Interview with Matilda

The following is an interview I did earlier in the year with the excellent Matilda lit blog website (http://www.middlemiss.org/weblog/matilda/). It's chock full of good things (despite having me visit occasionally)

March 04, 2008

Australian Crime Fiction Snapshot: Kirsty Brooks

1. Your books have been described as "Romantic comedy meets noir crime". Does living in Adelaide - sometimes described as the weird crime capital of Australia - have anything to do with your choice of genres? Or is it just the quality of the wine that makes the difference?

Ah, yes. The crime weirdness. I think it's just distilled (check excellent relevant wine reference...) by population and our hysterical tabloid newspaper. I am a keen reader of interstate papers to get some perspective, but yes, if you only read The Advertiser you'd think we were the kinky crime capital of the world (very exciting in theory but not so in real life). In fact, one of the reason the publishers at Hachette (Livre - Hodder headline) were so quick to sign my first three books was because they thought I did a good job of making Adelaide "seem exciting", which is a glimpse at the other side of the opinion coin, that Adelaide is all church spires and hedges. Being a private school girl with a doctor, lawyer and school teacher in the family, I get to explore a lot of the seedy underbelly of our fine city without losing the boring beige posh sensibilities I've been brought up with... It's an interesting parallel to why I think crime fiction makes for such interesting reading - it's danger at a safe distance. So, reading about danger is exhilarating, but I get to do all the dodgy things late at night, but still (hopefully) duck home and drink good red wine until my heart stops leaping about in my chest. As someone who runs like toddler on acid and is prone to a good thumping faint, I am the very model of a crap sleuth, so I base a lot of Cassidy's misadventures on (sadly) real life.

2. What do you have planned for your next publication?

I'm writing the next in the series, The Tequila Bikini, but publication dates are up in the air at the moment. I get a lot of emails from fans asking where it is, which is very encouraging. I'm glad they have so much faith in me (and my characters). I'm a "seat of the pants" kind of writer, so I tend to paint my characters into a corner and then get hot and cold and have to go lie down when I realise I have to now try to get them out again (and without a deux ex machina or magic wand I have to do it with characters who have very little experience, or skills of any kind. It stretches my imagination at times... I'm also sketching out a YA series, and writing bits of that when I get a chance (I've just bought my first home after decades of share housing, flats, apartments and co-ops - all of which have delivered in terms of storylines - a wonderfully kitsch seventies house with room dividers and excellent drop lamps in classy gold and brown so I'm finally able to build built-in bookshelves and I can finally get a dog (or three) and chickens, to go with the eleven birds I already live with (all but two are "rescue animals" and it's only after they get home that I realise why it's possible no one wanted them... But I love them so much for being, well really badly behaved. Six are reasonably benign handicapped finches who are remarkably brilliant and resourceful, as well as five Machiavellian parrots who all think they are my sidekick and protector and spend much of the days warning me about various Holden Blimps and stray balloons in the sky, and marching about checking down drains and under doors for intruders). My time is pretty limited but I find if I don't write every day I go nuts (the stories just play out in my head until I get them down). I have what my doctor refers to as "an unquiet mind..." I'm totally sure it's a compliment.

3. Do you read much Australian crime fiction? Can you give us a few standouts that you've read recently? What do you think of the current state of the Australian crime fiction scene?

Australian crime fiction is fit right now. Totally spunky and looking great. I'm always jealous of Melbourne based writers who get to attend the excellent Sisters in Crime meetings at Leo's spaghetti bar on a regular basis. I've been invited there a few times and been refreshed and happy for months afterwards, enjoying the company of other writers and readers (although one night when I spoke with the glorious Tara Moss, I had a woman fast asleep in the seats about two feet in front of me, which was off putting until I realised if anyone can sleep in the presence of Ms. Moss, she must be really exhausted and deserve the nap - or be mashed on drugs). I love reading local crime fiction, but I must confess my faves are American - Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton mostly. I even wrote Ms. Grafton a fan letter, and got a reply. It's still in my purse, I was so excited (getting older just can't stop someone being a nerd). I am also a fan of Shane Maloney (who I travelled around Victoria with for a libraries tour, we had a great time, persuading our very patient libraries PR dude to stop at oppshops and various crap historic sites). And Peter Corris, Leigh Redhead and Tara Moss. I find I'm a fan of their work as well as the writers themselves. We are very fortunate to have such great, supportive communities like this. It's the same in SF, I've found. Genre writers are lucky to be able to have little cliques, but also be well received in the general community. (Hmm, that sounds a little like we're on the "special bus"). I probably meant to say that commercial/popular fiction embraces our genres very kindly and we're lucky for it, while still have a little niche of support too.

4. What do you think could be done to better promote Australian authors either at home or abroad (or both)?

We've had some great news stories of late, so we're lucky to have a lot of interest, both locally and abroad. I think it's always a good news story if writers are doing something different, or unusual, so I got a fair bit of publicity writing about Adelaide, although so many people said I should focus on Sydney (or Paris, London or New York) or I wouldn't get published in this genre. I figured, with all the research I was doing (i.e. Drinking in dodgy bars and strip joints, meeting strippers and trying my hand at pole dancing - I still have a scar on my leg from that. Well, from having to wear stilettos while practising anyway. It's true what they say about stiletto heels...), I would keep one thing true, which was the setting, but then I got all wish-fulfilment and put all the things I WANTED Adelaide to have in there as well, so there are bars where I think they should be (close to where I used to live in the city) and the style I liked, with familiar spots like universities and shops, and my sort of long slow bars tucked in there (a small bit of Melbourne moved to the Adelaide side streets). Oddly, much of those ideas are actually real now, so either I have the ear of the local Licensing and Alcohol Authority or I am just blessed with the many gifts of the psychic (as deeply opposed to psychiatric). Still, we have to compete on an international level, so we have to be as good, if not better than what's already out there. Publicity won't change anything other than maybe bringing some things to a publisher or reader's attention. A keen reader becomes a fan and then becomes someone who relates to you, and I've found writing is a wonderful way to learn that you're 1) not alone in your odd thoughts and 2) able to connect with other like minded people in a useful way.

5. If your fictional character could meet any fictional character who would you like it to be and why?

Oh, I think Sue Grafton's Kinsey Millhone could teach Cassidy Blair a thing or ten. At first glance I imagined them together at a shooting range, but actually, Cassidy would just get a lot more out of learning to be as neat and organised and responsible as Kinsey. And patience. Definitely our Cassidy could learn a little of that...

Notes:
Kirsty Brooks is the author of the Cassidy Blair series of novels, which include The Happiness Punch, The Vodka Dialogue and The Millionaire Float.
Her website can be found here.

Posted by larrikin at March 4, 2008 01:52 PM

metrosexuality

Metrosexuality
Kirsty Brooks

The metrosexual male is a fascinating beast, even if only to himself. No matter what gender, it's always going to be a bonus if you're slim, trim and good-looking. Some people just need to work harder at it than others. And the focus on beauty products and fashion for the male heterosexual has become a booming market.

But no matter what gender, a bloated self-interest will always eventually be irritating, no matter how pretty the package. I've successfully cocked up relationships with macho guys, suave young hipsters, sensitive snags and nerds, but no matter their choice in style, the essential issues is that whoever you’re having a relationship with, you don’t want to fight over who gets to wear the Saba jumper. You’ve got better things to do, like take off the jumper in order to have lots of the sex.

I know some girls who think the perfect man would be a gay guy who's still wildly attracted to them. I can see their point. On paper, gay men have all the qualities; style, humour, a great sense of fun, but ultimately, those attributes are clichés. If you buy into that you also get vanity and that struggle over the jumper

The poster boys for metrosexuality, David Beckham, Mark Wahlberg, Ian Thorpe, are just three guys in the limelight where there are millions struggling with similar pressures to be successful at work while cooking like Jamie Oliver, dressing like George Clooney and making love like Hugh Hefner, but are these realistic expectations? Probably not, but then most women don’t really expect all that (with the possible exception of Posh Spice) because they know how hard it is to maintain all of that and still look shaggable.

So are today’s single girls really looking for someone who can compete with them for the space in the cabinet as well as in the bathroom? Last Saturday night, in Adelaide’s ski lodge theme club complete with reindeer horns, I spoke to a handful of women who spent their time between drinks lamenting the lack of gentlemen in their lives. There was no mention of the lack of men who know how to be gentle to their follicles. If we’re throwing around terms, how about retrosexuality?

How to be suave, cool, respectful, strong and woo the ladies? I’d put my casino chips on retrosexuality. I’d bet that if you ran a poll, there would be more women out there who’d rate good manners over good skin care. Just look at Tony Bennett.

Mark Wahlberg can only dream of such celebrity longevity and respect. So when you’re jostling with your partner for the best spot in front of the mirror, remember this, vanity never looked good on anyone.

Mortification

Well, I read a wonderful, gloaming, clever book about writers - stories of things not going well about anythign really, serious writers being funny, stoic writers being self effacing, funny writers being terrified in misery.

I understood this.

When I started going to writer's festivals writers seemed to me to be lighter beings - not gods - I didn't know them, but greater than good. the very best of men and women. And who was I? I just wanted to write the stories that bugged me day and night - almost to madness sometimes, now even still. So i tried and somehow, wonderfully, succeeded, for some times, perhaps.

Who knows for how long but how long is life/ I am grateful for every day since I wished I were dead.

And this day was not one of them.

Well, not as dark anyway.

So I wrote what i would have submitted had an kind soul asked me this terrible question. We maybe/might all have one or twelve responses. this is one of mine.

I have many more, of course...

Because without them, you have not lived - and died.

Kirsty Brooks - Mortification

They say that comedy is tragedy plus time. But as my mother would retort, ‘Who’s they? If they told you to jump off a building, would you do it?’

Possibly. More so now. Because I’ve realised there isn’t enough time to turn some humiliating memories into hilarious anecdotes. Even if science gets all that nanotechnology sorted out and we get the chance to wander the earth for longer than hygienically necessary. Not nearly enough time...

I’d say there are two types of mortification. There’s the one that will transform immediately into a sheepish story at the bar, that brings forth new friends, shared horrors, admiring glances, beer as food, free love and camaraderie. And the other: a brutality of sweaty, gimpish others chained in a foul smelling puddle in the corner of your brain. Let’s haul one out for an airing, a hose down.

So which to choose? My hands twitch in sad fascination at the thought. The signing where no one turned up, not even the bloke who organised it? The reading where I learnt that the humour of sexual misconduct isn’t shared by, well, anyone? The festival where I realised at the end of the day that my dress was transparent? The panel with Tara Moss where I felt like a overweight man?

How about the book launch? Oh, yes…

At the launch of my fourth book, The Vodka Dialogue, they served cocktails from the recipe in the book, the bookshop was full, there were point-of-sale coasters and huge foam glasses with the book title on them, and I’d be coming from a photo shoot where the stylist had promised I’d look like Veronica Lake. Brave words but I believed her. It was going to be cool.

The thing of it is, however. I’m not cool. Never have been. And that afternoon, straight off the plane, I was styled into the chick from Fleetwood Mac, with 80s rock star hair, more make-up than even I wear, and an outfit that promised sexual favours for a gold coin donation. I had ten minutes to try to flatten the hair down in a taxi but when I got to the bookshop, everything was marvellous. Things were looking up. Maybe I was cool after all.

The new cool me had a few blue cocktails. Then, as I happily thanked my publisher, publicist and editor, a friend approached, exclaiming how it was great I’d lost weight but kept my ‘boobs’. How it was great I wasn’t fat any more. I had another drink. Then in my speech I apologised too long for my bad hair. Not shrewd but not a disaster, just sort of brainless. And so I had a few more drinks.

Then I started lurching about the room, engaging in conversation with strangers. Having a few more drinks. We, or possibly just I, talked about all sorts of things. Relationship breakdowns, failed books, dating, falling asleep in waffle-weave hotel robes and ending up covered with little squares, successful books, sex, incontinence, lovers, losing weight and keeping tits, wiping blue cocktails off the stock with your handbag. Everyone was my dearest friend.

And there were hours of this, we laughed, some cried, a select few danced, and then everyone started lining up in front of me. It was a bit weird until I realised they’d all bought my book and wanted it signed. Of course. I knew this. I was a professional. What I didn’t know was that a new gimp was waiting to join the brutality.

Because even before I’d drunk all the bright blue cocktails, I was incapable of retaining names. This is possibly due to years of the beer as food thing, although I (dimly) remember that my brain had to be recalled by the manufacturer even at school. I can’t trust it any longer. Socially, the problem can usually be sidestepped, however, and I force friends to introduce themselves, I call everyone by vague endearments, I stay home, writing, and try not to meet new people. Hopelessly transparent, of course, but I get by.

And here were all my new friends, kindly, with smiles of pleasure, lined up for their book to be signed, personally, to them. And one after the other, I had to grasp their book, smile dazzlingly at them, praying for a moment of clarity, a little nudge of memory. But instead the little gimp sat down, chained himself to the rest of the crew and settled in for the ride.

And so, agonisingly, I had to haltingly, apologetically, ask their name. Dozens and dozens of times. Soon I was giddy with it, and by the tenth signing also rapidly shooting through the five stages of sobriety, hitting remorse and self-loathing just as the last guests left.

As I thanked my publisher for an insightful editor, a terrific launch, a gorgeous book, I hit shame. Because there, with my big hair and my new book and my stupid ‘boobs’, I was the worst sort of arsehole. Not someone who just makes a fool of themselves, but someone who makes a fool of others.

For shame…

Three things

1)It's impossibly Cruella De Ville for the Will Truman character on WILL & GRACE to be so well baked into a scrumptious man shaped snack. He is gay, (perfect, but maybe not so), but then, not so gay in real life - i.e. quanrdy/confusion/excitement. Dreadful business all over my tiny all mixed business shop specialising in snacks and GIFTABLES (Yes, it's a word, according to one of many mass market bridal salons on Payneham Road - one of the ones that make me laugh - the joy of weirdness never leaves me.)
2) Driving a 4WD makes you feel like you're at monster trucks. It is far too excellent for real life. My mum leant me her 4Wd so I could pick up an aviary and a couple birds who needed a home and I can't give it back. i've used it to move rocks, churn up grass, intimidate people who seem nice. It's like I'm Queen of the Road. I will have to give it back. It hurts to be just one of the people being intimidated by silly big monster trucks on the road again. I want my own truck. But I don/t. what do I want? Maybe not to have ever known the power and not to have driven into a Highbury Park'N'Shop and yelled 'Run, save yourselves tiny minions!'.
no wonder those Malvern/Burnside oldies are such bad drivers. I've always wondered what the crash rate is at the Burnside Village (i.e. inside mall with no lighting - Crappy suburban mall crammed with chain stores anyone?). village... I've never known a village to have so many shops selling outsized lady/man shirts with 'fancy' collars and cheese.
3) Well, maybe on the cheese issue I'm wrong.

Reading, writing and finding you.

Hello!
I have fingers sticky with glue because I've been putting buttons (I am a nerdy button collector) around my many pin-boards (I pin up ideas, images, character features, clothes ideas - for characters - story ideas, pictures of a dog who looks like Hound, a parrot who looks like Jock, nightclubs, all the stuff I rip and stick and have been doing since I was a teenager - there are four boxes in my shed filled with these ideas and images for future stories, characters, settings, scenes, etc - but despite sticky fingers, I wanted to post what has occurred to me in my thought times of the day (i.e in the bath/shower)
1) Everyone who responds to my blogs emails me directly. I don't know why, but I think I have shy readers. Anyway, thank you. I'm not making this up. It's a curiosity shop in my head.
2) I have been overwhelmed (actually not that hard to overwhelm me, as I'm so often underwhelmed by people, but still true) by people subscribing to my mailing list for the Cassidy Blair books and sending me nice emails about them. My last book was published over a year ago, and there's been very little publicity compared to the others, and yet suddenly, all these lovely people have let me know that they like Cassidy Blair, that they think her (mis)adventures are great, that they can relate to her and her friends and adventures and that despite now having to often order the books specially through their bookshops (my current favourite bookstore is Matilda's in Stirling. They have WONDERFUL stock - although not many of mine, which doesn't actually undermine previous praise), or on the internet, they tell me with many exclamation marks and smiley faces that they will still do so. I am so happy. You are nice people.
30 i dont know why I am so interested in my local bottle recycling place. I like taking my bottle s and cans there and getting my (spookily always between $8 -9) but I have realised some of it is because there are people there who take their ten cans there to get money to buy food. Also, there are huge containers full of empty bottle and cans and they look amazing. and the fellows there are so cheery even though they have a bit of a tricky job, going through bottles and cans all day, especially at the moment when it is so $%&*! cold here. I guess, however, that like New York (my comparison), it is nicer in winter than in summer. and smells nicer (still NY).
Does anyone know why only South australia pays 5 cents for their recycling cans. it keeps hte streets clean and poor people get money. It is wise.
Listening to: 'Lullaby for Cain' sung by Sinead O'Connor and my canaries. They are amazing! Everyone should have birds. If I was Queen of the World...
Eating: um... leftover MarsBar slice... And Frousse (strawberry)
Thinking About: why I have had a headache for a week. Sucky. Also about watching 'The Shawshank Redemption' again. Am in that sort of mood. and that now I have to take Marshall to Dog Training as Disco Stu is totally over it. I used to really like just sitting there talking to people about dogs and eating scones with Jam and cream for $1.50 on a Sunday morning. That's all fucked now. Still, Marshall is an excellent dog. But not worth giving up scones for. Am moody.
Watching: So you think you can Dance - only it's not nearly as great as when people auditioned with their truly original dance moves. Now it's all choreographed crap. i think I'll give it a miss as am most disappointed. I fell slightly in love with the dude who said that all he had was his friends and his dancing.
Wearing: Trackies, PETA T-shirt and hoody. I can't wear jumpers or socks no matter the weather, they make me feel weird, all bundled up too tight. So yes, cold, but not bundled at least.
Reading: Animal Liberation newsletter. Yes, I can be as square about how appallingly we treat animals in our lives as Mr Strong.

Things I regret

1) Family of ducks on Rundle Street in Kent Town, pover the hackney Road - where ducks try to travel so much and there are no fucking signs anywhere warning drivers. They took them all down and for so many days in season I run around stopping traffic like a dickhead, while people beep and yell, trying to get these ducklings across the road. I do it a lot but it doesn't mean I feel any better because I failed one little family and it seems they were the ones that needed saving the most.
I'm worried this year because I don't live there anymore, and in my area, there are heaps of duck warning signs and mostly people drive pretty slowly anyway, because there are road-abouts.
anyway, I'm rambling. this is the story:
Because these guys were trying to cross the road, got distracted by traffic, sent down behind old houses in kent Town, i followed them, trying to guide them to the road where I'd hold back the traffic, the but noise must have been to bad and they got stuck in someone's back yard. i wish i'd done more, and known how to get them out, how to get her to the river, how to know who to call, how to get them to safety and to stop people in their pointless drives to get this duck to the river where she could look after her ducklings. The were so vulnerable, and she was too - she could fly to safety but she wouldn't leave her ducklings. and I couldn't help them. I'm learning a lot now about animals and animals rescue but it won't make up for not being able t help them. I can only hope that there was someone else that day who could do something more than I could. A hell of a lot more. I sucked that day and I can't go down that road without thinking of those ducklings and their mother's panic. As my post office was right there - the reason I saw them in the first place - I thought of them every day for three years. It made me really really sad.
2) My dear friends borrowed this incredible beach house at Wallaroo - it was right by the beach - PON the beach. the water would rush up against the concrete walls covered in shells and rocks - huge albatross like seagulls stormed about like bouncers. I loved it. We slept in camp beds and held hands across the space. We ate toast and read books and my friend and I lay about in pools of water created by sand and the drift of ocean while her boyfriend practised karate in the sand nearby. then a fishing boat pulled up on the beach and they showed us what they'd caught - a cat fish.
The saddest animals I've ever seen. Huge wise, sad, eyes. I looked at him and he looked back - no judgement, just sadness for me, for us. How crappy we were.
I wish I'd offered the fisherman some money to put the fish back in the ocean. I wish I'd just offered him money - pretended we'd kill it, and then snuck around and let it go, but I was frozen in misery. I let him down. I was crap.
I'll never forget that animal's eyes, so sad for us, for me. Pity, as he went off to be dragged in an old sack and stared at and mocked and teased. Pity for us.
And we deserved it.
I kept a photo from a magazine (I have four crates of cutting from magazines and newspapers of animals and things I might write about one day) and when I find it l'll post it here and you'll see what I mean, maybe. I hope so.

When the dark cloud sweeps over, this is what I think about. This stuff. I have loads of regrets, but these are the ones that stick to my ribs. This and a thousand others.
It's terrible to be alive. It's a joy to be alive.
Listening to: The utterly glorious silence of a Thursday night not living next to a pub
Thinking about: What the next chapter in my book will do to Cassidy.
Watching: My dog trying to unravel my Machiavellian knot of clothes tied over a liver treat bar he loves - he's going crazy trying to get to it. Excellent crazy, he's such a great dog.
Wearing: Chewed shoes
Reading: Last weekend's Sunday Age

Highbury rocks my tiny world

I moved from a lifetime of inner city living, sharehousing in eatern suburbs bungalows and semi snazzy Norwood apartments. I became thoroughly sick of all the fake crap that comes with these neighbourhoods. I got sick of people dressing up like hookers for their grocery shopping, of all the crap shops selling crap fake Louis Vuitton bags, all the crappy cafes that make you stand at the cash registers to order each part of your (crappy) meal, and all the concrete, and lack of sense of neighborhood. No one says hello on the streets, or the parks, despite me always saying hello - yes it's nerdy but it's nice too, OKAY! - and they don't even have headphones stuck in their ears. I know it's not me being a weirdo because in Highbury, everyone says hello, or at least gives me a George Clooney style manly nod.
Although my neighbours at my last place in Norwood were terrific, the wankers streaming constantly out of the Alma pub were so appalling it almost put me off the human race forever. Not being all that enamored with them in the first place, this wasn't hard, so I frantically looked for somewhere else to go before I grew too grumpy to write screw ball romantic comedies any more.
So I moved to Highbury, a 60s style ranch house. There are loads of reasons I love Highbury, I will list them all one day, but so far, here are a few:
1) Kids ride BMX bikes and hang out on the corner, and although they offer to carry your shopping and say hello, they also graffitit and seem to be skipping school. They are immediately my type of dudes. They think I'm an old lady who needs her shopping carried, but still, I feel at home.
2) My local post office doesn't make me wait hours to get my mail. In fact, they see my coming and have it ready on the counter.
3) The local 7 day deli has a notice board with lots of hot offers for accommodation, lost parrots, things for sale, and dog groomers. It also has a chinese restaurant next door that has milk crates for chairs, broken table and two dead cars out back. See attached pic.
4) I've never lived somewhere with so many hair salons and dog groomers. considering The Norwood Parade had a hair salon every second store, this is huge.
5) Linear park is amazing, a constant rejuvinating place full of ducks and finches and three types of herons and lots of people walking their dogs and saying hello or nodding manfully. Okay, so I used to be able to go to Linear Park through St Peters before, but so far i've not had anyone flash me, try to steal my bag, or ask me out on a date (in the bushes close by) like I did in St Peters.
6) People give way to me in shops. Sure, they tail gate like MF's in cars, but in person, they are seriously polite dudes. They open doors, say things like 'ladies first' and smile (and not just at my boobs).
7) People don't stare at me if I go to the shops in my pyjamas or tracksuit pants. In fact the latter is just normal in Highbury. If I did this in Norwood I'd run into three of my mums' friends and six girls I went to school/uni with and my mum would have called me by the afternoon in an outrage about my ''performance'. So I don't get so tense just trying to do the shopping and people don't stare at me if I talk to myself. They are polite about other people's differences. It's nice.
8) I saw a guy with a stocking over his head in the car next to me. He looked jumpy. And it wasn't even a Chaser style prank. I was very excited. and I didn't give chase because in Highbury we're polite about other people's differences.
Listening to: My conscience
Eating: most of the ingredients I bought to make slice for my niece's birthday party.
Thinking about: having some Quickeze
Watching: Twin Peaks
Wearing: Anything warm - tons of things piled on me like a mountain goat.
Reading: Danny Wallace and the centre of the universe - does this guy wax between this eyebrows or what?

Kirsty's inappropriate top tip # 2

Treat others as you wish to be treated, and treat those you love better than guests - explained below!
1) Why do people get all frocked up for strangers, or I guess, friends, but when they're home, with people they (hopefully) adore, they go scruff, wipe off the makeup, slip on the dreadful slippers, let their arse hang out? I know it's comfortable, and fun too, and perfect when feeling poorly, or cold. but treat your loved ones as well as you'd (curiously) treat your guests. Dress up for them too, and not just when you're going out. Of course people love you for who you are, but treat them too. It's another of life's pleasures to make someone you love smile, or tell you they adore you. In or out of trackies.

I do get teased frequently by friends for wearing skirts all the time but I just have a lot of skirts. And I like them. I like retro clothes, I like the 50s, 60s, and thus, skirts. Okay, so i have work skirts, digging holes skirts, party skirts, see through skirts, too small skirts. Huge balloon skirts ballet skirts, tennis skirts, mermaid skirts.. I like 'em.

However, oddly, I am a tomboy inside (Example: I spend yesterday smashing down three outbuildings with my dad so I could use the material to build my new chook shed) but I don't own shorts and hopefully never will. I wore my scruffiest skirt and T-shirt instead. And my black walking shoes with the tongues ripped out by my lovely dog.) and mostly I like dressing up. Not necessarily in fancy gear, but just in, like costumes. Not to be a cowboy, or a waitress necesarily, although I do that at times too, but in differnt ways, to be different people. I sometimes even do this while I'm writing, to get into the story.

Yeah, I know, - nutter.

But I hate shopping (anywhere except opp-shops - I love the discovery, and the treasure aspect of oppshops, but retail, I'm bored of it - So I took ages trying to find something to wear yesterday that wasn't a party dress - not because I don't have track pants, but because the ones I have are all still in storage, waiting for our bookshelves to be put up, and so then I can unpack the 40 boxes of books, and hopefully somewhere under there will also be thre boxes of winter clothes, and my scrubs).

Okay, yes, I know I have odd ideas, however, I see a strange link between how people scruff up around the house, take off their fancy duds and get into yesterday's smelly track suit, and how quite a few people I know only live in two rooms of their house. the rest of it is all laid out for visitors, all clean and sparkling and with guest towels and soaps you can't use (they get dusted, i know) . I think this is totally weird. the opposite of style. why give guests, people you obviously think you should impress, the very best of you? It doesn't make sense.

I guess it's when people care more about how others think of them, than how they think of themselves?

Again I can talk with (some) authority on this because I've done it myself - thought I was lower than sludge on a bottom feeders gut, but also, the other - saving beautiful things for special, kept nice shower gels for special occasions, but one day I realised TODAY was the special occasion.

After all the weird shit i've done, I think I'm sometimes lucky to be alive (in fact we're all lucky to be alive) or not in jail (yeah, well, another story) so why not celebrate today.

I think we're all worried about the future, other people's ideas of us, thinking we need to save for a rainy day. Well, I'm looking outside (I have huge windows in every room of this sixties place, which I love. Also open plan Ranch style house, so there's no special room for guests because, well, each room is special, mostly because it's got birds, or books, or my dog in there (oh, no cancel that last bit, he still thinks he's a lap dog and is trying to climb up on my lap.

Marshall (pictured here with Amber, my mum's Labradoodle)
spends his days looking for the best bit of sun in the house, or leaning against me, or trying to drag my stuff out of my office, or staring in deep love at Harper, by green budgie who talks a LOT. I know it's love because Harper flew out the other day and Marshall got close enough to eat him, and snuffled him instead).

Anyway, I digress. My hope is that people will try to overcome the urge to save the very best of themselves, and their houses, their things, their lives, for guests (ie.e strangers, or not particularly good friends if they need to be so impressed by you, they don't know you too well) and give it all to those you love, those you spend your days with, those who, if you lost them, you'd be a wreck without. Because that crap does happen and you'll always regret not dancing around in your best undies for your boyfriend when you were saving them for some special occasion that never arrived, so please, dance in your undies. it's good for your health. You can even leave the curtains open if you live in a decent street ( a little Air Supply, Guns and Roses or Destiny's Child is good enough for me, but then I have truly crap taste in music).

And that shower gel, if it's one of my favourites ('Rock Star' soap from LUSH, 'Summer Hill' from Crabtree & Evelyn) use the damn stuff now! It shouldn't be wasted, it's against the law, or something.

Be happy now, today, this minute, if you can. If there's something you have, that will make you happy, otr those around you happy, do it now! Imagine if you missed the chance? and imagine if you used that crappy old piece of Imperial Leather (If IL is a posh soap, the International Roast is a fancy European blend coffee).

You might notice I'm a big fan of nice smells (and ranting in the mornings).

2)Boys of a certain age, and lifestyle, seem to forget that pyjamas are clothes. In fact they're clothes you sweat and snuffle in for (hopefully) about eight hours. They need to be washed. After each use. Like you do your clothes. Seriously.

And bed sheets, after four/five days. I swear. GIrls like nice smells too. If you're not getting laid, this might be the reason, and if a girl is anywhere near your sheets and pyjamas or whatever you use as pyjamas) then you might be in - once. Make it twice and make sure the sheets are clean - crisp (yes, the thread count is important, those thick delicious sheets in excellent hotels can be bought for your own home, do it. those see-through softies you're still using aren't going to do much for your own happiness, or your sex life.

True, happiness is not what you buy, but what you do to make yourself happy. But n this case, what you buy can make you a happier person, because you're treating yourself and doing the equivalent of not saving the nice soaps of your guest next year...

I really think you will sleep better (unless you are an insomniac, in which case, you'll lie there starting at the ceiling in excellent sheets) and you'll feel better and you'll be nice to people because you're feeling good and you get the drift. - Hell, I should have just bought Oscar the Grouch some decent 1000 thread count sheets.

Another odd thing. I just realised the three lots of people I'm thinking about who do save all their nice, special, fancy, pretty things for guests - don't actually have many guests at all. Possibly the pressure is to great, for all of them. What a damn waste of space - in the house, - and of fun and nice smells and looking great. Makes me mad!

Listening to:'You Look Nice Today' podcasts
Eating: More apple pie. it's excellent.
Thinking about: What to wear to fancy dinner tonight.
Watching: The honey-eater (bird) outside dive-bombing my freaky looking Gravilea bush flowers - and thus I am missing my Charlie, (also a honey eater for those in he know) who used to sleep on the frame of my glasses while I was wearing them
Wearing: Flats, blue cardigan, fishnets, skirt with muddy dog prints on it.
Reading: 'A Complete Encyclopedia of Chickens' which contains the sentence: 'Apart from a fifth toe, the Faverolles has the color salmon as its special feature.'

I think my special feature is thinking about stuff too much. but then, that's what made me become a writer, it all got too busy in there and writing it all down gave my brain room to think again.

eyebrow disaster

Bonjour.
This is a picture of me and my dear pal, Jo, at the Apothecary in Hindley Street. Truly an excellent Adelaide spot to go for virtually anything. They do a great afternoon tea. And vodka tonic. it has nothing to do with this blog, really, she just sent it to me last week and I figured it deserved a spot. Actually, I can justify it by saying I set a scene in my latest book, THE LADY SPLASH there, so it's sort of earned it's place in this blog, and in my heart. Wonderful cosy Parisian style spot (although having never been to Paris this is merely a guess).
So I over-waxed my eyebrows (again) and somehow my leftie is now two thin rows of white hairs. I guess I could pretend I have a scar - all bad guys with a heart of gold have an eyebrow scar. Only I'm not a guy, although I can be bad, but not in a cool way, and the heart of gold thing just got to heavy to lug around.

Hence - grumpiness.

I'm been thinking about my last little rant about bad breath, friendship, people who tell you the truth. I try to tell the truth, but I realised the other day I tell lies ALL THE TIME. Yes, not just in my work life - writing fiction a while bunch of lies, obviously - but just to explain things, make things go smoother, make life simpler, or just easier for those around me. I've been editing my life since an early age so i wouldn't get into quite so much trouble when I was 12 but it's sort of stuck. But I have a couple of people who tell me the truth, sometimes quite painfully.

Mu mum is a good one for that. she's excellent at hurting my feelings and me, hers, but also she's taught me a hell of a lot of things I needed to know. Table manners for one thing. A lot of people I see have crap table manners. I'm not talking knowing your fish fork, but just not scraping your cutlery together like fingernails on a chalk board. Not licking your knife. Not shovelling your food in, This might sound like a weird conversation coming from someone who prefers to eat sandwiches and/or ice-cream for most meals, usually over the sink to save mess/washing up.

But I do go to a lot of fancy dinners and things, both for work and pleasure, and I notice this shit. I'm nosy and it drives me mad that I can't ask people really impertinient questions as to why parents didn't teach kids not to lick the knife. I'm still learning my manners of course. I am pretty bad at things, but I'm keen to learn. I just learned recently the whole 'leave your serviette on the chair' thing when you go to the loo. didn't know that one. Or that ladies should face the restaurant.

There's a lot to be said for politeness, but if you are so polite you won't tell your kids, or friends, when they're doing something that might really make them look foolish in front of others, when then I think you're doing them a disservice.
So some people, familes, friends, don't tell someone when they have bad breath, or bad table manners, or a big witchy poo hair growing out of their chin, or say the word superfluous as if it was like Superman, not one running on word that emphasises the 'fluous' buit. I used to say it like Superman and my pal Gavin told me off, and I've not forgotten it. He's excellent for that sort of thing because he's great with words and conversation in general. you should go to his bookshop - that he runs with his wife Jo, called Matilda's in Stirling, Adelaide Hills. Go now.

But I know that there's been a lot of crap press since Shakespeare wrote about shooting the messenger, but there are ways of telling people things in a nice way, making it not so much a joke, but including your own mistakes in there too, so that it's clear you don't think you're superior to them for knowing how to pronounce nonchalent' (i used to think it was NotCHAlent'. My pal from school, Louise, taught me that one...)

So the humiliations never end, but it's SO much better to have those moments with people you know and trust, than with a stranger, work colleague, potential hot date, your boss, etc.

Be a good friend, sister, mother, colleague, and tell someone, sweetly, subtely, kindly, with a little anecdote of when you last embarrassed yourself, if they turn up to work with loo paper stuck to their shoes/or trousers., or have curry breath, or just mispronounced the company name, or just didn't know lifting your bowl of soup to your mouth to get the last bit out is just a bit crap.

Be a good friends, and hopefully they'll help you out the next time. And I swear, if I have a bleeding zit on my chin , or my scarf got caught in my undies, please do tell me (don't shout it across the room, just just whisper it with a smile). I really will love you for it eventually (after the instinctive knee-jerk humilation reaction).

kb Gloomy monday but feeling cheery.
Listening to: Classic FM - I played it one day when feeling blue and my birds love it so much they sing all day to it. I turn it off - they stop. It's kind of weird and annoying, but nice if i want to learn more about the violin - which I don't.

However, I really love the interviews with Margaret Throsby (there was an excellent interview with her daughter in the weekend paper) where you get to choose the music. Last week Shaun Tan was on, and I was so jealous. he's a genius but I'd love to be able to choose the music one day.
Thinking about: How crap it is that people still think it's okay to litter.
Eating: Left over apple pie
Watching: 21 Jump Street on DVD
Wearing: jumper and socks. My wooly warms are still in storage - and until my bookcase get put in, they'll stay there. I kind of dread unpacking forty boxes of books, but at least I'll have my books back, and something warm to wear on my white white legs.
Reading: The weekend papers (i.e interstate ones...) Especially The Sunday Age - truly wonderful. I still find it extraordinary that people still read the Sunday Mail here in Adelaide. There;s just nothing in it, except some local model in scanties pretending to be a news story.

Hey, there's a p.s here. I was driving home the other night and the guy in the car next to me had a stocking over his head. Was that a Chaser style prank or a dude on his way to a burglary? I followed him for a while but I was busting for the loo and never got close enough to take down his licence plates. What would you have done?

Kirsty's Inappropriate Top Tip # 1

Things that bug me:

1) People with not all that much going on use emotional blackmail: people without anything much at all in their lives seem to spend much of their time making other people feel bad form not spending enough time with them. Maybe they have shit relationships, unhappy work, whatever, but please don't make your friends pay the price, or you'll have even less going on because they're going to dump you too one day. Trust me.

I KNOW this shit backwards because I have been this person many many times in my life. But I've also been o the other side. I'm there now, so I'm feeling annoyed. When I'm lonely or bored or friendless (happens more and more often since I've started talking about rubbish like this), then I'll feel guilty and sad about spilling the beans, but at the moment I'm noticing friends have had kids and are working more and loving life more and are busy with family, friends, houses, money, activities, etc and are spending time in two hourly pockets.

I REALLY like this. It's efficient friend time, you see, kiss, chat, laugh, share, gossip, piss off. You can chat again tomorrow, or next week, or email, it's not superficial time, it's good friendship time where you don't need to start from the very begining because you guys all know eachother. It's great! It's also very priviliged because not all that many people get to have long term friendships, but that's also the point. you're going to lose them if you tug on them too hard.

I've noticed this more because since buyign a house, I have people over. I used to go see people out at places, but my new dog is far too excited by other dogs, and the world, to be let out there too often, so I've started 'entertaining'. Okay so I'm not cooking anything, but there's a new rules going on. I can't just get up and leave my own house when I'm twitchy and need to go write, work, see someone else, snooze, have a shag. It's... well it's almost rude, I guess. the onus is now on someone else to call it quits and it's freaking me out a little.

Okay, so I know a FEW people, some of them friends, some of them family, who don't have much going on, and they NEVER know when to leave. You can stop serving, pack up around them, run a bath, turn down the lights, they're still asking for another drink/coffee, chat. They follow you into bed, and they don't even want to have the sex. It's just they don't have anywhere much else to go.

I know I'm a mean old sulk to say this, but I am too rude to put up with it, so please don't make me push you out the door and lock it behind you.

2) People who should know better who have bad breath. There's really no excuse these days. If you don't have someone who is close enough, or honest enough, to tell you every word you utter peels another layer of skin from their face, then you should just ask a stranger. Be bold.

3) It's way too cold in the mornings right now. Rug up. Scarves are sexy (unless they're ugly ones)