Cute and cuter.

I think Georgia might be trying to kill me with cuteness, as she brought home two tiny little chicks today to keep Hegel company. We're waiting for Bec to get home to name them; they're quietly chirping out the back, dozing off snuggled up against each other and then jumping up and running around and falling asleep again. My gosh, but they're adorable.

This past week has been busy and tense and faintly boring, that sort of boredom that results from having many pressing small tasks to complete but not being able to do them until someone sends in some copy/ the receptionist at the printers gets back from her lunch break/ after the meeting. I did manage to meet a friend for a drink on Thursday, though, which was nice except for the fact that we were falling asleep in the bar. And last night a friend was playing at the Empress, so a bunch of us went out and drank in moderation and discussed, variously, 'Piss Christ', zombie literature, time travel, the abject, arts administration, the fragile and arbitrary line between 'music' and 'noise', secular humanism, and dickhead hospitality workers. And got cool frog stamps. And Spit was awesome. (Woo! Take your top off!! etc.)

I think officially the link between bands (Spit, Amplifier Machine, The Spheres) was that they all fell under the 'experimental AV' umbrella, but in my mind the theme of the evening was Playing String Instruments In Unusual And Sometimes Unprecedented Ways. Spit (okay, Ryan.. I can't keep it up any more. A stage name is one thing, but it feels squicky and artificial to refer to him by it here, even if it was under this guise that he performed.) played the guitar with a tiny electric fan; Amplifier Machine's drummer played the cymbals with a violin; The Spheres had two bass players, one of whom attacked his with a bow, and their firecracker violin player/ pianist raping her violin in the most aurally pleasing manner imaginable. So, all in all, a good night.

Today was spent running aroung the city looking for an appropriate birthday present for my mum, who conveniently managed to be born in very close proximity to Mothers' Day. I had planned to make her a painting of some description, but this tedious and hectic week has left very little time for non-work-related distractions and suddenly it was three in the afternoon and I was battling the Mothers' Day crowds for something that was not kitch or twee or predictable (why does Myer assume that every woman urgently wants a blender or some teddy bear slippers?) - basically, something suitable for the woman who raised me to swill gin and curse like a sailor and stalk platonic boy friends late at night for kicks. (Happy birthday, Mum. I love you.)

Tomorrow will be spent laying a stone on my great-grandmother's grave with my Nagyi and cousin, then eating a lavish afternoon tea with my mum and sisters and female rellies from the other side of the family. And then, contingent on Jelly Hands' TV issues resolving themselves, lying on her bedroom floor drinking gin with like-minded souls and generally having a slap-bang hilarity-filled Eurovision orgy. Hey, it's a tough job, but someone has to do it. Now if I could only think of some perfect chicken names, my weekend would be made. Any suggestions?