In what might be the most soul-crushing NYE ever, I’m sitting here with 26 minutes until 2008… updating my blog. Next year I’ll have to make up for it and inject myself with jelly crystals and snort a few lines of sherbert, and won’t wake up until mid-February.

At work today I had just sent an email to my team leader I had been trying to put off. It basically went to the tune of “I’m leaving at the start of February unless some sort of more secure work magically turns up.” Note the secure, after the woman who accused me of unprofessional stapling practices was let go with one day’s notice. As soon as I hit Send, an email came out to the whole team that basically said the money which was funding my wages has run out. I could get the “Don’t Come In Tomorrow” speech any day now, or more likely the “Don’t Come In Tomorrow” e-mail.

To make matters worse, it’s slightly possible that I have am carrying chicken pox after my christmas day encounter with a highly contagious cousin. I’ve never had it, nor a vaccination, so I’m working hard to Glen-20 everything before I touch it. As a result, I’m in a semi-self imposed state of quarantine.

Finally, I’ll lead you into 2008 with a little story. For Christmas, my family bought a Wii. We played for hours and hours; tennis, boxing, baseball, all the games. The next day when I awoke, I couldn’t rollover. I was in so much pain I had to slide to the edge of the bed and kind of roll off. After a while it started to get better (carrying out certain bending actions still resembled my 97 year old great grandmother), but it wasn’t until I felt the second call of nature that I found myself in a real pickle. Getting the toilet paper was fine, but getting my arm around the stage door with the right pressure level was quite tricky. I had to use a kind of reverse psychology approach that I don’t care to explain. I considered the between your legs manoeuvre, but I have never done it before and this wasn’t the time to experiment.

The moral to this story? Poo before you Wii. Thanks, you’ve been a good audience.

3 minutes until 2008. Happy New Year!

For every good gift I receive, I seem to get three completely useless presents that only clutter my room until I find a way of getting rid of it or hiding it. Thanks to every one for trying, but in my books buying a gift for someone because they’re “on your list” is just demented. I appreciate the effort, but if it’s all the same, we might just call it quits for next year. That includes birthdays as well, but I’ve long had that policy for my birthday.

Some of the highlights include a pair of ugly brown shoes that I’ll never find an opportunity to wear, after specifically requesting black formal shoes after the last pair were damaged in the great storm walk of Nov ‘07. The pair I received are those huge bulky, puffed-up shoes with suede on them that look like you’ve inverted two cows and are wearing them on your feet. I also received book by an author I haven’t read since I was twelve, and even then I only read one and a half of his books and eBayed them a few years ago. I received a bottle of Eau de Toilette that smells like a hotel shampoo, and a box of coffee flavoured chocolates - my most hated flavour.

The ultimate in gift crappery this year goes to my brother, after I bought him a DVD he wanted together with a hefty Amazon gift voucher. In previous years he’s done well giving me tickets to a show I really wanted to see but this year I scored a USB Exercising Mouse. This one I’m actually insist goes back. Not only is it hideous and stupid, but it’s PC-compatible only. I don’t care if I don’t get anything in return, but the burden should be on him to dispose of this thing.

In spite of the tone of this, I really did have a lovely Christmas and am in no way begrudging those who bought me the above gifts. It’s just a simple of matter of given the choice between receiving these gifts or nothing, I’d rather nothing. After all, excessive spending only boosts inflationary pressures, so next season, give me the gift of lower interest rates: Nothing!

I’m going to log off the internet now and never come back.

I was just listening to the soundtrack to the new Sweeney Todd film. The singing is universally weak and thin. I thought I’d do some reading while listening, and stumbled across someone who commented on how amazing a singer Jamie Campbell Bower is. She stated that he should play Phantom in Phantom of the Opera. She also used 55 exclamation marks.

I’ll catch you in about fifteen years when twelve year old girls stop singing A Little Priest at eisteddfods.

Saturday morning Greg and I forfeited our Saturday morning sleep-ins in favour of taking to the streets and attempting something I’d wanted to do for a long time - a Garage Sale Au Go Go. Well experienced in similar, batched op-shop extravaganzas, I wanted to take it into people’s backyard, cut out the middle man, and see what people were willing to spread on their grass for a day.

Starting out bright and early at 7am, we didn’t wrap up till about 11am. That said, neither of us bought a single thing. Out of the 15 or so home-made markets, not one item plucked our fancies. What we did find were a few cold hard facts about the human condition, and better still, they were free for our taking.

Greg and I were both very much novices at this, and we weren’t sure what the rules were. Do you make chat to the house owner? Do you linger if there is nothing you’re interested in just to raise their hopes a little? Can you bargain? Can you steal?

At our very first stop, we picked up a few tips to help the process go a lot smoother. Firstly, it’s never good to engage in conversation. Anyone who turns their garage into a makeshift shop front will fancy themselves quite the amateur salesman. As we flicked through half a dozen ratty paperbacks, the woman spotted we were talking about the David Niven book and approached us, “Oh yes, I’ve read his other book. It was very good.” Spruking like this seems tolerable when it’s a commercial product and you’re getting paid to do it, it’s somewhat less comforting when it is actually a birthday present from your Aunt Joyce in 1973. We also learnt not to linger. There is no shame in doing a full 180 and walking straight out if there is nothing of interest. Ultimately, you’re saving yourself time, and the house owner can go back to talking to the neighbour or whatever.

We were, however, lucky enough at our very first stop to meet our first professional garage saler, and we continued to spot her in action at other houses throughout the morning. She seemed entranced by this small box of half-used hand lotions, and was secretly trying them out when we had distracted the owner with our David Niven talk. She pored over the few gunked up bottles for a few minutes. I like to think she didn’t buy anything, but that by the end of the morning, she would have had her full makeup and beauty regime completed.

Our second stop was just as disappointing. Greg assumed it was the result of a breakup, but the owner had interestingly laid the items out in aisles, as if were were identifying bodies in a mass grave, marking the prices on masking tape like makeshift toe tags. The major problem with this sale was not the preparation or display, which were both above average, but the atmosphere. The much younger owner looked visibly uncomfortable by the fact that people were rummaging through her (or as Greg assumed, her ex-partner’s) belongings. This situation soon explained itself as I noticed a small, ape like woman with long mulleted hair as dark as the skin between her toes crouched in the corner over a few piles in the 20 cent aisle. Suddenly she swung a rusty knife to the air towards the owner who was standing far too close and shouted, “This cut good?”. She snarled it again as the owner probably attempted to dial 000 on the mobile through her pocket. “Um, it’s sharp.” We didn’t hang around to see if this woman bought the knife or if she slit the owner’s throat to avoid paying 20 cents.

The rest of the morning proceeded in a much similar fashion. One woman had prepared a ‘Welcome Speech’ to be presented to each guest as the arrived, and included the line “Feel free to haggle with me, ignore the marked prices.” Unfortunately she wasn’t exactly true to her word when an elderly lady approached her with a small linen doyle and asked how much. “Fifteen dollars.” The old woman furrowed her brow, “Oh dear, I couldn’t give you more than a dollar for it.” I thought even that was exceptionally generous. “Sorry, I know what it’s worth” replied the owner as she snatched it back. As I rummaged through a few torn Agatha Christies and water damaged Bryce Courtneys, she approached and declared “The paperbacks are five dollars each. Known authors and books with more than one story are more.” Honey, someone needs to talk to you about eBay.

Most displays of the day were pathetically inadequate. I had delighted in sharing tales with Greg of buying 100 comics for a dollar when I was a kid, of finding awesome gadgets and boxes of mystical wonder. Instead we were greeting with piles of people’s trash, quite literally in some cases. One house had crates of dirty old jars that hadn’t been seen since the ’80s. Another woman was literally trying to sell a used ice-cream container.

One experience which Greg and I would probably rather forget, was entering the dark carport of an elderly couple to find that tales of “Garage Sale within” with two large stuffed toys were actually rather misleading. Instead, these old people were hocking ferns. Many, many ferns. That wasn’t the worst of it. When we entered, suddenly this stench hit us. Like 300 rats eating each other as they died, the smell made us all a little woosey. So much so I even looked at the ferns for half a second and thought, “I guess I could use a fern.” I’m going to put that down to toxic inhalation and an immense feeling of unsatisfaction.

Our earlier trepidation quickly turned to elite ‘tude. We strutted in, shoulders back and silently shouted, “Impress me.” Alas, by the end of the day I was so underwhelmed that a sausage mcmuffin from MacDonalds became the best purchase of my morning. We even had to go out to an op-shop just to remind ourselves of what can be.

Some people, including myself and Greg, might describe our morning as a complete and utter failure. True. But in fact, if you really stretch the truth, it turns out we got a lot of trash and just a little treasure in the hearts of those who’s fingers flicked through the same boxes of garbage that morning with us, and those special souls who wake up one morning and say, “Yes, my garbage really is worth spreading on my lawn and guilting someone into purchasing.” Amen.

I probably really deserved it after weeks of ‘toilet humour’.

Yesterday, between the final two performances a number of us went to dinner at an Indian restaurant close to the theatre. The food was delicious and I was conscious not to overeat considering I was to sharing a confined space with two other people for the next few hours.

When we returned to the theatre I felt Not Quite Right. Things were gurgling down there in a pretty serious way. Just under an hour before the show I decided I had to go to the bathroom. It was, I imagine, an experience quite similar to when Moses reached the top of the hill and the skies opened to reveal God standing with his notepad and secretary to pass on the law of the land. That is, it was revelatory, a grand display and a confirmation of a great deal of hard work.

Finishing up, I naturally returned to the crew and inspired fear in their hearts as they too had gurgling stomachs, but as of yet, no follow through. I also shared with them the belief that this wasn’t the end of the story. I still felt like there was something I had to give. Shortly after, as it was my turn to play the pre-show music in the foyer, I grabbed my music and headed towards the foyer. Then it hit again! I hid my score under a chair and made another mercy dash to the bathroom.

I flushed, washed, grabbed my music and moved out into the foyer. As I was playing I was sweating, feeling faint, having blurred vision. It was quite a relief when Julie, who was in the audience that night, came up behind me while I was playing and put her icey water bottle on my neck as a joke. As I played all I thought about was when I was going to finish up the trilogy. Suddenly I looked at my watch, grabbed my score and went backstage.

As the show started I rode waves of nausea in the pit. About 20 minutes or so into the performance, I took my headphones off, indicated to Tim and Lisa that I needed to finish the race and darted out of the pit. I headed backstage, out the back of the theatre, around the corner to the back entrance to the toilets. Oh no! The door was closed and locked! I started using all my force to try to turn the handle in case it was just tight, but it was most definitely locked. I headed further around the building to the side entrance. Locked as well! I thought about going right around the front, but I’d make too much noise going through the theatre and walking past everyone. Thank goodness for Elaine, our props manager who was in the props building and was in a slightly more precise frame of mind than I at the time and on her advice, I went back into the dressing rooms and called the front of house and asked them to open the back door for me.

I waited at that door using every muscle in my body to restrict the flow. Suddenly it opened and I dashed in, and to the huge reverberated sound of the theatre applauding coming through the toilet sound system, my final horse crossed the line. The trifecta. When I returned to the orchestra pit, I was certain, this time, that the race was over.