A dish best served cold

Here is the inaugural post in the Revenge of the Rubber Chicken. When the opportunity arises, both the chicken and I shall have our photographs posted here, until then you will have to make do with the historical details.

I live in rural Victoria, Australia, having moved up here from Melbourne in January of this year for a number of reasons, not all of them positive. At the moment it is nearing 10.30 pm on Thursday the 5th of August, 2004 and I am sitting at home, contemplating the week that was. A 1981 album from The Cure is playing in the background while I contemplate packing it in for the night.

Ah, yes. The chicken. Smoker's have their cancer sticks to relieve stress, I have a rubber chicken. So far this year he has been kidnapped, ransomed, had his neck tied in a knot, hung by a noose from the main staffroom doorway and then today... today my poor chicken was put between two slices of bread, wrapped in gladwrap and left in the fridge.

This blog was started as a (very) delayed response to a request from my fellow intern from last year. While she chose to stay in Melbourne while saving for that trip to eastern Europe, I moved north. The anecdotes I told of normal life up here recieved so many laughs from my more sheltered colleagues that they suggested starting a web log. Here is the result, I hope you all enjoy it, I promise to re-tell the earlier stories again in retrospect.


And remember:

If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you.