I’m feeling melancholy tonight despite a beautiful day. I visited Milesy to get some worms for my soon-to-be-assembled-after-six-months-of-sitting-there worm farm. Milesy, Hoary and Boelin (what is it about Rocko boys and surnames) came out in the garden to chat and smoke, beers in hand. Their lives seemed carefree and breezy, holding the promise of summer. I would have liked to stay for a beer but Milkfant was beginning to create, wanting her dinner. As I walked away I felt like a chapter had closed on my former life.

I keep thinking about what I am not doing – and I don’t mean putting away the washing, which is sitting around in piles accusing me of being a bad housewife. I mean important things. Jo is writing stories while her baby finishes roasting in her belly, stories about insulated sheds and boys we liked in Year Nine. Milesy and his crew are making music. Somewhere, someone who is twenty-one is writing the next fabulous Australian novel. And I’m doing okay, in fact I’m doing well, but all I can think about is what I’m not doing. Which is typical zlatz headfuck material, actually.

On the weekend I made friends with a Liberal. It always comes as a shock to me when someone who seems quite insightful and intelligent turns out to be right wing. It shouldn’t come as such a great shock, I suppose. After all, I do occasionally roll in the Western Suburbs. And I did go to school there. But that is perhaps the most interesting thing of all. I haven’t stayed close to many of my school friends, but I’m sure a few of them who I still like, lovely girls, are Libs. But it’s the kind of thing we wouldn’t talk about.

My closest friends from school, however, are on my side of the political fence. Like Rimi, my mutual friend with Duncana, who has figured everything out for herself and has spent much of her life working with or on behalf of those who are disadvantaged. Or Chloe, an artist. And Helen, born and bred in a Dalkeith mansion, who has a penchant for blue-collar men and has spent her whole life pissing off her parents. Surely it is not a fluke that these people remain my closest school friends. But it does seem slightly strange that the few remnants I have left from my school life (most others discarded after months of therapy) are, well, left. Have I chosen to keep close to these people because we share a world-view? Do I simply like people better who share my views? Why don’t I have any other Liberal friends?

NLF (New Liberal Friend) is a small ‘l’ liberal – pro-choice, pro-euthanasia and anti-discrimination. She said she would be a Democrat in the US. But that, of course, is the remarkable thing about the US – they have centre-right and far-right instead of centre-left and right like most other Western countries. After a few drinks, I challenged her for thinking that the (Australian) right could offer much of her vision, because they are also necessarily in bed with the conservatives. NLF is not conservative. It must be strange being on the right because I have never thought that liberalism and conservatism make good bedfellows, but they seem destined to snuggle up and battle it out, ending in a series of compromises.

NLF is one of those people who believes that we should all start with a clean slate, particularly when it comes to issues of race. This is a view I find frustrating, although I admit it is one I used to hold myself before I sussed things out a bit more. The thing is, there are no clean slates. It’s a metaphor. We all have the slate we have. And racial tension, particularly between indigenous people and white people, doesn’t occur in a vacuum. The absence of discriminatory legislation today does not mean that yesterday’s laws and policies have not left a trace. This particular debate occurred because NLF resented being called a ‘white cunt’ (she saw this as racism). It is racism, but I don’t think it really matters. Because it is emblematic of much greater problems. One day I hope it will be regarded as racism, but that will only occur when there is genuine equality between blacks and whites. And then, of course, we won’t be throwing around colour slurs anyway. Until then, I said, I am happy to cop a ‘white cunt’ for the rest of my ‘race’. I think we probably deserve it.

It is quite nice having some different views to consider for a change.

It had to happen eventually - the collision of Duncana's bouncy, manicured, glamorous life, and my own distinctly unglamorous one. The location was South Beach, Fremantle, site of the Fremantle half-marathon. Golden Retrieverhead had risen with the optimistic idea of taking us all to the beach for a walk and then picking up pizza and coffees from Dolce and Salato. Milkfant is still getting over the flu, I am suffering from Existential Angst (again) and Vader is in urgent need of anti-anxiety meds, but off we went anyway. GR has given us all Harry Potter names as he is finally reading the books. Vader is Padfoot, Milkfant is usually Albus Dumbledore but today was Professor Grubbly-Plank (in view of her grumbly mood), and I am Nearly Headless Nick, in view of my poorly-functioning frontal lobes that give rise to regular fits of pique. I note that GR has exempted himself from such a nickname. Anyway, he had his hands full today with Padfoot, Professor and NH Nick.

When we reached the beach there were cars everywhere due to the Half Marathon. As I was suffering from E.A., I opted out of making any decisions (though plenty of catty suggestions were offered), so GH drove around aimlessly for a while in search of a parking spot. After a long time he settled on the grassed oval near the beach and loaded up the Milkfant in her piggy-back carrier. I was given charge of Padfoot, who was over-excited and kept stepping on my (thonged) feet. We had a mostly pleasant walk on the beach and calculated that, as the runners were coming in at about 1 hour 20, that we would be in time to watch Uncle Frank finish the half marathon at his usual 1 hour forty-five (ish). So we took our places near the finish line and watched the runners sprint and stagger towards the finish line. I felt vaguely inadequate, especially as had attempted a fifty metre run on the beach and (aside from being savaged by Padfoot) had not done too well. Watching all these super-fit overachievers made me feel stodgy, like a heavy piece of cake.

I knew I would see her. I knew that she was going to be at the Half Marathon; indeed, I though she would actually be doing it. But she was evidently not participating. Instead, she was dressed in perfect runner's attire but with perfect dog, on leash, and with a group of other beautiful athletic people, waiting to cheer in another character I know from her blog. (I heard them cheer her name.) We were less than ten metres apart as we stood by the finish line.

I reflected upon my little family and what we would look like. Milkfant was her usual adorable self, rocking her white eskimo hat (Inuit, sorry) and a pink fur coat. GR was his usual daggy but passable self, although his hair is starting to really resemble Sting's. It is very high and fluffy. Vader was his usual edgy self, fresh from being beaten by yours truly after aggressing a boxer on the beach. But zlatz was surely the finest looking member of this party. Feet: red thongs. Legs: blue tracksuit pants from 1999 (congratulations, pants, you've reached double figures!). Top: Green bowling Tshirt and daggy red fleece bought by mother. Hair: disaster area. Sunglasses: Bad, mirrored ones. In other words, my usual Yummy Mummy attire. Dear diary, dare I admit the painful truth - that one of the reasons I avoided Duncana was that I was too ashamed of myself to face her?

We watched a grey-faced Frank head towards the finish line. We made a big fuss of him as he passed but he appeared nonplussed (close to death, it emerged later). I muttered to GR as Duncana cheered on her competing friend. He advised me that she had noticed me, but had similarly avoided. He derided our mutual aversion as 'very year three' but also vindicated me with the comment that, 'she looks and sounds incredibly plastic. She might as well be one of those dolls who comes out with a generic response.' I felt better. Surely I could not be a generic-speaking doll, except perhaps for Chucky. This reflection made me feel worse again.

Duncana and her perfect dog and friends faded off into the crowd. GR, Greyface, Professor, Padfoot and NH Nick made our way towards Mrs Greyface and Pinhead (their dog, fresh from a close encounter with a stranger's crotch), and then to our respective vehicles. From there, our little family acquired pizzas and coffees and made the drive home to Coobs. Where we are now undertaking the usual domestic drudgery (GR is giving the lawns their bi-annual mow).

Dear Diary, does the mini-pill prevent me from knowing when I am suffering from PMT?
Would I feel better if I ran a marathon?
Would I feel better if I lost five kilograms?
Would I feel better if I had better clothes? (Recently culled half of wardrobe with assistance from Mrs Greyface, who is heavily pregnant and ruthless: "Get rid of it! It's nineties! Put it in the pile!")
Would I feel better if Padfoot didn't savage boxers?
If GR would just mow the lawn without me having a conniption fit first?
If Milkfant hadn't had the flu for the last three days?

Alas, I must simply wait for the E.A. to pass. And once again, force myself to count my blessings. And smile at GR's suggestion that we let Padfoot savage Duncana's perfect dog. He would've made mincemeat out of him.

No time to do much at all, really, except scrape by but in a pleasant sort of way. Considering starting a tally for number of times per day I (or Golden Retrieverhead) bellow "VADER" in a growly voice, in a hapless attempt at discipline. Suspect it would be well above twenty. Vader, meanwhile, continues to do as he pleases. Today he absconded through an open front door (my fault) and made himself at home in a neighbour's workshop, whilst physically repelling said neighbour. Upon collection he made himself very low, which is his way of saying "I know I'm in trouble." But since he also slinks towards the person retrieving him whilst in this low posture, he can't be punished since he is officially doing what he is told.

The Milkfant has decided to make meal-time a battle of wills. Nobody should ever start a battle of wills with the zlatz. They will lose. Even daughter-of-zlatz, who has additional stubborn genes from her father. I stare into her little eyes, so like mine with their bag of flesh underneath and the skin above them tautened into a frown, and think, you will not beat me. But she tries. She throws food away in a fit of rage. She acts as if her tuna and stew were some kind of poison rather than something that she guzzled down happily a few weeks ago. I go spoon for spoon with fruit (her achilles heel), but after each stew spoon she hollers even while she swallows it. Some days she will only eat from her hands. Some days she will only eat from my hands. Some days she will only throw it on the floor. I have decided she is going to have to start eating the family meal and nutrition be damned, because this stew is full of everything she needs and if she's not going to eat it then she's going to have to eat what we're eating. Tonight she made a fairly good fist of GR's fried rice, so hopefully the new regime will work.

Vader's new name is 'Help'. One of our favourite movies is the Big Lebowski, which feature the following scene: Donnie is dying of a heart attack and Walter, a Vietnam vet who has seen many a good man die 'face down in the sand', comforts him by saying, 'Help's choppering in.' GR adjusted this phrase to 'Help's hoovering in' to describe what happens when Vader is let back in after Milky's mealtime. He is not particularly efficient but it still makes me smile.

Here in Coolbellup, it’s bulk waste collection time, also known as Hard Rubbish or street-scab. This is the social event of the year. I am not kidding. The entire suburb bursts into life. Streets are filled with cars crawling along, often with trailers in tow, as drivers comb the verges for treasure. The trouble is, being a poor suburb in the first place, there isn’t a lot of treasure. But there are exciting things around every corner. I am still thinking about a fairly new portable dishwasher I saw on Winterfold Road. Is there any remote possibility that it is in good working order?

I don’t look forward to street-scab time as much as I used to. In my younger days, I was known to furnish whole rooms from the side of the road. These days, I count down the weeks till Hard Rubbish so that I can get things out of my house, rather than into it. But I am not immune; on the weekend I spotted a very nice little storage shelf in a neighbouring suburb. I raced back to get the car and collected it, along with five funky retro dinner plates. On closer inspection, three of the plates were chipped, so they got turfed. Two made it into the Attwell-Dolphin permanent collection. And the storage didn’t fit in my intended location, so I stuck it out the front of the house. Two hours later it had gone. That’s the beauty of hard rubbish – easy come, easy go.

This morning my French neighbour Veronique borrowed the car in order to jump start her van. When she returned the keys, she asked, ‘Do you want anything from Hard Rubbish?’, as though it were a shop. She was going off in the van with her boyfriend Bruno specifically to peruse the streets for kitchen workspaces. Sadly, I had no requests to make. But I liked the idea of driving around and treating Hard Rubbish like a shop, where you might find something fantastic. Truth be told, I haven’t ever got anything off the side of the road that hasn’t ended up back there again a year or two later. One person’s trash might be another person’s treasure, but it’s more likely to end up being that other person’s trash, too. Then they’ll just be counting down the weeks until next Hard Rubbish, so they can stick it back out the front and see what else they can find.

Those in the know say that if you really want to score in Hard Rubbish, you need to head to the Western Suburbs, where Duncana lives. I even know people who mark this event in their diaries. There, legend has it, people throw away perfectly good plasma TVs and furniture because they get divorced and can’t be bothered dealing with it. Also, there is little competition for used goods as street scabbing isn’t the suburban pass-time that it is here in Coobs. But I think those people in the Western Suburbs are missing out on something. Not anything tangible, certainly. They have everything that money can buy, which is why they can so easily throw good things away. But as I walk, drive or cycle through Coolbellup and see the junk of people’s lives piled up on their verges, and the ever-hopeful scroungers in their nineties Commodores and Falcons with trailers in tow, my heart is inexorably warmed. Because, surely, we are more than we have. And we are more than we throw away, once a year, at Hard Rubbish.

Wearing 'pink-style' customised tee. Probably not a major hit. Teamed it with a red low cut singlet that has its own customised rip section over the hip, and 'anarchy' emblazoned across the chest. That, of course, is why I bought it, apart from the fact that it was three pounds in an op shop in Liverpool. (As an aside, just spent a good minute trying, and failing, to find pound sign on keyboard. Some strange Euro sign exists on the bottom RHS of 5 but can't activate it.)

Had to customise singlet further as it still had 'Murdoch Guild' over my cleavage, and that seemed naff. So hacked into it some more and now cleavage is bursting out of rips. Which wouldn't be so bad except for hideous maternity bra slithering its way up to get a gurnsey. Kind of ruins vampish effect. Even Golden Retrieverhead noticed the incongruous bra, and commented that it looked 'kind of Woolworths.' (Except I'm sure Woolworth bras don't cost $70.) When he learnt that the Tshirt had been customised, he mocked me cruelly. But that won't stop me wearing it again. I'll just wear a better bra!

The event to which said Tshirt was worn was a Rollerderby. A friend of ours is involved although sadly for her, she was scratched from the team at the last minute and ended up being floor manager. She took it well. I think I would have had a major paddy and quit, which is probably why I do not, and never have, participate in team sports. This event took place at the Midvale Speed Dome, which is, I believe WA's only Velodrome, and also has roller-skating facilities. It was like the Burswood Dome's poor cousin. I hate Domes. It was big and cold and airy and flouro-lit. There was no vibe, which was a shame as I think Rollerderby is all about the vibe. They did their best with two teams of girls in funky short costumes and a rockabilly band. There were plenty of greasers there and girls in fifties attire. But it was all kind of lost under the pressurised roof. I think next time they should go back to an old skool roller rink. That is, after all, where it all began.

I haven't blogged in a while, as Mr Champagne reminded me. There are some good reasons for this.
1. I'm working again, which means there is less time to get housework done, and less time with the infant, so I value the time I have more.
2. In the sneaky half hour I take for myself during one of her naps, I find it much more soul-nourishing to read a novel. Currently Sarah Waters' latest, The Little Stranger.
3. Well that's it really - no time.

I have a couple of specific entries building up inside me - is the word brain-fart? - and I want to get them out, but I think they'll have to wait until I can give them the time they deserve.

So I saw Pink recently, which has a story all of its own, but I was inspired by one of her 'costume changes' into a pair of jeans and a red Tshirt. The Tshirt was sliced to shreds on one side, so you could make out her perky little boobs in their black bra, and some rippling washboard abs. I was inspired, as much by the perky boob and washboard abs as the Tshirt itself. I had my first real case of body envy in years. Pink is so athletic and strong, and in great shape. I entertained, for about half an hour, the idea of getting back into serious shape myself - the kind of shape I haven't been in for years. I imagined looking trim in boyish jeans, and being able to wear a clingy Tshirt without looking like a cling-wrapped whale. For about half an hour, I felt like I might be more happy if I looked like Pink. (Perhaps it was simply a case of life envy - Charmaine said to me at the concert that she wished she was Pink and I replied that probably everybody there did too.) There was also something attainable about Pink's body, probably because I used to have a body like that too. So it didn't seem an unrealistic thing to wish for; rather something I might actually be able to do.

Then I thought again. I remembered I have a baby and no time. I remembered that even if I did have time, I'm more passionate about other things than spending days at the gym. Like eating beautiful food, for a start. And I remembered that when I had that body, I was nowhere near as happy as I am today.

So I decided to take what i could from the situation and simply rip off the Tshirt, no pun intended. Not that I'll be showing off my bra under it any time soon; the Maternity Harness, as I like to call it, is strictly an undergarment. But I can wear a little singlet, which will also nicely camouflage the rolls, and hopefully still capture the rock edge. I got Mr Champagne onto the job with a pair of hairdressing scissors and his design prowess (there was sticky tape involved) and now the results wait to be seen after the garment is washed.

In other news, I watched a disturbing documentary last night about the commodification of childhood. It really made me re-think some things that I had previous considered benign, like a child sleeping on character-branded bedding. I realised that I buy my nieces a lot of Dora stuff because they like Dora. But is that really a good enough reason? According to this documentary, children are being marketed to from an extremely young age and marketers are keen to exploit children's 'nagging power.' The other thing that really disturbed me was the construction of the 'tween'. The idea is that a tween is between childhood and adolescence. So childhood now ends where tween begins. And tween used to begin at eight, but now it is being lowered to six and arguably four. If the latter is the case, then our children almost move from infancy to aspirational adolescence. This really frightened me. When I gave birth to a daughter I was absolutely delighted. I knew i wanted a girl. But now i feel like there is so much out there that i want to protect her from, and that's not even just paedophiles, but now the marketers and the consumer culture that want to take her childhood away from her before it even begins. I try to be relaxed as a parent but this frightened me. I remembered my own childhood, and I know that simply denying your child access to the cultural icons of his or her peers is not the answer. So now I have three years max to figure out what is!!!

Dosed up with Nurofen, the teething Infant sleeps. There are a million things I should be doing, from cooking up her stew, to finishing the vacuuming, to getting dressed for the day, to having a shit. But all of those things can wait – Mummy’s time exerts a powerful pull! And Mummy wants to write.

After thinking I wouldn’t bounce off Duncana’s blog anymore, I have now reconsidered thanks to some wise counsel. The trick is to use her as a jumping off place, rather than to turn myself into some poor-arse parody.

Duncana’s latest blogs are all about getting back into marathon running. Frankly, I think I preferred the food-porn ones. Exercise is boring. At least, other people’s exercise is. I can tolerate and even enjoy my own, but I don’t need to write about it, thank you very much. That said, I probably will end up writing about it in this blog, but not the tedious minute details.

Duncana is full of angst about carrying a few extra post-holiday kgs. I remember the days when a few extra kgs felt like a terminal diagnosis. Like a long, slow march to fatness, which would equal some kind of death. These days it does not really bother me. There are probably a few extra kgs hanging around, like Vader at mealtimes, but they do not seem to multiply. They are like the cobwebs on the laundry ceiling – it would be nice if they’d go away and I pretend that one day I might do something about them – but really they are probably here to stay.

I learnt the hard way that there are worse things than carrying around a few extra kgs. Like the hours scrutinizing and hating in front of the mirror. Like years lost at the gym, and running (which I have always LOATHED). Like stomach cramps from long hours of not eating. Like a constant, pervasive sense of dis-ease. So now I am sharpened to other people’s body issues, but I am also less than compassionate about them. I get angry and disappointed in other people, which I have no right to do. Really, I am angry and disappointed in myself for all the time I wasted being unhappy. But there is nothing I can do to get back that lost time. I can only be grateful that I got out when I did.

These days I do not diet. I try to exercise most days – just a walk or a yoga practice. I’m going to start riding again to uni which will be quite exciting; I used to LOVE my bike. My approach to food is much like my approach to budgeting. I do not diet or budget. But nor do I eat an entire block of chocolate, or buy a ridiculously expensive skirt (except the one I bought recently). Plodding and sensible most of the time – that is me. Then I can enjoy my life.

But my recent post about Duncana’s wealth stirred up another game I used to play with myself. Instead of ‘what would I buy if I had unlimited money’, it was ‘what if I could eat whatever I want and not get fat.’ These days, I don’t deny myself anything I want to eat. And I’m not too fat, although the little rolls on my back are slightly upsetting. I could do without back-fat. But with food, like with money, I have learnt that it is not abundance which makes me happy. It’s something intangible; something that helps me to enjoy and be grateful for whatever it is I have. Today, that thing is in sight. Today is a good day.

After a private email from Rimi, I have begun to reflect upon whether this blog is serving its purpose. I am also wondering exactly what its purpose is. It was supposed to be a vehicle for me to start writing again. It was also supposed to be a witty bounce-off of Duncana’s smug, self-satisfied life. But it has started to reveal some ugly truths.

Firstly, like my friend Candice suggested, perhaps I should not judge. Or compare. Perhaps in doing so, perhaps in airing the absurdities of my life as though they somehow compare to Duncana’s extremely expensive buffalo mozzarella, I am simply becoming negative and bitter.

There doesn’t seem any room in this formula to write of my enchantments with life. The peaceful moments of watching my baby sleep and feeling like I might explode with love. The feeling I have when GR puts on an old song that has memories for us both, and our life together washes over me. When Vader sits in the sun, peaceful, and I stroke his glossy black fur. The bountiful energy as I walk laps in the park with the pram, soaking in a beautiful winter’s day. The delight at stuffing my face with a garlicky GR-made pesto pasta and watching a night of teeve. I gloss over the magic, because it is almost lost in the mundane. I gloss over the magic lest it sound trite. I strive to be witty and sharp, but I end but just being brittle.

Rimi has also been doing some soul-searching, and she wondered if she was actually envious of Duncana. Envious, as she put it, that Duncana finds happiness things that would never make Rimi happy. Envious that Duncana’s life can be happy simply by being virtue of Mrs Hostile Takeover and eating delicate pastries. Rimi, like me, is a perfectionist who rides life’s ebbs and flows with a stab of dissatisfaction. Our lives cannot be improved by purchases of consumer tat. We would fail to be satisfied simply by having more money, or a fancier house, or a brand-spanking-new husband. Whatever is wrong with us, and I don’t think it’s anything serious, can’t be bought better. So maybe Rimi is right. Maybe we do both envy Duncana her simple happiness, her satisfaction in the bounty that has reached her by virtue of birth, education and now marriage.

Except I thought the point was that Duncana couldn’t really be that happy. For me, that was the crux of the whole matter; the amusing basis of her blog, and mine. I thought Duncana’s blog was all spin. I didn’t think she was actually happy at all, just smugly showing off. Which is why I thought it would be fun to spin my own life, bouncing off hers. Her fabulous wealth would be the foil for our mortgage-strapped existence. Her pashminas would be my op-shop bargains. Her degustation menu would be my $12 piggery at the Upmarkets. I would write my own life into something wry and amusing. But I feel like all I have managed to do is write myself into a bit of a black hole.

See, if Duncana is really happy, then what am I? I am infinitely blessed with a wonderful partner and baby, a roof over my head, a good job and wonderful friends and family. But I’m also a bit of a dark and brooding soul, battling off the metaphorical black dog as well as the real one who constantly has his nose in the high chair sniffing for scraps. I try to love life, but I don’t succeed every day. And so maybe writing a blog in which I poke fun at my life isn’t the healthiest thing I could be doing.

But what else am I going to do?

Spending a lot of time with a baby who can't yet talk, and a dog with a personality disorder, means that I chat a lot to myself, in my head. Sometimes I think about what I want to write on here long before I actually get to make an entry. I have been reflecting upon Duncana's fabulous trip and fabulous life, and asking myself the question: what would I do if I had lots of money? Having reflected thus, and compiled a mental list, I commented to my friend Candice that the list looked worryingly Duncana-esque. I said that it had showed me something. Finishing my sentence for me in the way that friends do, she suggested that perhaps it showed me not to judge. "Oh no, that's no fun at all," I responded immediately. "No, it showed me that even if I wanted some of the same things, I'd still want to be a fundamentally different person." But I wasn't sure how, or if, I would be.

So let's imagine that Golden Retrieverhead and I get to live on a cool amount of money, perhaps $200k a year. And we can decide how much we'd work for that. I think I'd work two days. I think GR would happily work 0 days, but since this is my fantasy world, I'll also have him working two days. Perhaps our jobs are so amazingly well-paid that we command hundreds of dollars per hour. So what would I do if I had that kind of money, and didn't have to work any harder for it than I do now?

I would buy a bigger house with more room. I would pay someone to come in twice weekly to clean it. It would have a dishwasher. I would pay someone to come in and do my gardening. I would pay someone to come in and train the dog. Perhaps the dog would also go on meds. I would buy beautiful funky clothes from local designers that cost $200 a pop. I would have facials. I would have electrolysis on my legs. I would eat organic food. I would eat out or eat takeaway a lot more. I would belong to a swanky gym with a creche, and I would put the Milkfant in for a couple of hours while i had a workout and a sauna and spa. I would go on more holidays, to more exciting places. I would find someone who made organic, minimal packaging baby food so I didn't have to peel 200 granny smith apples and stew them myself. With my increased time, I would spend more time with friends and doing my voluntary / community work with Friends of Palestine, my union, and the Breastfeeding Association. I would read more books and write more. On the weekends, GR, Babyface and I would be free agents rather than unblocking drains etc.

- Interlude - just had what started out as a nappy change and finished up with me and Albi in the bath, the change table cover and bunch of clothes in the washing machine and Ian being sick in his mouth and using my Palestinian headcover to cover his nose. It was possibly the worst shit ever known to mankind, in both consistency, colour, quantity and odour.

Anyway, returning to the matter at hand, I wonder what it would be like. Not to worry about whether something's on special or not. To flippantly say yes, I'll take it. And one in red as well.

The thoughts I have had about this were as follows:
1. as already stated, I wondered how different my life would be to Duncana's, at least on the surface. Spin class, anyone?
2. I would still want my life to be different from hers. But how would it be?
3. I would want to be so incredibly humbled and grateful for what I had. But this one jars a bit. When GR and I finally bought a house - a dream I thought I'd never attain - I was completely humbled and grateful. Three years on, retaining that outlook is a daily practice. I remain on guard against a creeping sense of affluenza, that i must have MORE than I do now. This makes the old communist in me feel dirty. What have I become? I constantly remind myself that people have raised families and spent their whole lives in houses like mine. Houses that they don't even own, but rent, whereas I have the privilege of owning this one... when I'm seventy.
4. Paradoxically, the list doesn't bother me too much. How dramatically different would my life be? I'd still be doing the same job. I'd still be spending as much time with my daughter. Okay, so GR and I wouldn't be spending our whole weekend arguing about doing the garden and tidying the house - that one would be really nice. We could go on more outings. I would look better, eat better, work out better (to stave off the better eating) and have a bit more time, and a bit more phsyical space. But it might be too much time. (What, indeed, would I do all day?) And it might be too much space. (I would not have to cull clutter and it would consume me.)

So this has actually been an interesting exercise. Yes there are a few things I yearn for, like a dishwasher, a dog whisperer and a gardener. But I'm actually pretty happy with my life.

And now I'd better get dressed - the takeaway Indian degustation menu awaits me, and I've finally managed to get True Blood on DVD to watch from the local Blocks. Hopefully the Milkfant will go down early and sleep off her terrible mood, and GR and I can have a couple of hours to chill with some quality teeve. Really, what more could a girl want? Who knows, perhaps I'll even let GR commit a Hostile Takeover!

Three days with a sick baby is a reminder of what some people cope with all the time. Poor Little Heart also has two front teeth coming through. I will miss her gummy smile. Sometimes I wish I could freeze her forever at this age, crawling around, jabbering to herself, waving and then being really proud of herself.

In other news, Duncana is FINALLY back from her travels and full of the AMAZING things that her and Hostile Takeover did in the UK. For example, they did the 'dego menu' at some fancy restaurant in the Isle of Skye. That's 'degustation' for those not in the know. I've never done degustation - the best I can manage is digestion and even that's pushing it sometimes. When I was in the Isle of Skye, Golden Retrieverhead and I slept in a tent and ate ready-pasta cooked on the camp stove. Our whole Scotland trip was done on a shoe-string and one night, one of our last, we decided to splash out and stay at a B&B. However it blew our budget so badly that we couldn't afford to eat out as well, and of course we couldn't cook on our camp stove. So we had Pot Noodle for dinner, made with the kettle in our bedroom, and then filled up on breakfast (included in the price of accomodation) the next morning. I wonder if Duncana could have even contemplated such a thing as she was enjoying her seven courses!

I want to write more but Little Heart is jabbering away in her bed refusing to sleep, and a mountain of dishes awaits. So more reflections on my fabulous life in the suburbs will have to come at a later date.

My dear friend Mr Champagne, who moves in a Duncana-esque world but is slightly less of a wanker, told me to get a metal water bottle. I carry a bottle everywhere, and I usually use the free plastic promotional ones that people are always giving away. However, my last ones have gone to shit, and I am sans bottle at the moment. It is liberating but also frightening. So I headed into Freo today to try and find one. Nobody sold them except Home Provedore, who sold the beautiful ones Mr C had described... but they were forty bucks! Small change to the champagne set, perhaps, but unjustifiable for a Cooby housewife. I decided against it for now... it's just another thing to become obsessed about losing. But I did spend $20 on a rolling pin. Domestic goddess, here I come. Also bought some hard-to-find spices which made me feel good. I love cooking curries from scratch.

Had another Duncana comparison moment last night. She would have Foxtel, which despite being pretty crap, would generally have at least something to watch. After watching an interesting doco about the Liberals, GR wanted to watch something light to unwind. Oh dear. I found the perfect thing... 20 to 1! Now we are officially losers. But I went to bed before the top three - had lost enough self-respect as it was.

Duncana's last entry - still no updates - waxes lyrical about brioche. Food is very important to the stay-at-home mother. I measure my worth by the quality of what goes on the table at the end of the day. Today is a low self-esteem day: leftover Thai curry, leftover Indian curries (combined), frozen vegetarian schnitzel and steamed Korean dumplings in soy sauce and sweet chilli. Or, as GR put it, a 'hotchpotch' and 'what the hell did you do all day?' I hennaed my hair in the morning. And spent a blissful hour in the afternoon on my thesis while Aunty Jo had the Milkfant. In between I did what I usually do: washing, tidying, cleaning and talking crap to my daughter, who is probably going to develop a strange vocabulary as a result.

The day got off to a good start. By 9am, the vomit tally was three: Infant 2, Dog 1. The dog's was chunky and repulsive. Why did he have to do it under the table? Why not outside? And while we're on the subject, why so much pooh? Why? I collect it every two or three days but the sheer quantity of stools is exhausting. I seem to remember, a long distant time ago, that dog pooh was going to be a 'shared job'. But that, like many things, seems to have gone by the wayside.

However, the news is not all grim. Recently I re-read some old entries on here, and I was struck by the one called 'two people on one side of a glass window', or something similar. It was funny and somewhat sad to see my younger self yearning to be more knowledgeable and confident. It gave me a good feeling to remember speaking at a rally for Palestine, still thick with baby fat, in the long hot summer just gone. Finally I know something really well. And can stand up and talk about it, because I care so much about it. But today, even that day seems distant. I have dishpan hands. I'm sure Duncana could recommend a fabulous hand cream endorsed by No Hope. But what's the point? It would just wash off again in the next load.

Aunty Jo bought the Milkfant a new bath toy. So now we'll go off and play with it. I can't imagine bathing my child without being in the bath myself - where would the fun be in that? In spite of the drabness of everything else, Milkfant makes me smile. She's so proud of herself at the moment, standing and waving. She waved to herself in the mirror this morning. That made my day. She's a very special friend. I tell her that all day long. But if only the dog came in a smaller size.

Duncana's blog is painfully silent. So for inspiration I have to mine previous entries. In one, Duncana wrote that she found it hard to get out of bed to go jogging because she was too busy enjoying 'snuggles' with Hostile Takeover. To flagrantly flaunt one's snuggles in this way was, I felt, OTT, even if we are clear that we are talking about the entwining of limbs only. Out here in the suburbs, we do things differently. Golden Retrieverhead is happy to snuggle in winter because it's cold, and we both like to use the warmth of the other's body as one would a hot water bottle. Also, GR never plugs in his electric blanket on principle, because I also refuse to plug it in for him. So he spends the winter on my side of the bed, stealing heat. But in summer, it's "Sorry babe, I just need some space." Try having an infant attached you your tit, hip or using you as a climbing frame for eight hours a day, and then you might understand a need for space! But funnily enough, I never have enough of physical contact. What I have enough of is being needed. This segues nicely into my real topic for the day - sex.

I imagine that Duncana and Hostile Takeover, being newlyweds, are getting Lots. As a breastfeeding mother of a nine month old infant, I should be getting None. Truth be told, I am getting Some but it is probably the most workmanlike sex of my life. Sex has become something on my 'to do' list, after cleaning the filters in the hand-held Dyson and before de-worming the dog. Lately I have been writing my to-do lists on a whiteboard in the kitchen, and it is only a matter of time before 'intimate relations' appears underneath 'tax returns' and 'cook Milky's stew'. It has become something else to do in order to keep life afloat, to keep it from falling apart at the seams. And, to be honest, it's sort of like cleaning out the cupboard under the sink. The thought of doing it is not that appealing, and I can't really be bothered, but once I get started it's sort of satisfying.

But the trouble with sex, like everything else in my life, is that it is constructed around something being required from me. It's something else to turn up to and be engaged with. And it's not enough just to turn up. According to those in the know, in the interests of a healthy relationship and a healthy self-image, I should actually be some kind of sex-bomb who initiates it regularly. But after a day of taking care of the infant, the psychotic dog, the house (who knew houses needed such taking care of - this one used to be quite self-sufficient!) and making dinner, I'm done with being needed, thank you very much. My maternity camisole is the unsexiest garment I've ever owned, and I have three of them in constant rotation. Some days I never get out of them. I have never felt less sexy in my life! Which is why, even though my cupboard cleaning antics with GR are fun, my first choice of lover these days is the Other Dolphin, the blue plastic and rubber one with a AA battery inside. It doesn't ask anything in return. It's over in a few minutes. And then I can go to sleep, or read a trashy magazine, or get back to making mental lists. (That's why I like the whiteboard - it gives me a place to externalise my angst about the cobwebs on the ceiling). So I'm happy for you, Duncana, I really am! Enjoy those snuggles. One day, the politics of snuggling is going to become so much more complex.

Duncana's blog starts with a manifesto. She's going to train for a marathon but still drink wine. I don't know what wine is trendy these days, but it's sure as hell not Chardonnay, which is sooo 90s. Bubbles. I think bubbles are in. And I don't think we're talking about Yellow or Pink here, which is what I usually hit for a piss-weak celebration.

Much of the contrast between my life and Duncana's is that she is filthy rich and I am not. But that's not the half of it. She has a pseudo-glamorous job reviewing consumer tat for a lifestyle magazine, No Hope, whereas my life is presently dedicated to acting as climbing frame for a determined infant. She has a newly acquired rich husband, Hostile Takeover, who is apparently always working, whereas I have a very old de facto relationship with Golden Retrieverhead, a fading communist who possesses the hardest forehead known to the human species. (His daughter is giving him a run for his money, however). Duncana and Hostile Takeover live in a flash house in the best part of the city. GR and myself live in a three bedroom brick veneer in what used to be the worst part of the city. Duncana spends her life wondering which pashmina to wear to the next fabulous social event she covers for No Hope. I spend my life wondering where the infant's other sock is, and telling the dog that I wish he came in a smaller size.

Is my life fabulous? Perhaps. I certainly don't mind it. I compare myself to the majority of the world and find myself multiply blessed. But it is certainly not glamorous. So my challenge here is to make my second-hand, slow-cooked, short-sleeped life the epitome of glamour. But for now, it's time to go to bed. Golden Retrieverhead is locking up the house and I must brave the semi-outside toilet before it all gets locked up. Heated floorboards, anyone?

I have been inspired to start blogging again by that most base of emotions - bitchiness! A good friend of mine, we shall call her Rimi, and I have been reading the blog of an old friend. This old friend, who I shall call Duncana, is no longer a friend of mine. But Rimi and I are addicted to her blog. We read updates and then write bitchy emails to each other about our former friend's life. Duncana fancies herself as a bit of a writer, like most of us. And truth be told, her writing isn't bad. Her blog reads like trashy but well-written chick lit. It's full of her new husband, an incredibly rich lawyer, and their fabulous lives. After reading one jaw-dropping entry after another, both Rimi and I decided it would be super fun to write our own parody blogs. Instead of 'how to train for a marathon and still drink wine', mine would be something like 'how to train the dog to lick up the baby's vomit.' So I thought it was well and truly time to start writing again. Some of the entries will be parody blogs, and some of them may be real ones, because I don't want to censor myself. I don't know how well the parody blogs will work without the originals to reference. But all I can do is try. So here goes.

Nothing to do today. I try to imagine that each wasted minute and wasted hour is not really wasted. I visualise pound signs looming up behind my eyes. Each day is fifty quid. Each day is fifty quid. This has become my mantra.

I've had worse jobs, of course. I've worked with dismal people, whereas the people here are nice. I've done filthy bar work which has given me eczema on my hands. I've even done labouring, scraping varnish off wood. I would choose the luxury of a computer with internet access over all of those things. But the agonisingly slow passing of seconds and minutes is the killer. And there is only so much time you can spend staring at a computer screen, reading. I know I spent a lot of time at the computer when I was studying, but I was also producing something worthwhile. Here, I am just wasting time. I try to find interesting things I want to read but there is only so much information you can take in.

I can't write any more for now.

Just been given something to do this afternoon. I have to clean out the small fish tank on my supervisor's desk. She's off sick this week (people suggest she is skiving). Her supervisor asked me to do it as she fears for the fishes' health. The tank is filthy. I can't think of many things i would rather do less than clean out this fish tank but apparently my predecessor used to do it regularly as part of her job. How can cleaning out someone's fish tank be the job of an NHS administrator??????

I will do it, but only because of my commitment to public health and saving lives!

I have a problem with this country. In fact, I have many, but today I will focus on just one.

I once read a story about a failed relationship set in Japan. In a moment of bitterness, the narrator verbally attacked the concept of a bonsai tree. She said that the tree was tortured until it resembled the abstract idea of what a tree should look like. I've always remembered that phrase, because it was a metaphor of how the narrator felt about her relationship, and perhaps about the wider world. As though what we are all striving for is not natural or even accurate, but just an abstraction.

I think in Britain, a similar attitude exists towards the female breast. And, quite frankly, I am fed up with it!

It used to be the case, when I was a child, for example, that only weirdos would get their bodies cut open and bits of silicone inserted into their chests. You would have to be extraordinarily vain, and not just a little fucked up, to go through such a thing. Flash forward twenty years, and I would say that at least one in three British 'celebrities' (another irritating concept since most of them seem to have earnt their fame via reality TV) sport fake breasts.

There seems to be no concept that a natural body might be more beautiful, or that a natural breast, regardless of its size or shape, might be somehow superior to a piece of man-made material. We have moved into a world of fake. Fake designer handbags, fake watches, and fake breasts. And now there is nothing 'inferior' about sporting a fake anything. Men's magazines detail the breast enlargement surgery of glamour models as though it is as easy and painless as buying a new car. Indeed, to have done such a thing to one's body is akin to a rite of passage, with pert fake breasts providing entry into an alluring world of fame and fortune.

Germaine Greer has detailed this cult of mutilation in her wonderful book The Whole Woman, so I do not wish to to her injustice by parroting it all here. What I do wish to say is that I am disturbed by the lack of dissenting voices. In the celebrity magazine culture, nobody is saying that it is not necessary to cut open your body. As the 'fake' becomes as acceptable as the 'real', perhaps even more acceptable since it demonstrates a commitment to making the best of oneself, a pair of fake breasts simply become the latest consumer item that one 'has to have'.

Yesterday, in a moment of boredom, I googled a former British Big Brother winner who is now supposedly a DJ. Because I have been working with a DJ, I wondered to what extent this celeb was a real DJ and could actually use turntables etc, or whether she was just another boring poser. I was unable to glean this information, but instead I came across an article in which she said she aspired to a pair of fake breasts similar to those sported by Cheryl Tweedie from Girls Aloud (a manufactured pop band). These breasts were good because they were a 'teardrop shape' and looked natural. The 'DJ' said that she would have to find out which surgeon had created Tweedie's breasts. There was even a picture of Tweedie with her fake breasts amply displayed.

I got a real sense of ... I can't think of the word, but I learnt about the concept in cultural studies and English at uni and think it contains the word 'meta'... it's the idea that you are looking at a representation of a representation of a representation, and somehow the original object that is being represented has ceased to exist, or at least has ceased to figure in the narrative of the representations. It's like someone, somewhere, has a perfectly nice pair of normal breasts but nobody knows what they look like anymore. One pseudo-celebrity after another follows the lead of her augmented sisters until the real breast becomes flobby, drooping, or just too damn small to be remembered. The beauty of the female body, like the beauty of a full-size tree, has fallen into second place behind the abstraction.

And it seems like so many men, whom I would like to think would value reality over artifice, are quite happy to squeeze a fake. It might not feel that good but its appearance is more important, anyway. Meanwhile so many women, who have the most to lose from this scenario, happily buy into the cult of the fake. I learnt this first hand in my previous job. My supervisor, a slim and small-breasted childless forty-something, said she'd like to have her breasts 'done'. A passing director suggested making use of NHS contacts to get in with a good plastic surgeon. Another supervisor said how happy her daughter was with her fake breasts. I said 'No, don't do it.' I was admonished by my nineteen-year old co-worker that it was 'her choice if she wants to do it.' Suddenly I, the feminist, had become some kind of killjoy puritan, or even a nasty moralistic dictator, denying women their 'choice' to 'make the best of themselves'. As though that 'choice' is the best thing feminism has to offer women. As though needles, anaesthetic, blood and prosthetic body parts constitute one being being 'done', with the alternative to remain hideously 'undone'.

This is not good enough. Fake boobies are not good enough. From now on I am going to proclaim, loud and proud, that 'breast is best' ONLY when it's natural. If enough other women do the same, then perhaps we can reclaim this part of our bodies from the tyranny of an abstraction.

Anyone care to join me?

It's okay until I hit the afternoon. Actually, scrap that, today it started dragging before lunch. Then I distracted myself for a while researching a holiday to Ireland, tore around the supermarket, stuffed my face, and now the lag has kicked in again.

Nice banter with the people in the office though. Just heard the following anecdote. An Irish Asian doctor was working in the hospital and he had to ring up about something. They asked him what his first initial was, and it was 'Y'.

'Can I have your first initial please?'

'Y'

'Because I need it.'

'Y'

'Because I need to write it in the book.'

'Y'

... You get the drift.

Blah blah boring blah

Think I will go and read the paper online.