Hieronymous the Anonymous

Beating the All Blacks

I like New Zealanders. They’re one of my favourite race of peoples. A large part of that is our close proximity. Here we both are in the bottom half of the world, settled by Caucasian stock and sharing a common culture in an Asian sea. We’re just over the ‘ditch’ from each other, as they say, like two brothers, a big brother and a little brother, family so that we share many of the same traits, and like families not above the odd tiff. There’s mutual trust there, a natural kinship, and maybe a backhanded affection. I know if I had to have anyone other than an Aussie then I’d like a Kiwi batting for me, because I know they’re all in.

I find much to understand in Kiwi’s. We’re not the same but there is enough shared for us to probably to believe we are more the same as each other than we are with anyone else in the world. There are plenty of Kiwi’s in Oz, and most are here to stay, and I have a good number of them as friends. Occasionally that means there is some friendly abuse, like with brothers. When the All Blacks got knocked out of the World Cup last year the usual choking jokes went around. Kiwi’s love to have a crack at Aussies, to our general indifference. Earlier this year I attended the birthday of a Kiwi mate of mine. In the crowd were probably half a dozen other Kiwi blokes, and later, when all were pretty well lubricated, we were treated to an impromptu haka. Being Aussies my mates and I faced them, and responded with the token and totally inadequate “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi, oi, oi…”

The relationship brings with it a deal of rivalry – particularly from the New Zealand side – which is mostly friendly, and sometimes not. I believe there is nothing the average Kiwi likes more than knocking an Aussie off his perch. To defeat, or get the better of, Australia in a sporting contest is pretty much the ultimate I think. By and large that doesn’t happen. Australia is a powerful sporting nation. Of the sports we commonly play Australia pretty well dominates, not just New Zealand, but often the whole world. The one exception is Rugby Union.

Now Australia has a fair record in Union. It’s about 6th or 7th sport here I reckon, but is pretty keenly followed. We’ve got a good record against pretty well every other competing nation, but behind South Africa and New Zealand where it is the national sport cum religion. They’ve been the truly dominant nations, with the All Blacks being very proudly number one.

Unfortunately that ongoing dominance has not translated as it should into international success. The RU World Cup started in 1987, and the All Blacks, to nobodies surprise, won the inaugural event – and not won another since. Pretty well in every World Cup since New Zealand have started favourites or equal favourites, and pretty well in every event have unexpectedly stumbled before claiming the prize. By contrast Australia, a team that is always reliable and sometimes brilliant, has won twice and been runner up another time, and have a history of defying the odds. That sticks in the New Zealand craw.

I think we are the team they love to beat most, and the team they are most wary of. There have been some classic games between the teams, tough, rugged, drawn out affairs. Over the past 10 years the All Blacks have probably won 3 out of 5, but some of the games they have lost have been on the back of pivotal moments, great tackles and unexpected individual efforts. Australian teams always hang tough, and so are often in position to snatch victory from defeat. That’s happened a bit.

To add to the current rivalry Australia have, for the first time, a non-Australian coach – and a Kiwi to boot. Robbie Deans is a New Zealand rugby legend, and a God in some quarters. He is also one of the best and most successful rugby coaches in the world. For him to now be coaching Australia is like Warnie bowling for England.

Robbie Deans has been in the chair for 5 internationals. So far he has overseen 5 wins for the Wallabies. On Saturday night he coached his first game against his home country, as underdog. I went to the pub to watch this game with some friends. Around the dining room were sprinkled Aussie supporters in the gold Wallaby jersey, and a few Kiwi’s wearing the black of New Zealand. As it turns out it was a classic game. The crowd was vocal, Aussies and Kiwis both, until the Australian team got the upper hand after being headed in the second half, and then pulling away convincingly. It was very satisfying to watch.

This Saturday the return match is in Auckland, where Australia haven’t won for 20 years. It will be a stiff challenge to win against an All Black team itching for vengeance and before a crowd of baying and fanatical Kiwi supporters. This is what great sport is made of, and great rivalries. Man, I’ll be giving my Kiwi mates a gee up before the match, and expect I’ll get it all back and more if and when the All Blacks win.

Winter

I heard somewhere that June was just about the warmest on record. Well let me go on record to suggest that July has just about been the coldest. I may be getting old and my circulation failing, but I can’t remember a period colder than what we’re going through at the moment.

Living out in the suburbs has brought this into stark relief for me. Each morning as I walk out the door I look out at the bare, wintry branches of the trees against a dim, cold sky. There is something austerely beautiful about the sight, and each time I look upon it I am reminded of a set of prints my mother has on her wall depicting a French countryside in winter. I get in the car and turn the heating on first, then the demister and the windscreen wipers. An icy frost covers every glass surface. As I turn into the street it is quiet and solitary but for the shivering schoolboys on the corner by the church, waiting for the bus to arrive. The sun is on the crest of rising. The sky is low, and dimly lit, the streets empty. I turn into the main drag and take my place amongst the cars with headlights blazing heading towards an early appointment. All the while the heating is going full pelt, and every few moments I must run the windscreen wipers to clear off the frost. I turn into the station car park already 2 thirds full, and reverse into a spot. Then I wait on the station platform for my train to arrive.

Over my suit I wear a thick overcoat made in Austria. A scarf is wound around my neck. I listen to my iPod and walk a few paces this way, and then back, trying to keep warm. My breath clouds in front of my face. All along the platform there are students heading to school and commuters like me heading towards the city for work. When finally the train arrives it is a relief to find a seat in relative warmth. At Hawthorn a friend hops on board and joins me, and on the remaining journey in we talk.

At Flinders Street station the crowd pours out of the train and onto the station concourse. We take the underpass and come up on the other side of Flinders Street. Once more conversation turns to how cold it is – this morning my fingers were blue from it. We hurry on, looking towards that first mouthful of hot coffee.

This is winter.

Butting heads

I’ve been told to be less dedicated. That my commitment to the company is not matched by the company’s commitment to me. That’s certainly true, but I don’t see that as being terribly unusual. It’s a rare business that values its staff as it should, as vital ingredients in a company’s success. I would like to be so recognised, but don’t expect it.

Still, the point is well made. I drive myself hard. I go that extra yard every day pretty much, with zero acknowledgment of it. I’ve been acting IT manager the last 3 months, on top of all my other duties. I’ve enjoyed it by and large, and think I’ve done a good job. Certainly my reports think so. And I’ve put in place quite substantial reforms – restructured the department, have drafted a SLA about to be signed off, and have proposals pending about an IT Steering Committee and Project Management Office, as well as how IT can be made profitable. I take pride in all of this, but ultimately am seen as just another unit of production.

I’m not precious. I get great satisfaction by actually doing things. I take it as an accepted fact that I’m smarter than most people, without getting too high and mighty about it. I’m careful not to squander it, aware that I’m lucky and that to fritter it away is the height of arrogance. I must use what I’ve been given and not take it for granted. And so I push the envelope, I challenge myself and, at times, others.

By and large this has become habitual. It is a part of who I am. In recent times there was a period when I could not muster that and I felt a serious disconnect with myself. That has well and truly passed now. I have great confidence in what I do and believe, too much so perhaps. I am passionate about making a difference, and occasionally seem too much so. In many ways I’m oblivious to authority, and will speak my mind without regard to it. And if I disagree with a directive I will just as likely disregard it. Most of my managers have come to terms with this, but it would be easy for them to think me an arrogant pain in the arse sometimes – which would be a fair call.

As you might imagine this occasionally causes some trouble. I push and push and I wonder sometimes why I need to push so hard. Often I’ll reluctantly go back into battle for something I believe in, wondering why it must be so. It is exhausting sometimes to be so intent, in fact, so sure of your view. Even as gird I my loins I wonder why I can’t let it go, why I must be so driven, so competitive. I am though, and that’s it. I can’t let it go because I want things right – which means my way. I know, I know, but truth is none of it is a power play. I want things right, I don’t want to compromise on that if I am to be involved.

That’s one of my failings. I can’t let things go. I should pick my battles I get told, and I nod my head, you’re right, I know you’re right. And the very next occasion I’m in like Flynn again. At this joint it’s been made more difficult by the fact that my direct superior is diplomatic to the point of being submissive to those above. There are issues we both agree on where he rolls over while I take up the fight alone. Very frustrating.

It would be better for me to back off a little. Why does it matter? It’s only work. That’s what I’ve been told, and it’s perfectly true. I’m reconsidering a lot of things right now, and that’s one of them. Maybe it’s time I reform myself, care less. They don’t deserve that dedication, I was told, and they don’t care. Maybe. And so the challenge is to take it easy, to care less, and to cease from the push and shove I’m so good at.

None of this is really new. I seem to go through these patches where I question the basic order of things. I grind away and I butt my head like a stubborn billy goat and generally do my thing before one day asking what the basic point of it is, my head sore from the constant head butting. At times like those it either appears futile or silly; or just like too much work. What makes this different is that this time it has been prompted from someone externally, someone who has looked in my eyes and said H, don't bust a gut.

I used to go to Jen before at those times when I might begin to question. More often I would question the style I employed in doing these things, I would ask if I was right or wrong, and if it was worth the fight. Jen was the perfect person to ask because we were close and because she knew me so well; and because she is wise and calm and diplomatic. We were a good team for all the reasons that people become compatible couples. We overlapped in the key areas, we shared the same core values, knew the same things, looked out upon the world and saw something similar. Where we differed was in personal style, but largely in ways that were complementary. Where I was strong she was weak; where I was weak she was strong. And so it was easy to go for her for advice, and very beneficial.

In her considered way she would ponder my questions to her. More often than not she would take 24 hours to answer, having weighed up all that I had put to her against her knowledge of me and her perspective on the situation. By and large she would support me. If there was a particular issue being debated then pretty well every time she would plump for my view. She trusted me in that regard, and knew that I was passionate for what I believed to be right. She encouraged that too. Almost always she was positive, with her dissenting comments limited to style and method. There’s more than one way to get what you want, she might say, you don’t always have to go at it front on. Or she might suggest that I be more patient, or stroke a few more egos. She was always supportive of me as a person.

Writing this makes me realise how much I miss that, and her. Hers was wise counsel. There are others I speak to now, as there were others before. In the end it's my call though, and fair enough.

Things are happening - I just need to point them in the direction I want to go.

Locked out

Went out for a few drinks after work on Friday. We went to the Chaise Lounge. At around 10 one of the girls I had come with wanted to go home. She asked if I could accompany her to Flinders Street station. So we walked along in the wintry dark, our arms linked and her leaning upon me. I saw her to the gates of the station and then turned to set back.

Back at the door of the Chaise Lounge I was refused entry as there was now a small queue. I explained I had slipped out 5 minutes before, that I was helping a friend get home, and that I had friends waiting inside. The bouncers shrugged their shoulders, as bouncers are apt to do. A discussion ensued. Words were exchanged that left me out on the pavement cold, and them disdainfully sneering at me.

I called one my friends inside. I explained the situation in blunt terms. She came out and pleaded with the bouncers, but to no avail. She went back inside, collected my things and the rest of our group and we left, swearing never to return again. That was that.

We'd had a few drinks, but I hold my booze well, with generally little outward effect and no inward change. We walked away and I mulled over the recent exchange. It seemed out of character in some regards - and perfectly in character in others.

I know the angles. I know what it takes to get my way. Generally I play them pretty well. I have no doubt I could have got in Friday had I played it differently, but for some reason I chose not to. I've got a cool head, and though it's matched with a sharp tongue, one normally rules the other. What I said then - and I won't repeat my words here - were contrary to that. It was almost as if I set out to deliberately inflame the situation. It was if some part of me, that silly macho part of me maybe, sought to bump heads with the mindless bouncers.

It didn't sit well with me afterwards. I felt something close to shame. I was embarassed at the words I chose to attack these guys with, even though they were a pretty fair description. It was beneath me though. I had sunk to their level. I had acted stupidly, and as I saw it afterwards, without the dignity I should have.

If it happened again tomorrow I'd take them on again, I'd just do it with a bit more class.

Netherworlds

I moved out of my home the other day, which was a drama in all the ways you hope it not to be. Never mind, done now, no point in dwelling on it.

I am now living temporarily with my mum, out in the ‘burbs. I grew up in the outer suburbs, so it’s not an entirely new experience for me. Looking back on it now I sort of had fun then. There were horses grazing in the paddock over the back fence, dirt roads we could ride our bikes down in a cloud of dust, and a river nearby we could sail – and sink – our makeshift rafts upon. We would roam the streets and build tree huts and play street cricket and get in yonnie fights with the Edwards street gang. I was a kid, a boy, and all that was like Christmas to me.

I’m pretty well of the view that you’re best living inner city or in the outer suburbs proper. Somewhere in between is neither here nor there. And I’m older than I was then. I’m not a kid anymore, it’s been ages since I’ve climbed a tree let alone build a house in one, and the only yonnie’s I piff these days are at the odd can, or skimming off a placid piece of water. I’ve moved on folks, and my tastes are more sophisticated.

And so for the moment I’m taking myself off to Mont Albert, to Mum’s very comfortable home. Mont Albert is a nice suburb. It has lovely tree-lined streets. It has beautiful houses. The people all very nice and civilised. It is a pretty place, and probably a great place to bring up kids – my sister lives just around the corner.

It isn’t exciting though. Not for me anyway. It seems kind of dead, but the weather – dark and cold – probably doesn’t help. Yesterday I was out of the house by 7am walking up the road to catch the tram into work. The tram took over an hour to get there trundling through peak hour traffic, picking up and setting down students for Xavier and Trinity, and commuters like me heads buried deep in the morning paper.

This morning I got in the car and drove to nearby Surrey Hills station. It was cold as, the sun had not properly come up and the light was muted in the amorphous mist. I parked in the station car park already two thirds full, people slamming doors behind them and converging on the station.

It felt odd. I bought my ticket and stalked out onto the station platform. It was not yet 7.30am but there were people strung along the length of the platform. It echoed memories of times I could not place – but then I’ve caught a thousand trains over the years, in many cities and on many lines. Everything old becomes new again.

The train rolled up promptly. I found myself a seat by the window and looked out at the stations flashing by as I listened to my iPod. It was comfortable and easy. I found myself thinking I could happily spend another 30 minutes sitting like this, in a netherworld common to the early morning commuter. I remembered then. I remembered how once upon a time I had lived out in Greensborough of all places, and before that Montmorency, of walking to and from the station with the unspeaking crowd, and sitting on those long journeys reading the newspaper and slowly coming to life.

You don’t get that when you live close, and somehow you don’t need it. Travelling from a way is like a gradual immersion into the days realities. Coming from close in is like splashing cold water in the face – fresh and quick. You look ahead and there it is, before you know it, coffee in hand away you go.

In the box

Was invited last Friday night to watch the football at the ‘G from the comfort of a corporate box. It was a bloody cold night so it was nice to sit back in a comfortable chair, glass of wine in hand, and watch the game all nice and warm in air-conditioned comfort.

I’ve been to a few of these things before over the years, footy and cricket, plus the odd Oz Open and GP invite. I haven’t turned many of these invites down, but that’s not to say that the experience has always been great.

It’s nice to be plied with liquor and food, nice to elevated for a few precious moments from the common muck, and nice to be treated as a valued guest. As I’ve indicated before, I’m quite accomplished at squeezing every bit of enjoyment out of a given situation. There are born hosts, they say, well, I’m a born guest.

I’ve had some excellent times over the years in these circumstances. I remember one very hot Summers afternoon sitting in the chill of a box watching the WSC final of the year, cold beer in hand and many more to come. We had much fun that year. And another occasion at the tennis, a splendid meal followed by an excellent session of night tennis on the centre court. Over the years there have been other similar occasions, and some which have been blanked out in the memory.

It’s nice to enjoy these freebies, but what elevates these occasions from the ok to the good are the people you share it with. This is very much a case of pot luck. More often than not you’re not being invited because of your sparkling wit or irresistible charm. And nor is anyone else. This is all business, and an invitation is all about cementing a relationship, keeping you sweet; it’s about networking and discussing business, and so on.

For this reason there is often a motley collection of people invited together. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes you’re just happy to accept the hospitality and watch the game. Nothing against the other people maybe, they’re just not the sort you might normally hang with given a choice.

If they’re clever the people organising these things put like people together, if not in personality then in role or industry. The invitation Friday came from the same people who invited me the Grand Prix earlier in the year. I get on well with them, am pretty simpatico in things outside of work. As it worked out the crowd on Friday was largely similar, a bit more laid-back, a bit more casual, a bit more irreverent. And so there was a lot of interaction and byplay and friendly abuse as rival teams competed together on the field, mirrored in the box by rival supporters.

As it happens it was a pretty ordinary match, and my team was not playing. Still, I barracked hard for one of the teams to lose, which they duly did. Along the way managed a few glasses of red wine, a decent meal, scones with jam and cream, and a few laughs. All in all, pretty good.

Retro books

I’ve gone retro in some of my reading habits lately. I’ve found myself hovering over trays of discounted paperback books outside of bookshops, and plucking from them not great literary works, but rather books that I had read long ago and enjoyed. These were the sort of books I would read growing up a teenager, borrowed from the local library, or taken from the very extensive bookshelves of my grandfather.

My grandfather was a great reader. I can see still the back room at Strathmore where my grandparents lived, and the wall of bookshelves I fancy my Grandfather had built himself. He was a quiet, gentle man, who was also a very practical and handy man. Besides building all manner of things from wood he was a great gardener. Their back garden featured trees he had espaliered against the back fence, and other trees onto which he had expertly grafted others, so that from the one tree could be plucked three different varieties of apple.

Quite often my sister and I would go and spend our school holidays there. I loved books even then, encouraged by my mother and my aunt, and ultimately by my grandfather. I would stand before the wall of books looking at the spines of novels I had never heard of and of history books that told of times I was barely aware - but of which I was curious. I would pull the odd book out and read from it as I stood there, before replacing it. There were books by Brendan Behan and James Joyce and Alan Moorehead; books about Muhammad Ali I remember, which I gobbled up, and on military history which I would pore over.

Often I would lay on my stomach my uncles old bed and read from a book laying open on the floor. "Can you read that?" my grandmother would sceptically ask. I could, I still can - I just can't see things further away so clearly. I was young then though, curious, and ever growing.

Among the books there were classics I guess of a certain genre, war and adventure, many of them yellowing then with age, the pages brittle as I turned them, reading of the war say, the war my grandfather had actually fought in - but distant and exotic to me. One such book I remember was HMS Ulysses, a classic from the classic writer of that genre, Alistair MacLean.

I took that book from my Grandfather's bookcase when I was about 13. I was transfixed reading about battle in the North Atlantic convoys of WW2, and was hungry for more. I went through the whole MacLean oeuvre after that, and keenly watched the many film adaptations of his work: The Guns of Navarone, Fear is the Key, Where Eagles Dare, Ice Station Zebra and so on.

A couple of months ago I picked up Ice Station Zebra for $4.95, and read it over the course of the weekend. I probably hadn’t picked up one of his books for about 15 years, but returning to it was like tucking into very well made fast food.

The weekend before last I read an old classic from a similar author, Jack Higgins, Storm Warning, bought for a similarly discounted price. I remember reading this when I was about 18 and enjoying then - one of my father's cast-off's I think. It read a little different now, but still good, and still consumed at a breakneck pace.

The last book I have sitting by my bed is probably the best of them, which is why I’ve left it to last to read. The Odessa File is a great book by Frederick Forsyth. I went through all his books at one stage too – The Dogs of War, The Day of the Jackal (great read, great movie). The Odessa File was also made into a very good movie, and is a book that races along intelligently, like most of his books, deftly plotted with a lot of interesting and realistic detail. And it packs a punch.

It too though was another book that I picked up after somebody else had put it down.

It’s good to come back to these old memories. It's strangely nostalgic. And it’s good to just chill out and read what are very entertaining escapist novels. Recommended.

Brilliant colour

Dreams continue to surprise me. While some may be purely random, many connect directly with some part of our sub-conscious. It’s as if in our dreams we are often given a perspective on something not available to us when we are conscious. That part withheld is presented to us indirectly, nothing is explicated but rather comes to us in the form of some kind of nocturnal parable. There, in our dreams, we live through strange episodes that though odd, often make a strange kind of sense. How many times in dreams are there thrown up curly questions or situations that seem to have come from left field – but which reveal some truth otherwise hidden from us?

It seems to me the conventional terms – conscious and sub-conscious – do not adequately differentiate the reality between these states of being. They describe merely the state of mind/body, but not the meaning in that difference: knowledge. Consciousness is a state of knowing what you know; in the sub-conscious are revealed the things you weren’t aware of knowing. Seen like this consciousness is a filter to knowledge. We see all, we absorb all, but only when our conscious mind falls away do we know all. Our conscience mind sees only in certain colours of the spectrum, certain aspects; it is in sub-conscious that the full spectrum bursts into amazing and unexpected colour.

I have been going through a period of lively dreaming. It appears to me that I go through alternating phases of dream activity. It may be my conceit but I have come to believe that these more lively phases coincide with those phases of my life when more is happening. I may dream just as often at other times, but the dreams that occur at these busier stages of my life are deeply etched into my mind, and live on after I wake.

Last night I dreamt of the two women who have figured most deeply in my life in recent times.

I dreamt of the earlier one first. The details are sketchy, though it was clear that without anything really intimate occurring in the dream, that we had an intimate understanding of the other. It was low-key, everyday almost, I accepted her in my company as if it were natural. As part of that there was an abiding attraction that tugged at me, and which was in our eyes. Nothing happened, all was simple, but the undercurrents flowed.

The second dream was similar. In this I dreamt of the more recent of the women I have fallen for. Once again the actual details of the dream were low-key, normal, unspectacular. What was revealed was a similar level of understanding and intimacy. The time frame of this dream was different though, which highlighted how entwined our lives were. It was not clear if we were in a relationship or not, but it was obvious in the way our lives synchronised with the other how unthinkingly close we were. We were in step, like dance partners, like people who knew each other well and what to expect. In large part this dream mirrored what the reality had been, though there were small surprises. This dream was more affectionate than the other, and less raw.

So it’s another day and these dreams are in me, reflective of my state of mind. Where it leads nobody knows.

The Prince and the pea

I went to lunch last week with a former colleague. Amongst the usual chit-chat, the catching up on recent events, gossip and reminiscence about the old office, there were two notable pieces of information he revealed to me.

The first was pretty innocuous, but has a bearing on what I am to write. A couple of weeks ago I caught up with him on a Friday night for a drink or two. In the bar that night were also a few work colleagues - someone was leaving - and the night grew large and raucous. Somewhere in the course of the night, he tells me, one of my colleagues spoke to him about me. He admitted he was jealous of me, that he envied how, in his words, all the women want to be with me. I smiled at this as I was told, surprised but not entirely displeased.

The second piece of news was more substantial. Quite casually he spoke of the girl I had liked and looked to be with. He told the story as if I already knew it, as if it was common knowledge - but if it was, it wasn't to me. He mentioned as if it was understood how the girl had been on the verge of leaving her man for me, had made that mental leap and was preparing to come across. Except in this case she was talked out of it at the last minute by her friends, how can you leave your boyfriend?

Had I been told this a year ago my reaction would have been very different. Today I listened and took it in, surprised once more, stunned almost, so that I did not follow up with the questions I might have, and did not confess that it was news to me. The timing of this news seemed odd. I had not thought of her for ages, yet had found myself dreaming of her a few days before, and she had been on my mind since. Then this. Still, though I was stunned - and maybe a little sad - most of what I felt was distant and remote, as if a long way distant at the far end of a long tunnel.

As always women figure large in my life. There is the other of course, Jen, somewhere over the seas, distant also, but tied to me still, for now, a tenuous link that neither of us yet are willing to completely sever.

Then there are the others. There is the woman who would come to me if I beckoned, who sees in me the perfect man for her, the man she has claimed she will marry one day, as if it is written in the stars. She is always close by, hovering, intelligent, fun enough, interesting in her way, but not right - not for me. No matter what she wishes or how hard that will never be.

And there is another, fascinated by me I think, drawn to me and resisting it sometimes and other times letting it be. She is with someone too, a no-hoper, an ex-dopehead who lumbers around genially but without purpose. He seems such a strange match for an intelligent, strongly-natured woman like her, but perhaps it is easier like that, unthreatening, unchallenging. I am almost the total opposite to him.

And so she clings to me. We lunch, we have drinks, we part late. My friend of the other day asked what the deal was. No deal mate, I told him. She follows you around he said. I shrugged my shoulders. I enjoy her company. She is irritating sometimes, but interesting too - sometimes I want to make her life better. I look in her eyes and ask what she wants. I wish she were happier and at times I wish I could make it so. I am drawn to her but I also know she is not for me. I think almost inevitably we will end up in the same bed, and if nothing else intervenes, may even be together for a while. But not forever.

There is another falling for me too, I know the signs now. I like her a lot, I respect her, care for her, enjoy her company. It's hard for me not to linger with her; but I don't want anything to happen with her. Her boyfriend is a bit of a dick but I am not Mr Fixit. I like her, I'll be her friend, but I can't do any more.

There is all this but really, still only the one. Funny how it's so hard to find that person just right. You can go through a lot, you can like them plenty, but... Like the Princess and the pea if you remember your fairy-tales, or may be Goldilocks. How few there are just right...

Do yourself a favour, etc

Went to the Court House Hotel Thursday night for dinner. It's a good pub, my local, and I'm going to miss it big time when I move - I'm moving soon.

Was the usual sort of night there, a couple of beers, some wine, this time a bar meal. Bar meals at the Court House are different from other pubs. There's no Chicken Parma. You can't get nachos. The pub restaurant is said to be the best in Melbourne, though I might take issue with that. In any case the food available in the bar is top notch - and that's the whole point of this post.

I had another of one of my best meals this year on Thursday. This is a simple one, real pub grub, but top of the line: Braised beef with stout pie, with mash. Magnificent flavour. Savoured every mouthful of it.

Worth a crack if you're in the area.