In a little bit over a week I’ll be on a plane back to Sydney for a month-long visit. Christmas holidays coincide with my brother’s wedding, so it will be an extended and very festive time of year.

Things I’m looking forward to: the faces and voices and smiles and stories of my family and friends; the coffee; lots of hugs; eating out at BYO restaurants; driving my car with the top down; attending a birthday party at my own house. (And Trent and Sophie’s wedding, of course.)

Things I’m not looking forward to: the hot weather.

One day not so long ago, I was working with Simi Linton at her home office when the building superintendant, Mitch, arrived to do some work. Simi had given me strict instructions to ask Mitch how he was feeling, as he’s infamous within the building for giving unexpected answers.

Me to Mitch: “So, Mitch, how are you feeling today?”

Mitch to me: “Well you know, honey, I feel better than some, and better ‘n’ most, and sometimes – sometimes I even feel like dancing. Do you dance?”

And he grabbed my hand in his, put his other hand on my waist, and twirled me round the parquetry floor in Simi’s apartment.

“Don’t tell Randy you danced with me,” I said, referring to my favorite doorman, who greets me with a cheeky smile every time I arrive at the building for work. “He won’t be happy.”

A couple of nights ago I made my first 911 call. I had to stop myself from dialling 000.

There was a terrible and increasing kafuffle in an apartment in the much larger building next to mine. I couldn’t tell whether it was two women, or a man and a woman, who were fighting – all I could hear was the dreadful wailing of one woman in terrible anger and grief. My dilemma was whether to ignore it, or to act by picking up the phone – just in case the next noise I heard was a body being thrown against a hard surface, or a gunshot.

My 911 receptionist, while she eventually promised to send a car around, wasn’t terribly interested in my report. I suspect she gets dozens of these sorts of calls each night. It’s not quite Rear Window.

Turns out my contribution to Thanksgiving dinner – the pre-feast canapes – has been put to good use. My job was to bring a dip. With a rudimentary kitchen and next to no presentation platters, my choices were rather limited as to the nature and scope of my culinary offering. I eventually settled on a dip created from peas, garlic, olive oil and sun-dried tomatoes, servied with endive spears.

Inevitably, a catalogue of horrors followed. Not only was there no endive to be found in my neighbourhood, but my blender failed to “ignite”. After filling my blender-on-extended-loan with the pre-mushed ingredients, the machine gave off a pathetic fart, rather than the powerful whirring sound of expert blending that I had been led to anticipate. As a result, I was forced to cart said unblended mush to my friends’ place in a Ziploc bag, and make a mess of their kitchen instead.

I am relieved to report that my dip was eaten with relish (well, spears of romaine lettuce, as it turned out), and even the leftovers have been put to good use. On Thanksgiving my dip was unceremoniously renamed Sludge, but it bears the title with equal parts pride and ambivalence. I have just received a report from my Thanksgiving Day hostess-with-the-mostess, who proudly states: “But sweetie, we LOVE the sludge! We have had sludge on toast, sludge on crackers, both with and without the goat’s cheese which I think you forgot as you battled the food processor.”

Indeed, I had spent about $15 on goat’s cheese – which I cannot eat, I don’t know why I dislike it so much – that I promptly transferred from my fridge to theirs, and forgot to include as part of my Sludge spectacular.

I leave you alone for a few days, and what do I get? A comments box full to brimming with disgusting, pornographically-named links embedded in endless spam emails. I ask you, what is in it for the creators of this virtual rubbish? Every time I have tried to erase the spam emails, it has crashed my poor little puta. I must be more popular than I thought.

Any bona fide reader of this blog who sent me a comment in the past few days will understand if I (a) don’t even see it amid the forest of filth and (b) fail to respond to it personally.

Thanksgiving is a HUGE deal here. On Thursday the whole city shut down, it was as quiet as Christmas Day in Sydney. One of the most surprising things about the day is that there is no commercial aspect to it, other than influencing consumers as to where to purchase their respective turkeys.

The commercialisation is left until a minute after midnight, when the first Thanksgiving sales start somewhere on the west coast. Here in the east, the shops wait until as late as five am to open their doors to the full-bellied shoppers so they can feed their starving credit cards.

I had considered piking on the Australian-themed dinner to which I was invited, but I’m glad I talked myself out of it. The evidence speaks for itself. We played a game in which we each had to write down the nicest thing we’d ever done for someone else, and the nicest thing someone else had ever done for us. We then had to guess who wrote which statement. It was illuminating both for our perceptions of each other, and then for the revelation of who actually wrote each one. I didn’t write anything like the truth, as it would have been too upsetting. But the game was a great idea and lots of fun.

Watching the NBC nightly newscast this evening, I learned that 32 million people are on American roads right now, heading “home”, wherever that might be, for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving holilday. That’s more than 150% of the entire population of Australia.

Last night I attended the annual New York reception for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Inc. (Just love the Inc.) Why, you might ask? All in the name of networking on behalf of my Bridge Literary Services client, David Kowalski, whose quite brilliant novel The Company of the Dead is mine for the touting in North America. (It’s being published in Australia in August 2007 by Pan Macmillan.)

This is not to say I actually believe 100% that David’s novel qualifies as sci-fi. However, square pegs and round holes must try to meet somewhere, and the Society of Illustrators provided a beautiful old-world venue for that meeting.

So I issued my newly minted business cards to a few unsuspecting publishing types, while the lovely Steve Saffel – who had recently edited David’s novel from the ‘Merkin perspective – introduced me to several people who expressed interest in reading David’s manuscript. Now all I have to do is get my company website up and running before anyone thinks to check out the credentials of that Australian woman at the party …

Ah, gentle reader, apologies for the lack of recent posts. It’s taken me a few days to regain my equilibrium after feeling quite sorry for myself since the Woodstock getaway sans Special Someone. Followed by a series of major deadlines for me to meet before gettin’ on that plane to Sydney (two weeks on Saturday, I can’t quite believe it).

But I hope you’re as pleased as I am to see my hair is growing back …

Americans are giving thanks this Thursday. They are giving thanks for … well, I’m not entirely sure, but whatever it is involves having to eat enormous quantities of food surrounded by your family. A pre-Christmas Christmas, if you like. It’s something to do with the pilgrims and the founding fathers and all that gang. I’m heading to the Lower East Side for the official “Waifs and Strays” Thanksgiving dinner party – and providing the canapes.

The post-Thanksgiving Day sale is a tradition as old as … well, the post-Chistmas Day sales. Franklin Delano Roosevelt introduced legislation to ensure that Thanksgiving was always on the third Thursday of November, to ensure that there were sufficient shopping days between then and Christmas.

So whichever way you slice your turkey, it’s all about consumption.

Now that Americans have shown their regret at putting the corrupt and incompetent crowd into the White House in 2000 by giving the Democratic Party control of the lower and upper houses of Congress in the recent mid-term elections, Dubbya has automatically become a “lame-duck” President. He’s in office, he’s still the President, but he has no support. He will no doubt wield his power of veto for all it’s worth, but his party is no longer in control of Congress. 

In the window of a Woodstock bookshop I spotted this soft-toy political message and couldn’t resist.

Look, a bona fide log cabin in the woods! And at Woodstock, no less. My friend, novelist Kate Veitch (pictured above) organised our mid-week getaway. Woodstock, about two and a half hours from Manhattan, is quite beautiful – all the autumn leaves had fallen to the ground, creating a multi-coloured carpet that was spongy to tread on. Our cabin was nestled into a corner of the stream created by a waterfall, which provided a natural soundtrack to our adventures. There were five of us – Kate and her partner Phillip (one of  my tennis cohorts), and Kate’s neice and her boyfriend visiting from Adelaide, and me. It’s not easy being the fifth wheel but I enjoyed their company and particularly a delicious meal at a famous local restaurant, The Bear.

Thirty-seven years after the infamous concert (which actually took place 30 miles away on a farm), Woodstock is more famous these days for its shops and eateries. Thus my surprise at spotting the dotty old bloke (above), right in the midst of shopping central.

Just returned from three days in Woodstock – only saw a couple of aging hippies, but it was a beautiful town and a technology-free zone: no internet, no mobile phone, no TV, no nothing. An enforced no-communications environment was probably good for me. Photos and anecdotes to come over the weekend, once I catch up with myself.

When I announced I was moving to New York, I had the same conversation with several different people. Friend: Do you have a place to live? Me: No. Friend: Do you have a job to go to? Me: No.

People couldn’t understand why I wasn’t worried about these things. I knew that shelter and employment were two things I could rustle up fairly easily. Much harder would be the things we (and here I mean women) take for granted – the trustworthy hairdresser (still working on that one), the reliable dry cleaner, the edible take away (hmm, my track record’s not looking all that impressive). But my biggest fear was finding someone to manage my eyebrows – well maintained, they’re my best feature, but when they are neglected…well, all I can say is, LORDY!

So I am delighted to introduce you to Sania’s Brow Bar. Sania’s salon is dedicated purely to the perfecting of the brow. Sania (who describes herself as a “Master Brow Trainer”) doesn’t believe in waxing: she tweezes. It sounds painful but I assure you it’s not. And she’s worth every penny. Or is that follicle?

Sitting down for a catch-up coffee in NoLiTa* with author Kate Veitch, who has just returned to New York after a highly successful launch and promotion of her first novel Listen, who should we spy trying to get a seat at our groovy hang, Cafe Gitane, but two-time Oscar winner herself, Hilary Swank.

Sadly, there were no rooms at our place for the actress, who had to seek chamomile tea^ at the place next door. (*NoLiTa = North of Little Italy, the best place for women to shop in Manhattan; ^idle supposition)

Take my advice – NEVER go to midtown during the week, during lunchhour, and certainly not during fine weather. Keeping an appointment today meant I had to brave the midtown crowds in the middle of a perfect autumn day. I turned into such a local, harrumphing at the tourists who don’t obey the unofficial sidewalk rules (keep to the right), which are so well respected in other parts of the city.

Having been enthralled with shopping in New York as a tourist on many occasions, it’s amusing to observe my shopping behaviour as a local. Today I went to Bloomingdale’s, zoomed past the ready-to-wear and shoe departments, and bought a pair of longjohns in preparation for winter. Not quite the “must-have” item one thinks of when traversing a hemisphere to shop in NYC, but for someone sticking around through the coldest months of the northern year, enough people have warned me to get my wardrobe ready for me to act upon their advice.

You will understand why there is no photograph accompanying this post.

Yesterday afternoon I unchained myself from my desk to go for a stroll in Prospect Park, a rambling, beautiful and much-loved public space that I was surprised to discover is even larger than Central Park. The great thing for me about Prospect Park is that it’s literally a minute’s walk from my apartment, and a tempting distraction – especially at the moment, as the autumnal weather is superb.

Two locals in the park allowed me to get close enough to take these happy snaps while they were eating.

The mid-term Congressional elections have been very interesting to observe, up close and personal. The outcome of the elections made the observation period well worth it, of course, particularly with the fall of Donald Rumsfeld.

The political TV advertisements made Australian election campaigns look positively genteel. One party’s ad stating that the opponent was a liar/corrupt/immoral would be followed by the other party’s ad, which stated that their opponent was (surprise) a liar/corrupt/immoral. Like all “advanced democratic states”, however, detailed exploration of the what and how of policy statements was left pretty much to our imagination.

All of that aside, there does seem to be a spring in the locals’ step over this result, and a return of hope. New York is the most small-l liberal state in the nation, so that’s not surprising. Yesterday Bush spent a lot of time in his press conference talking about consensus and “considering all views”. The world would be a different place if he had taken that approach five years ago. It will be very interesting to see what happens as a result of “the ‘Merkin* people” standing up to their bully.

(*Merkin/Merka = local version of ‘Strayin/’Straya) 

I love Hugh Laurie. The star of House has just been on the couch with Jay Leno, which I catch occasionally at a late hour. (It’s after midnight here and I should be asleep.)

The entire interview was a lesson in cultural difference. Hugh Laurie was self-deprecating and typically English in his humour, and Leno and his audience consistently failed to get it. Emma Thompson had claimed, on the previous night’s show, that Laurie could sleep standing up, and Leno asked Laurie to explain it. He first explained he had been a University rower when he and Emma “dated”, but grew bored with this version and offered another – that maybe he was always asleep because Emma had just been boring. There was a silent pause before the audience actually booed him because they didn’t understand the humour. Needless to say, Laurie worked overtime to assure everyone he WAS JOKING.

Oh. My. God. I feel like a sheep that has been shorn. If you look closely at this photo, in which I’m seated at Blog Central in my Brooklyn pad, you’ll see that I have recently had a hair cut. Unfortunately my new hairdresser – whom I sought out after a personal recommendation – went wild with the shears.

Thank goodness my brother’s wedding is more than a month away. As the saying goes, there’s but two weeks between a good and a bad haircut.

Hello from a beautiful part of the north-east: Shelter Island, which nestles in between the North and South Forks of Long Island. I am here at the largesse of friends who own a magnificent house that I have all to myself for a few days. I am trying to finish a draft of my book before I head back to Sydney for Christmas and my brother’s wedding. I am joint-MC of this event with my future sister-in-law’s brother, whom I have never met, and it promises to be a great day. And it’s only six weeks away!

The weather at the moment is a brisk 8-11 degrees during the day, but it’s sunny so I think it’s perfect. Posts on the blog might be a bit erratic over the next five days as a result of my being here. I have to drag myself away from this dang machine at times, after all.

Today – the three hours that are left of it, as I write this – is Halloween. It is a BIG DEAL here. But I DON’T KNOW WHY. I have a fledgling theory that it might be connected to Americans’ love of being in a constant state of fear, however slight, however commercialised.

But all of my theorising was moot as I travelled back from work on the train this evening. A young girl, wearing a red sequinned get-up complete with floor-length tail and detachable ears, held her mother’s hand amidst a crowd of suited corporate types; a couple waited on the platform with their baby, a vision in an angel’s white halo and matching wings; another baby in a pram was squeezed inside what looked like a hatching egg. One man, old enough to know better, stood quietly waiting for his connecting train, dressed from head to toe in a Captain Marvel costume. I hope he was going to a fancy-dress party. 

So far I’ve not received a knock on my door (I think apartment buildings in my neighbourhood are safe from trick-or-treaters), but the local shop-keepers were well stocked with treats for the little ones running in and out of their stores tonight.