You just cannae walk into a bookshop these days without tripping over a lady looking over shoulder in her undies or similar scanty garment!

(See also: Abby and Manhattan Call Girl for earlier examples)

Recently the publisher Headline repackaged a bunch of Jane Austen classics with fluffy pastel covers, "designed to appeal to women put off by the idea of reading a 19th century writer". But if they really wanted to shift some units I reckon they should have put Lizzy Bennett in some ye olde frilly knickers, gazing coyly o'er shoulder. Or maybe Mr Darcy in tiny shorts. Now I'd pay for that in hardback.

Recently Gareth and I were watching Local Hero, a great old Scottish movie. Well, 1983 isn't really old in the scheme of things, but the bad suits and telex machines were alarmingly quaint.

Anyway, there's a scene where the dude walks into the wee shop and asks for shampoo. The shopkeeper says, "Normal or Greasy?"

"Greasy?" I said, "Did you really call it Greasy over here?"

"Oh aye," said Gareth. His eyes became misty, recalling the distant days when he still needed shampoo. "Dry, Normal or Greasy."

"I see. It used to be Dry, Normal or Oily in Australia."

Married couple banter is so scintillating.

But seriously, whatever happened to Oily and Greasy shampoo? You just don't get that anymore. Somewhere along the line the marketeers decided that we were too delicate for such a direct and nasty label, so it was softened down to Frequent or Regular Use.

Personally I have wispy, pathetic locks so I look for words like Fine or Volume or Body. What else can you do, really, when there's ten dozen different brands with basically the same ingredients? I sift through the crowd looking for the most convincing copywriting, the most reassuring adjectives, the biggest ego boost. Hmm, this one claims bounce and shine but this one promises a just-out-of-the-salon feeling. What to do? WHAT TO DO!?

(Tangent: Dove and their Real Beauty Campaign. Yes, that's all very dandy to use Real Chicks in your advertising. I know you're trying to make me feel good about myself, Just The Way I Am. But somehow I'm even less inclined to buy your stuff because it's like you're that bitch in the playground at school who says nice things to me so I'll do her bidding. Like, you don't really think I'm pretty, do you? You're only saying it so I'll buy your goodies. Ha ha ha)

The other day I was shopping for groceries online and "browsing" the shampoo "aisle". It's impossible to do my usual label analysis because all you have is a fuzzy JPG of the bottle. So I randomly clicked on Garnier Fructis Body & Volume. It was only when it arrived the next day that I saw the soul-crushing subtitle, "FOR FLAT, LIFELESS HAIR".

Boycott! Boycott!

Hello folks. My lovely webhosts upgraded me to Movable Type v4 last week and I've only just noticed that everything is cactus now. Something is up with the comment templates and I have no idea how to fix it. And I was feeling pouty because noone was commenting, but turns out comments have been received, just not published. ARRRGH. Help. Bollocks. I'll try and sort it today.

After nearly 4.5 years in Scotland I've finally exchanged my Australian drivers licence for a UK one. You're supposed to do this after 12 months of residency, but strangely I couldn't bear to part with it.

My Australian Capital Territory licence was a particularly shithouse shade of lemon yellow, looking like it was cobbled together by kindergarteners with a laminating machine. Splashed across the top was a stern warning: DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE. Every time Gareth saw it he'd sqwark, "DOWNT DRINKEN DROIVE!" in his really convincing Australian accent. Sometimes when intoxicated I'd gaze at my old Braddon address and postcode and get a wee bit misty-eyed.

Now I have this shiny new drab and dreary UK licence. For some reason they've turned the photo into black and white so my features are smudged and broody like a serial killer. There's a dorky sense of pride at finally having a proper photo ID with my Scottish address, but more pathetically, I feel bereft. The last little piece of Australia is gone from my wallet! Oz just seems further and further away lately, yet there are moments (like at a wedding last night as I bumbled through all the ceilidh dances) when Scotland feels as bewildering and foreign as that first day.

This blog has been a stinking pit of neglect this year and my humble apologies to anyone still out there. I was completely burn out by other projects but now I'm almost recharged and determined to flex the typing fingers again. Thanks for sticking around, sticky people :)

In other news, I bagged my first munro last week, hurrah!

I don't know about you but I am just writhing in my chair in anticipation of the announcement of the 2007 Airport of the Year Award. Will Singapore's Changi run away with it again, or is there room in our hearts for a newcomer?

I know it's too late to nominate but I believe the gong should go to the teeny tiny gem that is Sumburgh Airport, the bustling hub of the Shetland Isles.

It may lack the razzle dazzle of your Heathrows or LAXes with its crumbling high school looks and absence of restaurants, Duty Free or vibrating massage chairs, but Sumburgh would charm the pants off the most hardened traveller.

- Instead of the usual fast food monoliths, Sumburgh has a cosy cafeteria with a wholesome K-Mart style, with fresh scones and traybakes made by the local hotel. There's even a real live bloke frying up eggs and bacon and black pudding, ready to plop onto a fat bread roll for your dining pleasure.

- The Hotel makes sandwiches for the outbound flights too; so going home feels like a jolly picnic. No dodgy pretzels here!

- The normal procedure for returning a hire car involves a surly bastard inspecting your vehicle with a magnifying glass and questioning every scratch. But at Sumburgh Airport there's no one waiting - there's just a little slot in the office window for you to chuck the keys into.

- Old red tractors at work!

- Instead of warnings about illegal parking or unattended luggage, the only announcement we heard over the airport PA was, "Attention ladies and gentleman, if you are the owner of a wee powder blue Nissan Micra, you've left your lights on!"

So I'm a woman, right? I have all the equipment and know how to use it, but sometimes I sort of forget that I'm female. Most of my dearest friends in Scotland have been male, and I've joyously immersed myself in the swearing and smuttiness and talk of sport.

But when I found myself at the BlogHer conference in a big room with 800 other women, all talking about their passions with such contagious enthusiasm, it was a most pleasant slap to the chops. Whoa. I am woman. Hear me roar. Grrrl Power, and all that. I just wanted to climb into platform shoes and a Union Jack frock and strut.

. . .

Award for Dodgiest BlogHer Sponsor Gift:
The Nasal Decongestant Spray left on our tables on Saturday lunchtime. Que? Maybe they thought we needed to clear all the excess estrogen from our nasal passages?

Award for Dodgiest BlogHer Snack:
The "Healthy Snack Alternative" provided on Saturday arvo. If you didn't want to eat the hot dogs, pretzels or popcorn you could have a 100 Calorie Curves Chewy Granola Bar. I'd rather scoff down unashamedly unhealthy mustard-drenched cylindrical pig snouts and trotters than eat a bar of self-loathing containing 27 unpronounceable polysyllabic ingredients posing as "health food".

But I do realise that a conference of such spectacular scale needs sponsors. I am enjoying my swanky laptop bag and Butterball Turkey oven glove, yes siree.

. . .

The first session I attended was called "Self Branding And Self Promotion" and I think I should have gone to the panel next door with the sex toy goody bags. I realised I've been clinging on to early '00s dreamy dreamland notions, where people blogged just because they had a burning need to express themselves, or because they were lonely and wanted to reach across the universe. You know, when people knew all their readers by name. At times the panel had a wee bit of a vibe like, "I've been blogging for two weeks, how come I'm not rich and/or famous yet?"

I know blogging can be big business these days, your blog can be your resume, etc etc.... and that is cool, because lord knows my career has been transformed because of my online babbling. But how about starting off with having something to say? How about taking some time to find your voice and build a body of work and an audience and then start fretting about your lack of revenue/devoted stalkers?

I'm sad I missed the panel called "It's Not Your Size But Your Passion That Matters", because I'm so glad to hear that the idea of Blog As Just A Place To Tell A Story And Meet Like-Minded Souls has not been swallowed up by the money thing. Happy days.

. . .

Award for Most S-M-R-T Ladies of BlogHer:
There were far too many inspiring, rockin' dames to list them all, but here's a stirling sample -

• Cynthia Samuels and the Sarcastic Journalist on the Media Training Panel, gallantly providing advice for bloggers on what to do when the papers come a callin'.
• Elizabeth Edwards and her gobsmacking intelligence and wisdom during her keynote discussion. I'd vote for her.
• Ariel Meadow Stallings with her sage and hilarious advice on the Blog To Book Panel. Her tips for ego-crushing book signings? "Have your antidepressants in your pocket."
• Our Blessed Conference Founders for kicking off something so deliciously inspiring and energising. I'd sell my granny to go again next year.
• The SJ - I learned so much from her - the joy of being comfortable in your own skin, how to talk to strangers, how to calculate tips. I'm still in awe that I get to be her pal. Aww.

(see also: BlogHer photies on my Flickr)