I went to the most fantastic cabaret night last night. Everything I love about cabaret was present: sexy, funny, clever, sly performances, a beautiful little venue, a hot n' sexy audience, and an amazing star turn onstage by a good friend. I am so excited by the transition my friends are making, in their own and diverse ways but still it feels as a group, from admirers-of-performance to performers themselves/ourselves. Of course this has been in process for years but each new step-step-kick forward thrills me to bits- and seeing the name of a loved friend not quite up in lights, but up in text on posters on King St (which is just as good if you ask me) is truly delightful. Congratulations a thousand times over!
Unfortunately some combination of rich red wine and tasty Mexican food began to disagree with me immediately after the performance, and I had to rush off lest I become one of those tragics who bespatter the South King St footpaths in an entirely disagreeable manner. While it is a little humbling to throw up in front of a lover, a girl can at least be glad that her lover is a nurse, and a) used to these sorts of things and b) excellent at dealing without a smidgin of unnecessary drama.
The horrendous process of house-hunting has commenced eating my minimal free time, and I realise that I've become such a succulent tragic that I've added "backyard too cold & shady for succulents to thrive" to my checklist of bad things about a house, right up there with "postage-stamp sized bedrooms" and "used syringes littering footpath outside". I'd gladly stick it out in my current sunny little flat, but over the course of a year the serious structural defects have become distressingly apparent- it's only a matter of time before someone crashes through the shoddy floor boards and surprises the downstairs neighbours in the middle of dinner. My nerves can't take it anymore, and so: house-hunting. Also, it would be nice to have a bedroom wall.