Food, music and spiderettes

I currently have a blind pimple the size of a grapefruit (okay, I exaggerate - maybe a pea, but a LARGE pea) right beside my left eye, which unlike zits around the hairline and jawline, is completely impossible to miss, like a well-endowed lady's chest, but less flattering.

Tiramisu, which apparently, isn't actually Italian.


The new pontoon by the Brisbane River, which bobs along with the waves and ripples.


Before anyone calls me juvenile, I'd like to point out it wasn't me who noticed this first.


KG and I spent Thursday night at the Judith Wright Centre for Contemporary Arts in Fortitude Valley. There were 2 artistes performing 40 minute sessions each. The first was Jon Rose, who gave a very energetic violin performance, aided by his Mac. The music was very Stanley Kubrick-esque, accompanied by lots of arm flailing and discorded sounds. Mr Rose, whom I somehow perceived as a Tortured Genius (Tortured: the music; Genius: how does one make that many sounds with such a simple instrument?), explained that the bow was fitted with a device which produced the mentioned sounds, depending on the movement.

"Why was I flailing my arm around like a deranged person? Oh that's art."

After Mr Rose, then came Chris Abrahams of The Necks (whose music is more random than that of Sigur Ros). KG and I, having experienced his music before, anticipated the unanticipated-able. Sure enough, he spent most of the 40 minutes tinkling the same note. KG snickered quietly through the performance, at the unfittingly solemnity of the occasion, whilst I giggled at the man sitting in front of us, whose head gently dipped towards his left shoulder again and again, as he fought to remain conscious in the lulling and repetitve tune.

Lakes cafe+bar at Varsity Central. My driving instructor had once told me of this fabled place, which I stumbled upon whilst hunting for my interview venue. Very lovely atmosphere, decent (though not outstanding) food.


Creepy lump at the leopard tree in our garden, when gently blown at...

... unfolds into a hundred baby spiders.