We took my grandmother out so she could have a break from the hospital. She got a few things at Woolies. We were walking along Anson Street when Mum said, "Keep your eyes peeled for fuel vouchers!"

"What?"

"You know, 2 cents a litre off at the Woolworths petrol station. Help me look."

If you spend $50 or more at Woolworths, they give you a voucher that entitles you to a teeny tiny petrol discount. My mother and grandmother save them obsessively. When they meet up it's like baseball cards. "I'll trade you three 2 cents a litre off for your expired 4 cents a litre. I don't think they really check the dates..."

You may recall that these dames love a bargain. So we should not have been mortified when they started pacing the street, plucking stray receipts from the pavement.

"Put that down, mother. You don't know where it's been."

"The other day I found about half a dozen on the way to the car, some people just toss them away without a care!"

"Mother! Get out of the gutter!"

"Just a minute! I've hit the jackpot here."

"Girls, there is nothing wrong with your mother wanting to save a penny!" declared my grandmother, plucking a docket from a rose bush.

Rhiannon watched them with exasperated expression, leaning against the car with her arms folded. "Do I share genes with these people? Where did I get my class from, I ask you? My sense of dignity?"

Mum and Nanny were crouched on the pavement beside the Trolley Return. There were fifty shopping trolleys nestled like rusty sardines, and they'd spotted two abandoned receipts right in the middle of it. They dug through their handbags for suitable implements to rescue them.

"Oooh. Nearly got the bugger."

"Muuuum," I whined. "They all expire on the 11th of October. Do you really think you're going to fill your car eight times in the next two weeks?"

She ignored me, brushing dirt of her precious finds and clucking happily.

"They're like fucking squirrels, that's what!" snorted my sister. "Bouncing around and digging through the trash with their arses in the air. Bloody squirrels."

He is in the hospital at the moment. The smell and brightness of the place is suffocating. My aunt and uncle are there too and we haven't caught up since Christmas. So we talk too loud and too cheerfully to drown out the sound of his broken breathing. He is weaker after an operation on Monday.

Later on the others have gone and the three of us can't take our eyes off him. His lips seem to have retreated back into his face, only moving now and then to curl up with pain. He is swallowed up by the big wheelchair and I almost smile, he is wearing huge aviator sunglasses because the light hurts. We are there for hours and hours and his body is perfectly still. His face is perfectly smooth and soft with hardly a wrinkle. We're all staring and trying to remember when he was tall and tan and strong.

There is a long minute where he slowly raises his hand and point his finger to my sister and beckons her over. He puts his hand over hers and she squeezes it, he gives this sad little sound. We talk to our grandmother about work and swooping magpies and any old shit. Then he points to me and my sis and I change places. His hand is like crepe paper. He hooks his fingers round my thumb like newborn babies do. Before the Parkinsons he was never a touchy kind of guy. I want him to know how much I care. I grip a little tighter. His hand trembles but he squeezes back.

A little while later we have to head back but we don't want to say goodbye. We all kiss him then hug my grandmother so tight. It feels so strange, she never hugged back so hard before. We don't know what's going to happen next, how long this will continue. No one wants to speculate or think about it. There's a heavier feeling this time. We leave the ward but turn back and go hug and kiss them again.

Out in the car park Mum starts to cry a little. But soon we're driving and somebody says something funny and we dive into that conversation and stop thinking for awhile.

I go to the Ladies Room at work about six times a day. The bladder is fine, thanks for asking. The new job is perfectly fine too. It's just sometimes you need to escape for a power nap.

(I still use the same pillows as I did two years ago. Has anyone been reading that long? I tried resting my chin in my hands but if you stay that way too long you end up with big red streaks on your face like gigantic love bites.)

Anyway. I was barging through through the door yesterday when I noticed the door makes a very pronounced groaning sound. And it's a very masculine groan. Like a kick to the groin. I felt kind of bad for the door. Sorry door, I said in my head.

So next time I went I was very gentle and the groan sounded almost like an appreciative moan. It is a door of many moods.

Today the office was almost deserted so I napped even more than usual and tried out all sorts of techniques on the door, to see what sort of notes I could hit.

You know when you kind of open a door with your butt/hip? This guy in the hallway wouldn't stop yapping and I was all, "Yes yes, gotta go gotta go" and sort of entered the Ladies Room backwards. The door gave a pained "Ooof!".

Then this afternoon for something different I got violent and charged at it with my shoulder, like a rugby player with a tackle bag. I just thought of a few nasty bastards that I would like to barge and it was quite satisfying to hear that "Urrrrrrrgh" from the door.

Tomorrow I will practice my roundhouse kicks.

Super Dave, Australian Air Guitar Champion and star of KFC commericals, "played" at the Holy Grail on Saturday night. My mate Peita, of the Paddlepop Chicken Adventure, sheepishly asked me and Rhi would we like to go. We accepted with great enthusiasm, for what else is there to do for entertainment in Canberra? Catch a session of parliament? Buy porn? Go to an Oasis concert?

Like any pub in September, The Grail was packed with sporty types, flushed with beer and victory from grand final matches. We had to wait until the AFL Semi-Final was over before Super Dave finally appeared.

He had the perfect build for the job - wiry like a greyhound, the long limp mullet, no arse to speak of. He'd slithered into a pair of leather pants that were very classily held together with a series of bulldog clips. He had an enormous silver codpiece zipped onto the front of his pants, it kept slumping to one side as he thrashed about the stage.

Super Dave was flanked by a swarm of Rock Sluts. They were officially called Rock Chicks, but Rock Sluts just seemed to fit better. They had lovely slender bodies but they were teamed with trashy outfits and pinched, rat-like faces like those scraggy girls in your high school class (the ones with the eyeliner and the Wodd'yoo farrrrkin starin' at?! screechy voices).

He only "played" one song the whole night. Ripped off! It was a very vigorous Song 2 with plenty of jumping and hip thrusting and windmills. But after that it was all audience participation, meaning the Rock Sluts trawled the crowd, dragging the drunkest souls up onto the stage.

I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. And I was completely sober! It was just so ridiculous. The barmaid showed real talent, as did the token ADFA boy and Peita's fiancee Leigh. Things started getting a little out of control when a mild-mannered accountant type came up, completely plastered after winning his soccer grand final that afternoon. He was finding it difficult to stand up. When the music started he played a few limp chords then grabbed the nearest Rock Slut and started madly thrusting his hips.

"Ya guitar mate! Where's ya guitar!?!" Super Dave yelped and tried to drag him away. Accountant Guy looked blank, stumbled a little, then resumed his vigorous humping of the Rock Slut. It was all so very embarrassing to watch. As a former employee, I wondered if Colonel Sanders would approve of his company endorsing such shenannigans. Wasn't KFC a family resteraunt? But at least the guy was in time with the music.

In the end all the contestants jammed drunkenly on the stage, with Super Dave going wild, jumping and writhing and giving us a generous eyeful of arse crack.

It was then we were reminded what a promotions machine the whole operation was. As soon as Super Dave played his last note, the Rock Sluts were bustling round the room, pulling down posters, gathering up remaining Free Zinger vouchers with great speed and precision.

Leigh, still buzzing from his moment of fame (and a few drinks), decided to buy Super Dave a drink. It really was a bittersweet moment. He handed Dave the beer and Dave looked quite taken aback and said, "You like Zingers? You want some Zingers?". Leigh insisted that he just wanted to buy him a drink, he didn't want anything in return. But Super Dave shoved Leigh's pocket with vouchers.

Ahh, the price of fame! Already he's become so jaded that he can't believe someone could buy him a beer without wanting a piece of him! But at least he was still approachable. Leigh boldy asked him where did he get those high heeled boots from? "I picked them up on sale from a place in the Cross", Super Dave replied. He hasn't become so consumed by fame that he can't buy his own high heeled boots.

Outside the Super Dave tour bus was park on the street. It features a giant picture of his mulleted head and bazillions of KFC slogans. The tour was going all over Australia. I wondered how he spent those long hours on the road? Perhaps there was a giant purple velvet bed in the back where he and the Rock Sluts had big Rock Orgies all night long (or maybe they just pretended to - Air Orgies).

But to me it seemed more likely he'd be sitting there with his feet up, quietly strumming his invisible instrument and thinking about how simple life was before he hit the big time; or crying in the cramped toilet after making himself throw up the two dozen Zingers he'd eaten that day.

Oasis have gone from packing out Wembley to playing the bloody Canberra Theatre. Next stop: Noel and Liam rock the Cowra Bowling Club.

Today the wind is wild and sounds like pterodactyls. I've been sitting here for awhile trying to pinpoint what it reminded me of. It's an insane screeching sound that's flinging the trees around. Earlier I saw a flagpole bend and sway then just snap at the base. It fell across a pathway, stopping inches short of a pedestrian.

Anyway, back in high school I started this stupid noise for something to do. You know in high school how everyone has a Thing they can do. Like being double jointed or making that farty noise with your underarms. My thing was being able to mimic teachers (our Science teacher Mrs W was a goodun) and "doing Pterodactyls".

I wish I could remember how it all started and how the noise came to issue from my throat. If anyone from high school is reading (everyone else I know seems to have found their way here) and can verify how it started, please let me know.

Anyway, basically it goes like this. "WUH WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!".

The WUH is rather low and gravelly and then the WOO is drawn out for as long as possible. It's very loud and sounds quite bizarre. And naturally, the drunker you are, the better you think it sounds. I remember being in a park one Friday night back home and there was about eight of us just making that noise, over and over. It sounded like a flock of somethings.

Someone reckoned it sounded rather prehistoric. You could almost picture a pterodactyl flying along making that noise. The WUH on the downstroke then the WOOOOOOOOOO! as they pulled their creaky wings up into the sky. Noone could verify what they really sounded like, so it became known as a Pterodactyl, or Terry D for short.

Over the years when people whooped and cheered at concerts or sporting events, I'd get a nudge and that was my cue to let fly with the Terry D's. It always got a few stares, but people would give it a go, and before long it really started to catch on. Seven years since we finished school, someone still makes that bloody noise when we get together for weddings or Christmas drinks. From stupid things do fine traditions grow.

So anyway, yes. That's what the wind sounds like today. Terry D's.

Text message conversations with Mr. Wrong Number.

About 3am
- WHERE R U RIGHT NOW?

9 am
- Who is this?

10 am
- ITS NATE
- I don't know a Nate
- OH MUST HAVE PUT IN THE RONG NUMBER NICE TO MEET U, WERE DO U LIVE?
- Canberra, and you?
- PERTH WAT DO U DO?

11.30 am
- Work for the govt. And you?
- IM A STOREMAN I WALK AROUND ALL DAY, HOW OLD R U?
- Almost 25.
- COOL SO WAT DO U DO FOR THE GOV?
- It's a secret. I have to go now.
- SO UR GONNA LEAVE ME HANGIN?
- Yes. Sorry.

1 pm
- SO ANYTHING U WANNA KNO?
- Umm. Is the weather nice in Perth?
- YEAH IF U LIKE RAIN AND I DO SO DO U WANNA KNOW HOW OLD I AM?
- Ok
- WEL I LOOK 20 I ACT LIKE IM 5 BUT IM 17
- Groovy. I have to go now.
- CYAH HAVE FUN

3 pm
- ALL WORK AND DULL PLAY MAKES SHAUNA DULL WOMAN :)
- SORRY IF IM DISTURBIN U BUT IM AT WORK AND IM BORED
- No worries.

4.15 pm
- SO WATS IT LIKE?
- What's what like?
- TALKIN TO A 17 YR OLD THAT LIVES ON THE OTHA SIDE OF THE COUNTRY
- Bloody weird.
- TIS AINT IT AND THE FACT THAT IM 17 DONT BOTHA YOU?
- Age doesn't matter in text messages.
- TO SOME PEOPLE IT DOES

Hmm. Yes. Good lord, I am desperate for conversation today. I am used to having Instant Messaging programs on my work computer and blathering away all day long. But I don't have installation rights on this computer. No chit chat. Instead I play with my phone and talk to young boys with their caps lock on. How very sad.

The flying tomato sauce was the last straw. For six months we've been trudging to the supermarket each week and trying to buy the lightest goods possible, because lugging them up three flights of stairs has proven to be a trial. We always seem to leave the shopping til the arse end of the weekend when there's only the slightest sliver of energy left in our bones. We've tried doing a few short trips, we've tried resting between flights, we've tried stuffing our backpacks with the food then slowly staggering up like an Everest expedition.

The fact is, we're just really bloody lazy. Last week we were on the top flight and I was shuffling along behind my sister. A bottle of La Gina Tomato Sauce with Basil suddenly fell out of her bag. It slowly rattled along the tiles and I watched it, mesmerised.

"Are you going to pick that up?" she asked after what felt like an hour, but was probably half a second.

"Whaaa?" I had shopping bags threaded up my forearms, it didn't occur to me to put them down.

Next thing you know the bottle rolled off the edge. I expected to hear that falling noise like on the cartoons. Three storeys, it fell. We heard it shatter and the air smelled all fruity.

"Oh, shit."

It looked like someone had been murdered down there. Someone with basil scented blood. It was all over the floor, smeared down the wall.

This week we decided to try something different: Woolworths HomeShop. It was so easy! We wandered down the virtual aisle, a click here, a click there. The delivery was scheduled for Monday night and we were ridiculously excited. We even cleaned up the kitchen so the delivery guy wouldn't think we were slobs.

At 8pm, the buzzer rang.

"G'day? It's John from Woolworths!"

"Oh great, come on up!"

"Up? What floor?"

"The top one!"

"That'd be fucking right!"

He sounded crazy. But we opened the door anyway. We saw three crates of groceries and a pair of scrawny legs poking out from beneath them.

"I am getting too bloody old for this shit!" said the crates on legs.

He trudged inside and dumped the goods on the bench, revealing a shaved head and shady teeth. He didn't draw breath once for the next five minutes as he unceremoniously unpacked the goods. Rhiannon and I just stood there, wide-eyed, as he rambled and bounced around.

"Here we are ladies! How are you this evening? Bit frickin cold tonight eh? I see why you get HomeShop, those stairs are a bitch! Oh it's your first time? Right. I better tell you a few things. First I'll need your card, swipe it here. Cheque Savings or Credit? Savings eh? I used to have a Savings Account but I traded it in for a wife and kids and a mortgage. I shoulda invested in a garage full of fuckin Harleys, would have been better resale value I tell ya.

"Anyway, what ya got here. Jeeeeeesus, you two are so bloody healthy! Look at all these goddamn vegetables! Where's the chocolate? Where's the chips? Y'don't even have a packet of Tim Tams? What's wrong with ya? Anyway, just watch out, Woolies are the sneakiest bastards in the world, they'll get the HomeShop stuff from the shittiest stock ou the back, the stuff they woulda thrown out otherwise. And as for your milk. You buy milk at the supermarket and what's the first thing ya do? Y' check the use by date, that's what! But most HomeShop people are stupid and they just throw the goods straight in the fridge without checking and the next day they have a big swig of putrid milk. No really it's true. So don't be that fucking stupid alright?

"Awww shit, they told me I gotta watch me language. I'm sorry if I'm offendin ya. Actually no I'm not sorry, I've been talkin like this for forty years and I ain't changing for no prick.

"Well that's about it. But I gotta tell ya girls, I won't be climbing up these fucking stairs for much longer, do y' know why? We're not delivering to apartments like these anymore. Some delivery guy got the shit kicked out of him in Sydney so Woolies have said, no more apartments, which means you have to meet me at the front and lug it all up the stairs yourself, which sorta defeats the purpose but at least you don't have to go to the fucking supermarket with all those screaming babies, wah wah wah. I mean, you two don't look like you'd hurt me, but you never know. You could be terrorists! I would never have thought Bin Laden was a terrorist just to look at him. People are full of surprises.

"Anyway, catch ya later. And remember girls, ground floor apartments are the way to go, orright?"

The pie apples and Sirena tuna were missing and the snow peas were shit. But overall, it was a memorable experience.

Sniffer Guy has intruiged the hell out of me all week.

Monday I was all new-kid bashful and doing my best to be invisible. I looked straight at my screen all day, but was distracted by a faint sniff sniff sniff coming from a nearby desk.

Tuesday I managed to look over my shoulder without fear of turning into a pillar of salt and successfully identified the sniffer.

Wednesday I thought I had it figured out. It was one of those Laugh Sniffles, that hfffft that squeezes from your nostrils when reading a funny email but not wanting to laugh aloud lest the boss discovers you have no work to do.

By Thursday I had some more theories. The snuffling was so constant that it couldn't possibly be an email. Everybody knows that emails are never that funny. So it was either freaky allergies or shennanigans with snortable substances.

Today it was becoming all too much. Every sniff single sniff word sniff was punctuated by raspy rattly nose noise.

For fuck's sake, buddy! I wanted to whack him over the head with a box of Man Size Kleenex. Blow! BLOW!

Problem is, he's a really nice guy. So is everyone else I've met on the first week. When I did the rounds of introductions, every single one had a friendly smile for me. On Tuesday I was hunting through the fridge for my salad when someone came in for a cuppa and started talking. I looked around, briefly checked the freezer compartment, before realising they were talking to me. I was rather surprised.

I made some brilliant mates at the Other Place, but for the most part it was impossible to get a nod in the hallway. I guess that came from the pressure of deadlines, budget cuts, layoffs and general sense of doom. But here these people just seem so relaxed and smiley and I like the coziness of it all.

Thanks to the people who wrote to ask me how it was going, I got a kick out of it that you remembered. I was too chicken to write about it for awhile. Monday I was too busy crying on the phone to the Mothership that I sucked and was too stupid to do the job. But as the week went on I found myself getting the hang of things. It's the first job I've had where I've had to use my brain. Almost three years of HTML monkeying and of course my photocopying glory days, I am used to being on autopilot. It's so strange to have to think and write and talk and come up with ideas.

I don't want to say I am enjoying it, you should know by now I am ridiculously paranoid and superstitious and think if I dare to say I am happy that it will all turn to shit next week. So let me rephrase. This week was great. There was no crying in the loos from sheer boredom and frustration, no photocopying, no staple removing, no data entry.

But I do miss the staple removing.

The Australians among you may have noticed something wonderful on their television screens in recent weeks: Channel Ten have reduced screenings of Everybody Loves Raymond from eight to just three episodes a week!

The biggest travesty was ELR's domination of the precious 7 pm timeslot. And now it's gone! No more baritone brother, no more meddling mother.

This is a triumph of the people, I tells ya. I didn't actually get around to sending the petition to Channel Ten, but I am sure they heard our message, somehow. Right?

Among the 146 protesters, there were some memorable comments:

Everybody Loves Raymond is a shrill pseudo-comedy." - Adam

"Boo Raymond, however ensure said programming is not replaced with equally unfunny Australian attempt at sitcom." - Jeb

"Channel 10 is my favorite station - but not for long." - Kristian

"Eyes glazed over" - Helen

"I break out in hives." - Saigonsam

"I unplug my tv every night at 7, just to make sure I don't see any." - Si