1, 2, 3: juan, thuy, theresa.

i am walking light today. i have, although no longer in my hands, that necessary letter as ridiculously necessitated by md (monash dingbat). unnecessary but necessitated task accomplished. no longer in my hands because it is safely in the loving arms of a big red post box on the corner of inkerman road and task-accomplished-street. and there it shall stay until mr. mailman collects it and puts it in a bag of like-minded mail that will travel, by car or otherwise, to that big ugly building at the end of north road.


and 1, 2, 3, hey presto. it's done. or, as my friends debbie and bram might say, juan, thuy, theresa. 


speaking of which. no, i did not fall asleep at the tennis last night. 


yes, i wanted to. but i was too busy enjoying an australian win (despite my sympathies leading me to barrack for the russian underdog mid-match), 



watching the tallest man on earth (juan martin del potro - um, that is a name as long as this guy's pinky finger, and the name is long, you know?) being run around the court like a damn fool by the sexiest man on earth (marcos baghdatis, what's that? yes you may have my babies), 



and being heckled by the progressively drunker pommy/aussie combo to my left. (actually, do you respond to ridiculous, outlandish comments made by said drunken pommy/aussie combo or does that only further encourage?)


a good night was had by all. even bram, who read two chapters in his book.



if you follow the trajectory of marcos' imaginary spitball, you will see the tennis ball. i like that. oh marcos, marcos baghdatis. stop fooling around.






lemon out.


-- R.