Yesterday evening I decided to spend a little time flicking through the local newspaper, just to see what was going on in the neighbourhood. Following the usual fare - Betty and Ray got married at the local bowlo 60 years ago (here is a photo of them then, and here's what they have degenerated into); a small group of residents up in arms over a derelict brick house ('it's a hazard - it could catch on fire', and no, I did not invent this); and a What's On section featuring the Seniors Club on Thursdays, the Knitters and Crocheters Club on Wednesday afternoons and the British Expats Club on Mondays, no doubt to assist those poor immigrants who are having some difficulty adjusting from an English-speaking multicultural nation in a cool climate to an English-speaking multicultural nation in a moderate climate - was an eye-catching, full-colour ad that said exactly this:

That's right, do not put it off any longer! Polish up your bugle and dust off those mangy goat-hounds, it is time for a good old-fashioned GOAT HUNT. You can always spot the wife of the goat-hunter; she is the one towards whom jealous eyes turn at the Knitters and Crocheters Club, coveting the spectacularly behoofed stole draped luxuriously around her delicate ivory neck.

Six times.

Her little eyes barely peeking over the point at which a pair of flappy ears knots playfully around a pert white tail.

That is her! She is the Wife of the Goat-Hunter. You must offer her beads and baubles. In return she will ensure that your crops not fail, and that a power line not fall on your new shed.

And if you would like a more complete picture of my local government area, allow your eyes to saunter over to the ad on the opposite page. Yes, right there - do you see it? The 2009 Safety Expo. Granted, it doesn't offer a lot of information about what the event schedule of the day will be, but I hear that last year started with a safety-tastical morning of races and games for the young ones (the Running with Scissors race and the round of Playing Chicken With Cars went down a treat), followed by a fun afternoon session of Places You Can Stick A Fork (toasters! Power points! The possibilities are finite but many!) and finally, for the adults, an after-dark session of Walking Alone Through Parks That Are Kind Of Distant From Any Homes Or Public Spaces, and with Limited Mobile Reception.

Oh and there's a council ad here that tells us to expect new bins by the end of this month. Why I have not burst from this amazing jamming-in* of excitement through every orifice, I cannot comprehend. Perhaps the Knitters and Crocheters Club will make and distribute bin cosies for all, in which case I will have to keel over and die of Excitement Exhaustion.

Come to sunny Liverpool, where you can safely hunt goats and dispose of their bodies in your exciting new council bin.

* That reminds me. Don't do this. Doctors have enough to worry about already, without being 'presented with a range of fractured penises' to look after. I am not sure that the term 'range' was the best choice here, as it brings to mind some sort of bent-penis-based mountain chain. Scale THAT, Edmund Hillary!

2. I don't even know me any more

It occurred to me yesterday that I now live in that sparsely populated netherworld that hovers between Suburban Troll and Inner-City Wanker. It is a place of isolation, a place where acceptance is a distant dream, an insubstantial imagining built from nothing but fairy floss and soap-bubbles. I will never be fully accepted in the world of the Suburban Troll as long as I continue to complain about how the barista burnt my coffee (Words I Have Actually Said #1: 'It's like he just doesn't care!') or comment on the subtle differences between Shirazes (Words I Have Actually Said #2: 'That last one had a nice flavour but this one is really full-bodied') or cheeses (Words I Have Actually Said #3: 'I think I'll take the Camembert over the Brie. It has a much more delicate flavour'). Yet at the same time, I can never be a fully accepted Pretentious Wanker so long as I persist with my habit of eating things off the floor in accordance with the Five-Second Rule, or of picking the spots of mould off the bread in order to make a sandwich with it, or of waking myself up occasionally with a great honking fart that resonates through the mattress.

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Things that made me happy this weekend:

- The fact that it is three days long.

- Being in Jindabyne with my Pigeon for much of it.

- Still having a whole day to go before I have to be back at work.

- Providing they're willing to take a late booking, possibly going horse-riding tomorrow! (And if so, let's hope their horseriding skills beat their web-design skills.)