Out and about

There's a plastic bag full of delicious vegetables sitting in the fridge just waiting to be made into soup. I bought them on Tuesday. Soup has not eventuated.

For whatever reason I'm barely home at the moment, and I just want to make some fucking minestrone. It seems churlish, though, to complain, since it's been a pretty good week for being out and about. Jelly has chronicled her version of at her blog, and about two thirds of it overlaps with mine, which is what happens, I guess, when you work and socialise and drink together. I would like to state for the record that our trivia team, Editors and their Bitches, kicked some serious arse the other night, and I think its because as a working unit all of us have developed a kind of hive mind that we are able to tap into at any point. Thus am I able to retrieve information from Jelly's brain, and her from Seb, and so forth, without speaking a word.

It's also been a good week for alternative art/performance spaces, alternative art/performance spaces being I've been thinking about a lot recently. Wednesday night my friend Nicola was in a show at Albert's Basement, which is a temporary gallery/performance space set up in a sharehouse in Albert St. Tonight Seb and I went and ate saganaki pizza and saw this excellent production, the inaugural play of a newly-formed absurdist theatre company, in the carpark of the Collingwood commish. It's a great space, really deep, which allowed for a lot of broad physical comedy, fight scenes, choreographed dance, and the driving of a car through the middle of a scene. The play itself was adapted from Ubu Roi by our friend Paul (who is clearly moving up in the world) and rather pithy and surreal and I recommend that you see it. Cheapest bar in town, too.

Tomorrow is work - hooray etc. - but when I get home I might just make up some minestrone soup. Yeah, motherfucker. Of course, the irony is that a couple of months ago when I was feeling stifled by domesticity, nobody wanted to gallivant around launches, and now that there is something on every night all I want is soup and tea and novels. Yeah, irony. Someone should really write a song about that.