In this edition of Kinfolk...

Maybe not. Actually, this hilarity is just a segue into tonight's adventure to the Open Air Cinema with the inconquerable J. I figure, since she's the first person I told about my blog, she ought to be the first to get a mention on it.

I begin by reiterating that it's summer where I am.

The Open Air Cinema is a fairly literal business. You bring a picnic rug or rent a deck chair and then spend an hour forty or so shifting about, trying to get the feeling back into your legs.

Hard life.

Ah, but who am I kidding? This was so much fun. I had my first Subway (verdict: satisfactory; doubt those meatballs were the epitome of eatin' fresh, but they did taste good), and then we saw a bongo drum orchestra. There was some kind of hippie night market -- you could buy fisherman's pants and those weird woven hats with the ear flaps -- and a man who, clearly at the end of his pride, was trying to flog the last of his stock as "strawberries for Christmas", "stawberries for your ice-cream" and "strawberries for you, sir".

St. Kilda is such a fun place, in spite of all the murders. It's sort of seedy and a last hippie outpost, but I guess that's the charm. It even has a Coney Island-esque amusement park; C I-esque in that it had its hey-day about seventy years ago and now is only really patroned by tourists, children's birthday parties and second-daters running out of ideas. It's a shame because the place is actually pretty nice, especialy when it's all lit up. It's the kids these days, with their "electronic mail" and "skateboards".

Right. The sun set at last and we headed to the place to see...

...Emilio Estevez! What a film. We laughed; we cried; we fumbled and failed to take a picture of the opening tites and instead snapped a shot of the lead actor.

I admit to you now that this was my first ever viewing of the Breakfast Club. What can I say? I'm impressed, both by the film itself and by Estevez's cold, dead shark eyes. Apart from moments of frustration (ie: "Oh my God, leave Claire alone already, it's not her fault she's a ginger") it was sensational. I'm always in awe of a film that takes such hilariously rigid stereotypes and makes a decent picture. Plus! it had a montage (a dance montage!!) and a makeover and those are just my favourite things in a film.

And a highly unflattering selfie to end a sensational evening.

 

Hello, home

Well, that was a very lovely week.

Pretty, pretty, pretty week.

It's a real shame I lack the technical skill to show you how shut-up-and-sit-down beautiful the country I live in is. (I also made the sensational decision to leave my picture-taking to the very last day, when it was overcast.) (Overcast for an Australian summer, that is.)

I did a lot of things; most of them involved television. At this moment, I have seen more of Reno 911! than I ever anticipated or actually desired, but hey. Spent a lot of time shouting at a questionably rendered Mario on the Nintendo 64, too, so at least my time was productive.

There I am!

And then there was HAMBURGER. As far as I can tell, it's a fish 'n' chip shop, but the only signage is what you see: HAMBURGER. (People on the Peninsula are sometimes a little strange.) I had to walk everywhere down there, as the ranch was in the middle of nowhere -- as "middle of nowhere" as a house on the main road can be, but anyway -- and HAMBURGER marked the half-way point, roughly. Orange on brown never looked so good.

So, what about those shenanigans I alluded to? Well, it was pretty crazy; one morning -- and stick with me here, because this is going to sound a bit preposterous -- I woke up with a hairtie around my wrist I'd never seen before. And I lost one of my thongs. (That's a flip-flop; we have some pretty funny names for things down here at the bottom of the world.) And I got a prickle in my foot. As I said: off the hook.

 

Schoolies, or How to Fall Off a Balcony

Ooh, I shouldn't. Because that does happen, often with tragic results. But it basically sums up what schoolies is to Australian high school leavers. What better way to commemorate thirteen years of first-rate, first world education than by drinking for a week in a beach house until everything you learnt is permanently eradicated.

Atta boys... Original here

But I digress. Because, despite the stereotype, I can smugly announce that my schoolies will be a charming, relaxing week away, with just the right amount of fun-in-the-sun nonsense and "Shut up, it's 11am; it's barely morning." Even I, Empress of Kvetch, struggle to find things to complain about. ...alright, that's a lie, but I'm very talented in that way.

Ooh, if you insist... Originals here

We're going "down the coast", which is tricky as Melbourne is in Port Phillip Bay... In truth, we're going around to one of the peninsulas, so we'll be between bay and proper coast. There's your answer, then. As far as I can tell, the plan is to read and swim and eat and watch TV and sleep; a general attempt to begin the post-exam healing process. We don't find out our ATAR (ie: Year 12 score used to get into university) until mid-December, and then it's a month before university offers are released. "Merry Christmas/Happy New Year/Happy Birthday! We got you this overhanging thundercloud of doubt. --Much love, the Victorian Curriculum and Assessment Authority".

So here I am, half-way through this lovely holiday. (Oh, the magic of scheduling posts.) Anyway, I legitimately don't think I have any readers at this stage (which is fine, everybody starts at zero... totally fine... doesn't bother me...) so that's a weight off my mind. Oh, and yes, I will start using my own images soon. It's on my List of Things.

Ooh, by the way, I'm trying to figure out what in hell is going on with formatting... The Blogsy app is great but I am not. We'll see.