My parents had turned an old tub at home into an awesomely good brazier. It was so good in fact that they built a special paved fire-pit area with the tub taking pride of place in the centre. With this in mind as a secondary option, I – with the help of my mate Scootie – set about rewiring the machine in the hope it would be one of those rare kerbside gems that works wonderfully and evermore. Alas, it was a dud and appeared to be beyond repair for a man whose sole tools are a shifter, screwdriver and tyre spanner.

I moved swiftly to plan b) dismantling the monster. With said shifter and screwdriver I neanderthalically sided with the forces of entropy and brought the beast to pieces. Removing the tub from the shell proved particularly difficult due to the presence of counterbalancing concrete slabs screwed into the cover.

After much huffing and puffing, the tub was liberated and removed from its plastic covering and spinning wheel, ready for use as the perfect brazier…

The problem was… it was so shiny and new and beautiful that life as a brazier hardly seemed befitting for such a creature…

Fast forward a few days and a few discussions with flatmates and Storm and it seemed life as a lamp would possibly be a superior alternative. After making a light (again from components found in kerbside collecting), putting greaseproof paper on the inside of the tub to make the light glow a bit more diffuse, and placing an indoor plant in the top, she was finally ready…

The final piece fell into place yesterday when riding past a pile of junk in another suburb’s kerbside collection, I found a large plastic lamp cover that (coincidentally) happened to be the exact size for sitting atop my tublamp. With the plant duly removed (the lamp has multiple setups – perfect for any occasion!) I turned off the lights, turned on the lamp and admired what had been achieved in the past two weeks with little more than a screwdriver, shifter and an idiot at the helm…

Now to find a second machine to get that brazier fired up and ready for a winter backyard fire and roasted taties… ooh yeah…

After two failed attempts and countless thoughts of quitting (for reasons too multifarious to mention), my honours has reached the point of no return.  Last week culminated in the handing in of my last ever assignment – a 3,000 word research proposal.  It was a stressful affair, replete with upset stomach and dreams of content analysis and, although it is far from my best work, it is done – assigned to the bound and sealed annals of undergrad assignments and pointless assessment.

On the same friday that this concluded, my sister handed in her final piece of assessment for the semester and my brother in law – after 10 years, 5 years of marriage and 2 beautiful daughters – submitted his final research report and will surely graduate come July.

So what better way to celebrate than a blowout?!? It had been a while since my last and I finally gave my liver its comeuppance.  A dinner with loved ones and mussels to commence the weekend and an expensive hangover to wash it all down with.  A day of watching Storm slip into sexy and sophisticated costumes/lingerie/stuff as she enforced her own bender – of the shopping kind.  A saturday night of You Don’t Know Jack and beer, when even the most elementary of human movements such as manouervring around walls or dismounting stools become sufficiently difficult to result in war wounds and humility.  Poker rounds that ended at 5:30am with more war wounds and humility.
Sunday morning pancakes with friends – ice cream, custard, cream, fruit and every other unessential item of life – and a guitar jam to keep the mind off vomiting.  The laziest game of beach volleyball I’ve ever played sober followed by the purchase of speedos to show off my long and ganglies for the first time in 21 years.  Playing the role of spectator as my friends finally overcame Federer-Nadal win loss ratios to finally vanquish their arch nemeses in the mixed netball grandfinal.  Particular highlights included quarter time debates of unabated passion about countless nuances and intricacies of the sport between a hairy, grown man in a skirt and anyone who would listen and finding five cents on the ground.

To top off the weekend, steak and mash taties with zucchini and feta slices and then back to the pub for one last dose of alement with friends.  Blow out complete and assigned to the still unfinished and unbound annals of countless blowouts and irrepressible stupidity and annoyance, I can now move on to this week….and this weekend.

Liver…you’re fucked.

The main difference between standard Cricket and Blind Cricket is the ball. A size three football is used in UK Blind Cricket to help the partially sighted players to see it and it is filled with a quantity of ball bearings to allow the totally blind players to hear it. The MCC Laws of Cricket have also been adapted in other ways in an attempt to allow blind and partially sighted people to compete on equal terms. The major variations are as follows:

• The wicket is larger, making it easier for the partially sighted players to see and easier for a Batsman or Bowler to touch for the purpose of orientatation.
• The ball must pitch at least twice before the crease of a totally blind Batsman but must not be rolling.
• The ball must pitch at least once before the crease of a partially sighted Batsman.
• A totally blind Batsman is given one chance before being given out LBW and cannot be stumped.
• The Bowler must ask the Batsman if he is ready before beginning his run up and shout “play” as he releases the ball.
• A totally blind Fielder can make a catch after the ball has bounced once.

The Blind Cricket World Cup is currently underway in Pakistan, so hopefully the Aussies can lift the cup.  Apparently, a game or two has already had to be postponed due to heavy rain.  According to one player “We just didn’t see it coming”… baboom-cha!

But I think I have left behind the strongly emotive undergrad – the one who fired up about development; oppression at the hands of the powerful; all things mining; all things corporate; and environmental issues – for someone with a little more critical discernment, pragmatism, and (gasp) skepticism. Working in the minerals industry has made me blasé by one measure, or ‘in possession of dormant emotions’ by another. Coal production figures become detached from the huge holes in the ground that make them. I often wonder where the emotion went…

Anyways, I digress…

Last night, I was lucky enough to receive a free viewing of the documentary “An Inconvenient Truth“, featuring Al Gore. The documentary is a very persuasive piece of work that describes in detail the growing Global Climate Change issue – causes, policy, effects, and path of salvation. I was impressed with the effort that went into the film and thought it argued its point very well.

But I couldn’t shake off my new self; I found myself asking – who is backing Al Gore in the making of this film? More importantly, are the scientific data used to make such strong claims valid? I also wondered what the critics’ response would be, and noted to myself that he did still wear fine suits, stay in 5 star hotels and fly an awful lot.

So, after a little research, I was very pleased to note that –
* The scientific data behind the film seem to be valid I was really happy about this…I guess I deal too much with industry PR and ideogical thinktanks.
* The backers of the film weren’t huge multinationals who would benefit from certain points made in the documentary – i.e. Hydrogen car manufacturers, producers of energy efficient appliances and lights, etc.
* Interestingly, the critics loved the film…

So with a much lighter heart, I can recommend that you see this film…and ‘get fired up like an emotional undergrad’…

Although, I can’t help but think that without a change to the paradigm, will enough be done?

________________________________

Partners of the Documentary
Environmental Impacts of Aviation

Here are the first pics…

There will be other photos at a later date – with turtles, pandas, polar bears and myriad wrestlers….but for now, this will suffice.

Repeatedly going to bed at early-mid morning hours has exposed me to a whole new level of tiredness that had been hitherto unknown. I have now gained valuable insight into what most honours students wait 10 months to experience. Even the beloved italian espresso maker looks at me with a helpless shrug come morning. Not that I’m complaining. The football has been wonderful in every regard, and the hangovers; well, they’re just the same as always.

As a small post script, I can say that my knee is well on the way to normality having survived the perils and pressures of a drunken stumble back from the city. My brain is not faring so well, however, having taken no small part in an action that resulted in Storm having to pluck -with tweezers – a small piece of tissue from the inner stretches of my ear. The tissue had served its purpose of blocking out the incredibly loud (and crap) music that was resounding at Tinbillies in the early hours of the morning; but had overstayed its welcome and utility by remaining lodged long after the music had otherwise drifted away.

So here’s to salad, sobriety and NSW winning the third state of origin….oh and to an early night’s sleep come 10th of July.

At the conclusion of the trip, my life tally had jumped from 3 to in excess of 50 (including throwbacks). Between us, we landed 147 edible whiting – food enough for both sets of grandparents, parents, sister, Storm and myself. The only drawback was the not-insignificant time required to scale, fillet and bone-out our haul (around 3 hours in total).

Although, when all was done and scrubbed (except for our fishy fingers), it was wonderful to sit down and inhale the whiting sandwiches we had been envisaging since early morning.

Last night, Stormy was sitting pretty after winning a tight (3 points) previous outing and had her nose ahead and a mouth full of smack talk. That was until Jameses gave her two 7 letter smackdowns in 3 turns (the highly complex ‘squares’ and ‘policed’). I have to admit, my second word might have been helped by the two blanks I drew in the one dip.

Then Casey threw a curveball with ‘gook’ (it actually is an official scrabble word) and the game was truly underway. After the dust had settled, the lovely roast digested and the wine drunk, Jameses emerged a contented and slightly smug winner – ready to drift off dreaming of words such as ‘zephyrs’, ‘quixote’ and ‘muzjiks’. For some further scrabble oddities click here and scroll down.

As a last note, I think I’ve found the most prickish word to play on a scrabble board – ‘zyzzyva‘… Admittedly, you’d need two blanks but by joves wouldn’t it open up the board for others…