so once again there'll be few dispatches from moi. What's worse the only software they have here is goddamn Microsoft Frontpage! What an abomination. "It's doesn't matter does it?" said the client, "It's all HTML, right?"

No photoshopping going on, I assure you. Just lousy composition! Miss Dee wrote about how lovely the Canberra sky is at night, and I have to agree. I took these today on sunset at Glebe Park, camera freezing to my hands as Harry impatiently wound his leash round my legs.

It's cold here. So cold that Gordon, the (female) dog across the street, has taken to wearing socks.

Great start to the day! Had to be at work to upload a Very Important Document at 9am but when I jump into the car at 8.50am it wouldn't bloody start! Now here I am waiting for the NRMA. Again. Blah.

Update: The battery was dead. Got a jump start then got a new battery. Also was told by both NRMA Dude and Battery Dude that my car had the WRONG battery in it ("too small for you car") and whoever put it in there was a thumping moron. However car seemed to have managed to function correctly since 1999 when said battery was installed. Perhaps was conspiracy between NRMA and Battery dude so I'd have to spend $102 on new battery.

Update 2: no I did not leave the lights on all night and flatten the battery. I'll have no further emails suggesting so!

Man throws sausage roll at policeman. Whoever thought that questionable meat wrapped in flaky pastry could be a dangerous weapon? The Canberra Times took a rather boring angle on this story, but the local news channels added the more exciting morsel that they actually did DNA testing on the offending snag roll to see if it matched with the alleged offender. I wonder if it was sauced?

The rain stopped briefly on the weekend, just long enough for the cars to race. But now it's returned for the working week, purely to play havoc with my hair. The constant drizzle has the effect of making the top section plaster to my skull, and the bottom flick out like Carol Brady. No amount of brushing or swearing seems to fix it.

By 4PM it's almost dark, with just enough light to see the cars whizzing down Northbourne. The road is streaked and glossy like icing on a cake. Good enough to eat for some - I just saw a yellow Gemini go by, it was flying well over the speed limit when the passenger door opened suddenly. A girl leaned out over the edge, laughing and yelling, swaying dangerously close to the road, before someone inside the car pulled her back in.

Another guy just broke down in an old Fairlane. He managed to get the car up onto the island strip, beneath a sagging gum tree. He banged his head on the steering wheel a half dozen times, then got out, slamming the door behind him. He's about 5 feet nothing and a built like a marshmallow so his body wobbled madly as he kicked the front tyre over and over. Now it's started to rain again, and he's trying to manouver across three lanes of traffic, red faced and still muttering, presumably to call the NRMA, or to throw himself under a truck.

These scenes make me feel soooo relatively sane.

Yesterday my sis and I went to the Monet exhibition at the National Gallery. It's been here for months on end, but of course we leave it to the second last day to go, and on a long weekend no less, when the crowds were ridiculous. I also threw caution to the wind and drove there. We ended up spending more time circling the building for a park than we did looking at the paintings. When I finally scored one, right near the entrance, I got out and danced around my car screaming "WOOHOO! I've got a park and YOU HAVEN'T!" to passing traffic.

I hate crowds. I always go grocery shopping or to the gym late at night just to avoid people. They annoy me. They smell bad, they're annoying and they talk too loud. So the hoardes of Monet lovers made me feel so claustrophobic and irritable. We had to barge in front of goateed wankers and dumpy old ducks to get a glimpse of anything. I can't remember much. There were some water lillies. Some bridges over water. Some irises. Hmm.

Crikey, I felt like such an ignorant schmuck. I so desperately wanted to be dazzled by the paintings but my lazy old brain just couldn't focus clearly, I was so distracted by the crowds.

(My reaction was better than my mothers, I guess. Mum tries so desperately to sound cultured when we all know she has a stack of Phil Collins CDs at home. She called me up after she went, shrieking like a born-again Christian, "You have to see Monet! The way he uses the light! The light! Oh, Shauna, the light!". And so on with her frightfully obvious commentary. She may as well have said, "The paint! The paint! The way he puts it on the canvas!")

We also saw the gallery's latest accquisition, Lucian Freud's After Cezanne. We started at it silently for a long time, waiting for one of us to come up with something intelligent about it. Finally Rhiannon said, "I've seen less exposure on an episode of Big Brother Uncut"

Fine art conisseurs we ain't.

Harry nearly got flattened just now. By a Hyundai Excel of all things. If my little puptart is going to be mincemeat, I'd rather it be beneath a classier vehicle.

I often take him to a little park that's plonked in the middle of a cul de sac, surrounded by trees so he can't be distracted by the major road. But now all the trees are bare. He was sitting on the park bench beside me and I had just leaned over to hook his leash back on when he looked up and saw another dog up on the road. Before I could react he was barrelling onto the street and the Excel came speeding by at way more than the 50km/h limit.

Brakes screeched and horn blared but Harry just sauntered over to me so nonchalantly. I didn't know whether to hug him or kick his scrawny little arse. Arrrgh! I looked into his dopey eyes and said, "Do you realise you nearly JUST DIED!?!" I was rewarded with a blank stare and a lick on the nose. Bloody hell.

"the set was so fake, it only have a fake eiffle tower and a little hotel and of course the ugly moulin rouge. where is the street? where is the people? the movie was suppose to look like it had been set in paris, not on the little dirty corner. and plot was so corny and the actors could've talked more instead of sing. the moulin rouge suppose to have tons of beautiful women, but only Nicole kidman looked decent to me. everyone else was old, ugly and fat, the moulin rouge seems like a pig show instead of a night club."

I'm deriving much amusement from the Moulin Rouge user comments at IMDB.

O what a beautiful morning. Grey and cold and rainy. I took this pic of Telstra Tower from my window yesterday arvo, it looked like a swish of watercolour. Today you can't see it at all, the fog is so thick.

Perfect weather for the big grunty car race this weekend!

Every day at around 3PM the same big white truck rumbles down Northbourne Avenue beneath my window. It's a Target truck, carrying lots of lurid polyester and dodgy soft furnishings, I'd imagine. It has that annoying big red target symbol on it, except this one is a variation on the theme, it's a big smiley face and there's huge text screaming down the length of the truck: TARGET. WE'RE NOT HAPPY UNLESS YOU ARE.

Without fail, every 3PM-ish, it whizzes by (I tried to take a photo of it but it turned out a blur, much like my portrait of Alex Popov). I have theories about this recurring truck. Remember in The Truman Show, when Truman notices that the scenery is looping behind him? Perhaps I am living on a giant sound stage! Now wouldn't you tune in to The Shauny Show? Perhaps you are already? I just flashed my boobs at you, did you enjoy that?

Or perhaps Target is in cahoots with my company, and they drive that truck past my window just to remind me to be happy and work hard like a good little prole. Well okay, I'll be happy. Because as the truck has pointed out to me, unless I'm happy, a multi-national retail chain won't be happy. In turn the shareholders will be displeased, the management will become disgruntled, then the checkout chick with the greasy hair and attitude with be churlish, and eventually the innocent little customer will be unhappy, and that big red target symbol on the truck will turn into a frown.

So I'll smile today. I couldn't bear the guilt of triggering all that unhappiness.

One.Tel sent us poor customers an email assuring as that it's business as usual and don't panic, your phone is not going to be disconnected, blah blah blah. I know I should probably start shopping round for a new provider, but I really am quite lazy. Other companies already harassing me to switch to them. I had a nice encounter with an Optus guy last night:

"Hello, I'm Joe Bloggs from Optus, are you currently one our customers?"

"No."

"So you're with Telstra?"

"No."

"So who are you with then?"

"The infamous One.Tel"

"Oooh One.Tel. Let me tell you now, I've heard lots of rumours, they've been disconnecting their customers, left right and centre! Have you heard about our cheap long distance rates?"

"No. But I'd be delighted to know about them"

"Well we have X, Y, Z and blah blah blah and blah blah blah. Now I can switch you over to us tonight right now if I can just get some details from you"

"I don't want to switch right now thanks."

"Are you sure? Because this is the last night we're contacting One.Tel customers with this offer..."

"OH! I SEE! If you knew all along I was a One.Tel customer, WHY THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU ASK IF I WAS WITH TELSTRA!?!"

"Umm... umm... well... I dunno..."

"Not very honest, is it?"

"I know. I'm very sorry."

"It's okay. I know you're only doing your job"

"Yeah. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

"Nah, I've been expecting your call."

"Oh... really?"

"Yes. You know, with One.Tel going down the gurgler and all. I knew you'd come after me"

"Oh yes. Of course. It's what we do. So... you gonna sign up?"

"Noooo! DAMMIIIIIIIIIIT!"

*click*

I fell down the stairs again last night. After two years of multi-level living, I still can't get coordinated. Was making the climb up to bed last night when I remembered I'd left something downstairs. Too lazy to put a light on, I picked my way back down in the dark.

Then there's a moment that lasts for an eternity, in which when you extend your leg too far, start falling falling falling, until you're finally deposited onto the foyer in a crumpled heap. In the midst of that moment it suddenly dawns on the brain that you've missed a few steps, a hand reaches vaguely for the bannister, but it's all too late, you're sprawled out with a mouthful of carpet, swearing and moaning about broken bones and sprained pride. Meanwhile, your sister appears at the top of the stairs, cackling at your misfortune.

At least last time I fell it was because I'd been walking down with a basket of towels to wash, and missed a stair because I couldn't see my feet - I landed arse-first into the basket and it was nice and soft. This time I'd misjudged the bottom of the stairs by a hefty five steps, and I have the bruises to prove it. Nothing hurty enough to justify a day off work, however. Next time Gadget, next time!

Hmmm. Moulin Rouge. Saw it this arvo. What to think? That movie is a trip. Baz Lurhman is one crazy bastard. I still can't decide if I liked the movie or not. It's a very exhausting two and a bit hours.

The first twenty minutes were hellish, with much of the trademark frantic zooming and some insane dance numbers. But then Nicole arrives looking simply delicious, and her voice is tolerable enough. Ewan can belt out a tune very nicely, but he could sing like Tiny Tim and he'd still butter my muffin.

Critics have said the film is all style and substance, but for awhile the wild colours and lavish sets assault you so much that you don't notice the crummy dialogue and absence of plot. Most songs are tedious and dripping with fromage - they bastardise everything from Nirvana to The Police to The Beatles to Air Supply. But everytime Baz pulled something so bloody irritating I'd be heading for the exit, there'd be an amusing scene that'd make me think, ahh, it ain't so bad. Loved it, hated it, loved it, hated it. So tiring. Must admit though, the love story sucked me in. I can't resist that kind of rot. Or perhaps it was just Ewan's baby blues melting me into my seat. Swoon.

It doesn't really matter if you like the movie or not, just going for the ride is a hoot. One thing you have to say about ol Bazza, good or bad, he gets a response out of you. I saw a trailer for Planet Of The Apes today, and I can't imagine I'd have any response to that except Planet Of The Steaming Pile Of Turds. It's impossible to sit through one of Baz's films and not feel something, be it joy or loathing. After watching Strictly Ballroom I remember being hyper, my friends and I dancing down the street, after Romeo and Juliet I... hmm... wanted to kneecap Leonardo Di Caprio? And after this one, I just felt like singing and wearing corsets and draping myself in diamonds. And shagging Ewan McGregor.

Who wants to round up a posse and take out this annoying little whippersnapper?

Miss Dee broods over the demise of Canberra's coffee culture, as Starbucks opens in Civic. They only just popped up in Manuka a month ago. Stay tuned for Starbucks Parliament House. And Starbucks Fyshwick, coz there's nothing better than a hot steaming cappuccino while after a hard day's porn shoppin'.

Something always comes along to jolt you out of the self-pity pit and back to reality. My mum's cousin went to the doctor the other day with a headache and came out with the news he has some sort of inoperable brain tumour and has about six months to live. He's only in his early 40s with young kids. He's coming up from Sydney for the long weekend to see the family, possibly to say goodbye.

Meanwhile, his uncle - my grandfather, who you may remember me writing about before - is still here. And still deteriorating so slowly. He refused to eat for a week, until my grandmother finally told him, "If you're trying to die, starving yourself will take far too long!"

Now his tactic is to hide his pills. He has an army of them that he has to take three times a day, dozens of little shapes that do absolutely nothing but stop his heart from giving out. They don't improve his quality of life - they can't make him move again, they can't help him speak. I don't understand why the doctors keep giving him more and more drugs to keep him in this state of limbo, prolonging the inevitable.

Lately he didn't swallow the pills, he hid them in the cracks of his armchair, until my grandmother discovered the little stockpile. Now she stands there until they're swallowed. Briefly I wondered why does she make him take them?, but then, how could you deal with the guilt if you didn't?

I know it's morbid, but I think about his funeral. I write eulogies in my head. I dream of chosing words so powerful and moving that everyone forgets the past six years of his life and can only think of what went before. I'd remind them how he'd come in from the shearing shed for morning tea, smelling of oil and lanolin, teasing and annoying my grandmother as he ate his Sao's. Always with tomato and Coon cheese. Strong black tea in an old enamel mug. I'd remind them how in the 60s he ranted about politics and wanted to move the family to Canada because he felt that was the only country the Commie Bastards wouldn't take over. I'd remind them of his rude jokes and sarcastic comments and stubborness and sharp mind. Everyone will laugh and cry and noone will think of him in that armchair with empty eyes and wilting body.

I don't understand why my grandfather keeps going on when he's in so much pain, then someone like my cousin in the prime of his life will make such an early exit. Life is strange. Anyone got a better explanation?