After more than a decade away from the game, it is not my old ten-pin bowling ball that is but I whom am the relic of my ten-pin bowling days: the game is still played, and the ball is still good.
As for the old regulation type shoes, I’m not sure they’re any less fit today than I have remained for their purpose.

Update from The Outback: Parts 1 and 2

Part 1 – December 27, 2015

I parked Vincent overnight for a sleep at Tilpa Weir on the Tilpa floodplain, between Bourke and Wilcannia, Monday last week. It rained overnight and turned the road out next day into an impassable bog of river mud. We were stuck in the mud on a paddock for the day and the next night. My survival kit of food and water was in the boot of the car, which resulted in me getting pretty grimy in the process of bringing it back into the car. No phone reception or internet service available, and no-one was going to rescue us due to the remoteness of the place. I worked Vincent hard to get us out by the Wednesday morning and back to Tilpa Hotel, then had to remove the rear wheels to dig out the mud, which had basically acted like a handbrake during our race back to civilization. Also managed to bottom out and crack the sump oil tank.

That’s the short version of the story. When I arrived in Broken Hill on Christmas Eve I was fortunate indeed to find a NRMA mechanic who had us ready for the long journey ahead within about 4 hours.

Part 2 – November 22, 2017

In the long version, I’m at Tilpa Hotel having a meal in the fading light of the Monday. A couple of tourists stop in for a thirst quencher. I overhear them discussing whether to stay in Tilpa, or keep going and try to reach a sealed highway before the rain arrives. It’s like they are taking the internal dialogue right out of my mind. I’m well and truly over the bumping and rattling of this damnable corrugated road: I can rest tonight and complete it in the probable puddles and potholes in the morning, or keep on rattling through the darkness for a couple of hours. Neither option is appealing: it’s quite the dilemma.

Fast forwarding now to my second night at Tilpa, bogged in the paddock as I am, and sleeping in the driver seat with the window open. I’m having a weird dream about nothing in particular, and something is huffing and snorting in my face. I’m slowly waking up now and beginning to realise that the dream has stopped but the breathing on my face has not. I open my eyes and begin to make out the source of the breathing: the very large head of a bull! I immediately and involuntarily shout with surprise down its throat. It leaps backwards, spins away, then spins again to stare me down. I notice a bunch of cows suddenly shooting away in all directions.

2 years have passed since then, and I’ve only just learned to recognise the second dilemma I had been facing!

Wikipedia: Horns of a dilemma


“The primary characteristic of machine-readability is extension, without which the information contained within a file is impenetrable, or incapable of occupying places extrinsic to the given storage space at any given time,” pushing a foot through the backdoor. “That the impenetrability of information is an intrinsic characterisitic of an extensionless file is clearly implied, although we mustn’t necessarily assume that the intrinsic characteristic of impenetribility is a primary one.mp3.”

“Yeah. Ok. That’s great mate, but if you’re looking for an audition use the front door.”

“Will do. You got a business card or something I can use? haha!”

“Oh! haha squared. I thought you looked familiar. Come in! Come in!”

“Oh nohs! I just wanted to extend this to you. Don’t let it out of your sight.
It’s due to go live any day now.mp3”

“What should I do with it when it does?”

“Just make sure it segues back out from the last one.”

The room without books

They say a house without books is like a room without windows, and a room without books like a body without a soul; they being Horace Mann and Marcus Tullius Cicero respectively, or conversely Marcus Tullius Cicero and Horace Mann temporally speaking, neither of whose books I ever got around to reading by the way, nor is it likely I ever will, since a room without books–call me soulless–can’t be a room with a window and a house with books at the same time. So next time you can’t put a book down spare a thought for those of us who can’t tear ourselves away from the window.

Room without books

Room without books

Same spider

This spider has been my deskside companion for three summers in a row. I believe it has been the same spider since it has for three summers appeared on the same door.
Same spider, three summers, same door.
One summer I saw a spider on the door beside my desk. That was three summers ago. It couldn’t have been the same spider as this one if I had not seen it before.
Same spider twice, three summers, same door.
This summer the spider is on the door beside my desk. It couldn’t have been here three summers ago if this summer isn’t a summer ago.
Same spider twice, two summers, same door.
One summer ago I saw the same spider
that wasn’t the same one two summers ago.
This is the spider that’s been my companion
for three summers now, in a row.