Wibbly-wobbly Apocalypso Christmas

So, once again we've survived the end of the world with nary a cataclysmic event. Disappointing. However, my spirits remain high because the world was once again saved at Christmas time by Doctor Who.

I know this, because I saw him.

Fake snow in fake London Court

Friday was the declared the day I could be bothered heading into the city to see some of the cute attempts Perth is making to imbue summer with the oeuvre of Christmas. The day dawned bright and clear, and I awoke to a day filled with promise and adventure. I stretched luxuriously and went straight back to sleep, only to be woken again moments later by the sound of fists pounding heavily on doors, first downstairs, then upstairs, then on my door before continuing back down the corridor.

Zombies! was my first excited thought in my half-awake state, followed by the far less exciting notion that it was workmen conducting the usual maintenance in the building over the summer break.

I opened the door to find exactly that. He announced that he was replacing my carpet.

'What, today?' I asked, somewhat panicked at the thought of getting all my furniture out without any notice, whilst still in my pyjamas.

'No,' he replied brightly, 'sometime before the end of January!'

Thanks for the heads up... and the precise date of installation...

I'd arranged to meet a couple of friends at the Christmas tree in Forrest Chase at five to twelve, the oddly specific time chosen to allow us time to meet and head over to London Court to see the 'snow' fall as it apparently has every day for the last couple weeks. Due to misadventure, this was not achieved, but I ran into some other friends and the friends I was originally meeting managed to catch the second snowfall at 1pm, so everybody came up daisies.

In the evening I returned to the city to meet another friend to check out the light shows.

Now, the pernickety among you will know that the Mayan calendar ended on Friday, at 7:11pm local time to be exact.

It was around this time that my friend and I were leaving Santaland at Myer to head to Brookfield Place for the promised light show.  On the upper level concourse there were droves of people flocking to see the nativity in the Chase.

We were ducking and weaving around said crowds when we rounded a corner and came across none other than the tenth Doctor lurking in a quiet corner. 

He obligingly paused briefly for a photo then ran off, presumably to avert whatever end-of-the-world scenario was imminent. I have fun mental images of Cybermen struggling to march up and down the escalators and negotiating the make up counters in Myer, while Daleks stream down Hay St Mall looking for that perfect gift.

I looked at the time as he ran off:

7:10.

No wonder he was in a hurry.

And thus, the world once again failed to end, presumably thanks to the Doctor, and we went on to explore the lights and drink hot dark chocolates at Theobroma.

The Brookfield Place lights mid-image change.

Visions of Zombies Shuffle in My Head

Maybe I've been watching too much of The Walking Dead lately, but I've been having a recurring dream in which I'm fighting off zombies.  Not a massive Freudian leap to be made there, I grant you, but with the world all atingle at the thought of the impending apocalypse (again), I thought it worthy of note.  They've been sufficiently realistic dreams that I've contemplated acquiring a sword in case the apocalypse really does come. For the record, I'd like this one.

Recently, our Prime Minister made a speech for our national youth radio station, Triple J.

Some people have criticised her for this. Don't get me wrong - I'm not the biggest fan of ol' Julia, but she does deserve props for being a) the first Prime Minister to actually grace the station with her presence since its inception and b) taking two minutes out of her day to make that speech and show us that she does, in fact, have a sense of humour. That said, the end of the world seems to be a popular topic of discussion these days.

Just the other night I was at a pub with some friends and the topic came up. There ensued a debate on when the world was actually likely to end. I feel proud to live in such Interesting Times.  I have survived the Y2K disaster, the zyzygy doomsday prediction (not sure why the planets aligning spelled death for us but hey, never let logic get in the way of a good premise for an insane doomsday cult), the Rapture, and several different Made Up Nostradamus prophecies about the end of the world. 

So far, each and every one has proven to be an over-hyped disappointment.  No seas have boiled, no rivers have run red with blood, no locusts have wiped out our crops (though the nationwide domination of the cane toad is creeping its way inexorably across the continent), California has thus far failed to slide into the ocean on the back of a cataclysmic earthquake as has New Zealand, much to the chagrin of many a bogan redneck, and there have definitely been no official sightings of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, though the countdown for the annual Stalk of Santa has begun.

So, anyway, Friday night.  This is often our drinks night as, unlike me, most of them hold proper, grown-up, Monday-to-Friday jobs, and we meet at a pseudo-Irish pub in the city which, thanks to the high turnover of backpackers in this li'l ol' backwater country, provides a steady supply of genuinely Irish barman and barmaids. Somehow, we got to arguing over the exact date the world would end this time.  Some maintained it was already the last day, thanks to the power of the PM's speech.  This was enthusiastically endorsed by Guy We've Never Met Before But Who Felt Free To Join Our Table Anyway And Try To Hit On Every Woman There. Somehow, though, I doubt his vote was impartial, as it was inevitably followed up with a suggestion of making the most of our last night on earth.

Others maintained that the 21st of December is D-Day, as per the end of the Mayan calendar, while one person determinedly insisted that it was, in fact, the 22nd, which just reminded me of the whole millennium thing, where smug nerds maintained that, in fact, the True Millennium began in 2001, and refused to celebrate at the end of 1999 on principle. The following year the hipsters got their revenge, by proclaiming those millennium celebrations So Last Year.

Personally, I thought, Yay! TWOFER millennium celebrations!

We've survived the 7th December, so now the countdown is on to the 21st.  It seems kind of mean of ol' God to end the world four days before the day we celebrate his son's birth by contravening his lessons about gluttony and avarice, but hey, maybe that's the point.

BROTHERS AND SISTERS,

IS THIS THE END OF THE WORLD?

LOL, nope.

That said, as I'm writing this I'm snuggled up under a blanket drinking tea while it pours with rain outside, and it's the middle of December.  This would not be any great oddity if, in fact, I was in the UK, as I normally am this time of year to visit family.  However, I'm in Australia - Perth, to be precise.  Where by this point in the summer our brains are usually melting out of our ears from the heat.  This leads me to formulating two possible theories.

OR

That said, there is option number three...

Okay, THREE possible theories - climate change, I'm secretly Storm, or it's a coincidence. Then again, there is another possibility:

Okay, FOUR possible theories - climate change, I'm secretly Storm, it's a coincidence (BORING), or 

THE END OF THE WORLD IS

FINALLY ACTUALLY NIGH.

A red-headed friend of mine often talks about the impending Ranga Apocalypse, reminding us that we'll get ours when it comes.  A ranga PM was one of the major signs of its imminence.  So I put it to you: which is a more likely end for us - armageddon at the hands of some nebulous threat at the end of days, as predicted by the Mayan calendar, or a revolution led by millions of redheads; tired of all the hot-head-on-fire, no-soul, carrot-top jokes and discrimination finally taking matters into their own hands?

Imagine, if you will, the possible impending Ranga Apocalypse on the 21st December:

The streets are abandoned, crashed and overturned cars litter the streets.  The major highways are thusly blocked, so the survivors are making their way into the hills on foot.  Behind them, in the smoky, hazy distance - not because of the apocalypse, but because this is summer in Australia and bushfires are a constant reality - lurch hundreds upon thousands of vacant-eyed, redheaded zombies.  But instead of brains, they are after...

YOUR SOUL.

So far, this blog is proving to be about 50% coffee, and 50% zombies.  I don't want to know what Freud would make of THAT.

Black Beauty

I have a friend.  He asked me to write about him.  He requested it be given the above title. This is his story:

If Rob was a dragon...basically, Mushu with dreds...

Black Beauty was born Robert, in 1980-something. I call him Mushu. And he calls me Moo Shoo. He's not very original with nicknames. But then sometimes he calls me Princess or Lady, and I'm okay with that. He and I first met when we worked together at a boarding school in Perth.  We hit it off and have been friends ever since. I don't exactly remember the first time we met.  In some ways it feels like he's always been a part of my life - our friendship has no clear beginning or end - it just is. Sometimes months will go by when we don't see each other or talk much, but when we see each other again it's like no time has passed.

Rob has one of the biggest hearts of all the people I know. He is kooky, and prone to bizarre behaviour in public.  He loves to scandalise people.  I've been tackle-hugged to the ground, begged for head scratches and tummy rubs, and treated to tantrums worthy of a three-year-olds whilst onlookers look on with expressions ranging from bemusement to judgement.  Life is never dull with him.

He has a pug named Cupid. Cupid both loves and hates the beach, and he definitely loves bacon. Cupid, and his convertible, are the two loves of Rob's life. One time Rob buried Cupid at the beach.  One time we buried Rob at the beach.

Rob spent six months in Miami on exchange for university.  I missed him while he was gone, but I couldn't think of a more suitable environment for him. I think at least fifty percent of my time with him has been spent at or near the beach, and there was a time when you wouldn't see him without some kind of bling; a D&G watch, or a gold-accented Ed Hardy dragon jacket, and his jeans cost more than my first car.  

Rob is not like my other friends.  But that is part of his appeal. 

One time, we went to pick up a sun roof for his dad's boat.  We did this in his two-seater convertible, and of course it wouldn't fit in the boot.  So we did the return trip with it in my lap, wedged under my chin, while Rob teased me for looking like a Teletubby.

One time, he decided it would be funny to textbomb my phone, and sent over a thousand messages in a row of just emoticons.  It took several hours for my phone to work through the queue. I even caught him sending them while I was driving us to go get food that night.

One time we played Connect 4 by text. But he cheated.

One time we played Chess over frozen yoghurts.  It was the most amateur game of Chess ever played, and he was the ultimate victor when we finally ran out of pieces to capture.  I'd like to say I let him win, but I didn't.

It blows his mind that my chiropractor has the same name as him, and tries to steal his business card from my desk when he comes over.

He's lots of fun to hang out with. But be warned, he bites. Randomly, and without warning or just cause.

Mushu is a big, black Fijian dude, and one of the most hilarious sights is him playing my Dance Central game on the Xbox 360 Kinnect.  He is one of the whitest black men I know when it comes to dancing. But I can't talk - I'm sure seeing me to do the 'Superman' is quite hilarious too.

At an interview, he described how he caught all 151 Pokemon, as an example of his dedication and commitment. He got the promotion.

Rob enjoys really bad puns, and loves to test me by sending me messages entirely in emoticons and images to see if I can break the code. When he wants me to ring him, he sends me a picture of a ring.

I always know exactly where I stand with Rob, and if he's thinking of me, he'll text me to tell me. I like that. I know I can relax around him, because he never lies to me and he accepts me for who I am.  He lets me cry when I'm upset, even though it makes him uncomfortable, and he doesn't even run away. Though he may sometimes do the "there there" pat on the shoulder.  He doesn't judge me for my insecurities, but instead reassures me that I'm all right in his book.

He has a joie de vivre that is infectious, and a love of sushi and Grill'd that knows no boundaries. He is five years old, and he is fifty years old, especially when it comes to his sense of humour. He is very brave, since he has let me publish this without seeing what I wrote. He is a legend in his own lunchbox, and the coffee in my clouds.

He is the Buzz Lightyear to my Calamity Jane (let's face it; I'm no Woody), always showing me that you really can go to infinity and beyond.

Like a boss.