Cross-posted to Lost In Transit

So here's the biggest filthy lie everyone will tell you as a wide-eyed young Aussie backpacker about to jet off - that your novelty accent shall be a one-way ticket into the hearts and minds and underpants of every foreigner you'll meet.

It just hasn't turned out to be the case, simply because there's just too many bloody Australians in Edinburgh to ever be considered a novelty. Everyone knows that London is brimming o'er, but I never expected so much of Down Under to be Up North.

On any given bus trip, you're guaranteed to hear at least one other Aussie, usually chirping away on their mobile phones about their forthcoming trip to Turkey, mate. I've also encountered a hairdresser, two recruitment consultants, one boss, assorted shop assistants and drunken dozens in the queues for Fringe Festival shows. And just when I'd got used my Scots gym instructor yelling at us to "squat doun!" or to "poosh! poosh!" those barbells, she was replaced by a Melbournian with a rippling torso.

So for the most part, people over here don't even notice that you talk funny, let alone whip off their dacks because of it. The only time my accent has been seen as different, it has led to confusion and tears. I'm working at Geriatric Rescue again, where elderly people call if they've fallen and can't get up. Between their thick and wobbly tones and my horrible drawl, it's been a struggle. I try enunciating clearly, ironing out the harshness of my vowels. But it's not working too well. One creaky old man shouted in frustration, "I just cannae understand ya, hen! It's like you're speaking a foreign language!"

And then last week, there was a little old lady with strangely suspicious and accusing tones.

"Where are you from?" she asked, after I'd most kindly called her a doctor.

"I'm from Australia."

"Aye, aye," You could almost hear her eyes narrowing. "I thought as much."

Momo wrote wonderfully about those suffocating office days when you want to throw a printer through the window and take yourself with it.

This kind of feeling is all too common. Mouse Rage is my problem - the act of rapidly pounding the poor beasts belly on the desk while hissing Motherfucker! motherfucker! And it's rarely the mouse's fault.

What to do with all this office-induced aggression? It's one of the great questions of the modern age. It reminds me of that other great question of the modern age (yes, there's only two) - what to do with the millions of obsolete computers?

You can solve both problems in one neat little package: PC Driving Ranges. Instead of golf balls it's beige plastic goodness. Build it in the middle of some depressing industrial estate, thousands of little booths to simulate that cubicled feeling. Then step right up and for a fiver you can hurl half a dozen computers from a great height. Shout and scream and let the blood boil in your belly as you watch a machine soar across the sky and split its guts all over the ground. That's theraputic.

And you know those pools filled with coloured balls that kids like to splash in? How about we dig a hole in the ground and throw in all the discarded non-optical mice of the world. You know, the ones with the dirty balls that limp uselessly along your mouse mat. Can you imagine jumping in and hearing the delicious plasticky clickityclickityclickity of a thousand mouse buttons? Rawk.

NEWS FLASH -  The Resurrection of Harvey!

And more about Harvey's adventures in New York.

It's been oh oh oh oh so long since there was talk of orgasms on this site. But as I scribble in my notebook it's Saturday 12.33 AM and, ladies and gentlemen, we have a newcomer!

What a screamer. I've never heard such a high note, sustained for so long, ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah, so relentless, so shrill. The sound has pierced through the windows and is pinging off the stone walls in the courtyard. You can hear the neighbours sniggering.

Back in my singing lessons we did this exercise where the object was simply to climb up the scale as far as possible. The strained noise escaping from my throat sounded like what I imagined it would sound if you threw a rock at a seagull in flight. My friend Jenny, on the other hand, soared and soared so high I thought her lungs would be sucked up her windpipe and fly out her nostrils. My singing teacher would have been proud of this girl tonight.

Wow. Only ten minutes later, it's time for the Second Act.

Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah!

My Body Combat instructor likes us to be noisy. He prowls around the class as we're puffing away, yelling "I wanna hear your SCREAM!". Which means when you kick or punch the air you're mean to give a "HIIIII-YAH!".

"You are warriors!" he bellows with a smirk. "You are fighters! You can take on any enemy... so long as there's a light techno beat in the background!"

But I find it so hard to coordinate the body and the noise-making. My roundhouse kick looks more like a roundhouse duck-with-a-broken-wing as it is, so when teamed with a scream it's inevitably all too difficult and I stumble into the mirrors.

After a fifteen minute interval, would you believe she's at it again? The very same note. I am in full admiration of the swiftness of her recovery.

One has to acknowledge that it is Festival season here in Edinburgh, and there are a lot of performers in town right now. So this could mean one of two things about my neighbour:

1. She's in the theatre. You know, like acting. Ah ah ah ah, my arse!

2. She's Brunhilde or someone in the Scottish Opera's performance of Wagner's Ring Cycle. That's 16 hours of singing all up. You'd have to have stamina for that.

The escalator groaned as I ascended, red-faced and sweaty. Only elite athletes like myself spend two hours at the gym then take the escalator afterwards. Once at the top, I spied all sorts of action at the nearby cinema. It's one of the venues for the Edinburgh International Film Festival. There were shiny cars, people with cameras and... a red carpet!

Oooh, excitement. And I'd heard Ewan McGrrrrregor was in town for the premiere of his saucy new film. Just my luck, I'd bump into the lusty lad while wearing baggy pants and a hint of that morning's Weetabix on my t-shirt.

Thankfully he wasn't among the crowd. But you never know who you could bump into this time of year. This town is buzzzzzzzzing! There's also the Fringe Festival, the Book Festival, the International Festival, the Edinburgh Tattoo... there's no Ewan but there's a dude juggling chainsaws, too many bloody pipers, bad street theatre, busloads of wrinklies shuffling up to the Castle. Every available surface is slathered by wacky posters of wacky comedians with wacky faces. Every night there's fireworks and cannon's firing, the blast sends your lungs rattling in your ribcage. Afterwards there's a flurry of noise, dogs howling, birds sqwarking and spluttering.

Last Sunday there were all sorts of free performances on The Meadows. It was a gorgeous summer day. When it warms up here it's like a dream summer, it doesn't sap your strength like in Australia, it's more slow and languid and... nice. It makes me want ice cream. At one point there was a salsa band and all sorts of people were getting up to dance. I couldn't take my eyes off this exotic looking girl and her geeky dance partner. She really looked the part, all dark and long haired and snaky hipped. When she dragged him up I thought, Hehe, he is gonna suck. Why are they together?. But he didn't suck. He just transformed when the music sparked up, moving so gracefully and sexily like he had caramel flowing through his veins, oooh they looked so good together.

It would be so cool to have a hidden talent like that. I would be at peace with being a dork if I could do something. Do you ever dream of just waking up one day, opening your trap and suddenly you could sing? Or when dinner parties were dull, you could pipe up and say, Don't worry folks! I can can-can! Or maybe you knew how to juggle some cutlery. Or you could pick up a guitar and pluck it into life.

All these crazy people in town right now, maybe some of them are accountants or bus drivers normally, most people don't know that they have this thing that they can do. People think they're Mr Ordinary walking down the street, but little do they know, he can burst into an entertainment machine at any moment.