Whisks, Robert (you'll see where I'm going with that), and Seniority

This year I have moved from the outer layers of the Holywell Manor complex (the Dellal building, which some would like to the exterior of Dante's Inferno) to the inner sanctum of the Manor itself. This brings with it some good points (for example a larger room and a view over the courtyard) but also has its drawbacks. One, the bar is right beneath my room, which makes for interesting times: when I have had my fill of lukewarm English Ale I retire (not hurt) for the evening only to try to get to sleep amidst the dull thud thud thudding over down below. But the Twin Towers of the IPod and the Bach Cantatas find themselves on the winning side.

My reign as Imperator of the Dellal Building (a self proclaimed title to be sure) is also over. During the summer break there was a period of 3 weeks where I was the only person in the place, and had the run of 3 floors of freshly painted student accommodation. In hindsight I would like to have said I rented out rooms on the sly, or provided usual housing for refugees, or cheap indoor paintball venues - but my caperings were limited to loudly singing Mozart arias while cooking and the liberties of vociferous swearing if e-poker wasn't going so well.

But thence - to the whisk. My menagerie of cooking implements are still in the Dellal building, and thus far I haven't mustered (or mustard... if you are keen...) up the energy to walk over there are return them. Sure it is only across the road, but a man needs to prioritise - and seeing England's abysmal attempts at scoring tries took precedence. BUT - to cut a long story short, in a way, there is no potato masher. As I have been eating mashed potatoes (+sausages + the Colonel...) on even numbered days (that's right) for years now, this has perturbed me. I tried the old fashioned method of using a fork, but that only goes so far. One day my eyes lit upon a whisk, and I thought that, if Nobel Prizes were given out for dire emergency kitchen ingenuity, then Stockholm here I come. So far the whisk has given me a week (=3 days of mash) of trouble free cooking, although last night disaster struck. Some of the potato got stuck INSIDE the whisk... it had crept into the interior on the sly and refused to come out regardless of how often I threatened it. So certainly there are some kinks to work out. So you, being on a need to know basis, now know.

I have resumed my morning walks around town, but since the parks will be open in the mornings for only a short while longer, I have capitalised on the greenish scenery of a morning. Also (I need to set up the triple entendre here) the mercury has been heading south and it has brought about a jumper or two for these antemeridinal sojourns.

THUS: I walked into the Parks on Thursday, instead of my usual route around town. And given the temperature, on the path less travelled by I saw the Frost.

That's right, I was saving that one up for some time now.

Lastly, one year on brings with it one year's experience in the job. A new bloke at the number theory group, Johann, has started - and he is going through all the motions that I and my partners in crime experienced. Furthermore, a new intake of people at the Manor has seen some characters appear, although no overt mavericks as yet.

But, as alluded to previously, I have a Mont Blanc of work to do (also, because it is on white paper...) and will need to kick on. But there are tales to be told of choral caperings, Gilbert (I almost wrote giblet) and Sullivan ... games?... and the inevitable quiz machine dogging. Until next time.

One year on, erstwhile home.

I'm back in the game.

Many factors prohibited the writing of a post prior to today: the possibility of England winning consecutive Rugby World Cups being the most dangerous. But today, their inability to score tries was their downfall, and some sense of normalcy can return.

There are gaps in the narrative which need Selley's All Clear to fill them in... seamlessly. Firstly the time back home - Brisbane style. The highlight of the Twenty20 world cup was hearing a female commentator and taking a good 2 or 3 overs to deduce that she was in fact female and not some inverted box wearing character. My run ins with the quaint game of cards known in the Spartan esque way of 500 was tempered by my new found bridge philanderings. Thus there were more sensible calls and less jumping from 6 no trumps to 9 spades in a heartbeat, then having to leap over the table and beat Knowlesy senseless.... well some things stayed the same.

A trip down to Sydney town was organised as well as a stay on the 70th floor of the Meriton World Tower. I arrived early and walked into the 'wrong' Meriton tower. But I managed to correct the mistake, after sizing it up from the outside and guessing it to be a bit less than 70 floors, then walking away from such an inferior structure. The Casino treated some of us well, as summarised in the following

The idea being that those who were winners are standing, and those who are seated, well... they are building the future of tomorrow... today... for the casino operator's children, and his children's children.

Warm up for the evening's play.

I did discover a function in the fridge which chilled beers (I typed in 'bears' there. At a pinch it could also chill bears) to the desired temperature, and also, for free, made the sound of a truck backing up when it was done. The morning was a hastened exodous for fear of late fees or APEC inspections, but the tea was found, and ceremoniously distributed:

But come to think of it, as we are relatively spritely in this photograph, this may be from the previous afternoon.

In other news, via my late great uncle I have inherited a billy. It was a little heavy for bringing over to the UK so there was only one option really - wearing two jackets to accommodate the metal wonder of Australian bush tea. There are plans a-foot to introduce the Scottish Highlands to the billy (and of course, the swinging of the arm around in a circle to settle the leaves as every girl scout and high school physicist knows and loves). I don't know if the Picts will be ready for it, but some Rogue MacGyver antics of W.R. Usher, a bottle of Glenmorangie, and the cool winter nights of damp and dark should be an adequate setting for some caperings.

Oh yes - work: it is going well - another main reason why I have not been at my desk churning out some e-comic gold. When I finish my final draft for my transfer thesis I will post it here - which should stop people asking me what those 'large numbers' are.

I have to zip up this bag of grapes.