28 bottles of wine on the wall..

Ah Melbourne, thou dost always bring a warmth to my heart even in the dead of winter...

I met with the lovely Mel Campbell this morning and chinwagged about the execrable articles in the new Sunday Life magazine, why white people love Mad Men and the none-too-tiny nugget of genius that was Germaine Greer's epitaph for MJ.

You may know Mel from A Wild Young Under Whimsy or just generally being an interesting Lady About Town. Anyhoo, we put away truckloads of coffee and I felt slightly anxious for the remainder of the day, which was primarily spent poking about overpriced antique markets and tacky, overpriced shitholes on Chapel St.

I was also beset by an unfamiliar sense of shock when I realised that the Footscray Coles would be packaging my goods for me in a *spits on fingers in manner of Catholics warding off evil eye* plastic bag. Truly, I had the same reaction I might have done had someone wandered into The Elephant Walk and lit up a cigarette. I mean....you just can't do that. Clearly the Great Plastic Bag Ban SA Edition can already be declared a successful social experiment if after only a few months people are already brainwashed into believing that the world prior to it existed in some kind of Carrollian dimension populated by talking eggs and this man:



Ah Depp. I thought that Willy Wonka might be a one off, a strange anomaly in an otherwise ordered and correct world - but no, it appears that you are capable of assuming multiple guises in which the likelihood of desiring boudoir intimacy with you would be virtually zero. Curses.

On Saturday night, I exceeded all prior levels of tacky white trashness when I attended my dear friend's birthday dinner and got blazing drunk on overpriced-but-shitty red wine. I then proceeded to drink two more of said bottles in the gutter outside with a motley crew of fellow trashbags who, tangentially to this experience, all claimed to be suffering from swine flu. Some other hijinks occurred which I think may have involved raucous discussions about slut shaming at The Union and possibly some ferocious haggling with a taxi driver. I woke up on a floor in Fitzroy the next morning with a cat curled next to my face and my liquid eyeliner still in place.

Yes, I'm nothing if not neat in my fooliganism. I may be a boozehound, but I like to think I'm a remarkably well preserved one.

This will come in handy, as I am one year older today - today (which is I suppose tomorrow, sort of, it being past midnight but today by the time you'll be able to read this) being my beeday, my 28th one. Which sounds a lot older than 27, and veering dangerously close to the dirty thirties. I wonder, will it still be acceptable for me to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath when I'm 30? Now that I'm old, will I have to give up watching ABC afternoon kids dramas? Is 28 really too ancient to consider party make out sessions one of the highlights of the week?

I jest, of course. One is NEVER too old to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath. That Jessica is such a scamp. A manipulative, sex crazed, wonderful bitch of a scamp.