I�ve been so tired lately. My body clock is utterly useless. I could spend months training myself to go to sleep early and arise refreshed at some insane hour of the morning� but all it seems to take is one late night and my body is automatically back into the stay-up-till-three/sleep-till-eleven routine. I think that�s my default setting, which is awkward because I start work at 8:30AM and I live more than an hour away from my place of employ.

One thing I like to do on my drives to work is to get a good look at the clouds. I have yet to place my finger on why the sky holds such fascination for me, or why it is that when I�m confined in my car I can open the window on a beautiful day and feel as though I could breathe in the whole sky. There�s something so timeless about the sky and the clouds. Down here on the ground people are born, they play as children in parks, they honk at each other on highways, they achieve things, they fail, they kill, they heal, they worry about all the things in life that they never got around to doing, or maybe just that they still haven�t got around to making dinner for the kids yet because there were too many other things to be done. Then they die. Meanwhile the clouds float above, swirling with the wind, going wherever they are taken. They disintegrate, they fall as rain, they regroup into new formations, but they�re always there.

Maybe they�re one of the most real things we know. Most problems we face on a daily basis are only imagined.

Or maybe looking at clouds is like standing in an art gallery, tilting your head as you stare at some abstract painting, trying to make sense of it. Until you read that little white plaque on the wall next to it, the interpretation is entirely your own. What you get from it is up to you. What I get from the sky is peace. Maybe if I stopped and read the plaque next to it there would just be a note from God saying, �actually, I just ended up with some leftover water when I was done with the seas� so I thought I�d stick some of it in the sky instead and see if anyone noticed�.

But enough of that. I feel a little silly already.

One thing that is bothering me on an increasing scale is something I have noticed on the radio. You know how sometimes you can open a magazine and there will be a full-page ad with the words $0 UPFRONT!* in enormous letters that take up most of the page, but then you look at the little asterisk at the bottom and there are three lines of tiny print full of words like �terms and conditions apply�, �limited stock�, �no rainchecks�, �must be an existing customer�, �only available with Plan A�, and so on? Well, somebody seems to have decided that if you want to convey something as fine print over the radio, you just have to say it really really quickly. I find this irritating, especially when they�ve spent twenty seconds rabbiting on about how great the product is, and it sounds as though the ad is finally over, but then you�re forced to listen to ten seconds of some guy vomiting a garbled string of terms and conditions at a pace that should only be attainable by people on amphetamines. Damn you people! If it�s worth saying, then say it properly! Is this some sort of work-for-the-dole scheme for people on speed? Maybe they pick up people on the street � the ones holding rapid conversations with themselves � drag them into a studio and sit them in front of the microphone with a script.

But I doubt it. Once again� damn you people! Yes, I am shaking my fist at the screen. Advertisers, nobody can fully take in your high-speed verbal attacks, so either way if we�re interested we�re going to look into the terms and conditions ourselves.

Mind you, I found the complete opposite the other day, on my drive home. Some radio station was playing a fairly decent song, but I didn�t recognise the frequency so I thought I�d stay tuned to the same station for a while to find out who they were. But there was just some guy with a very broad Aussie accent, sounded as though he was about sixty, prattling on in an infuriatingly slow and boring manner about budgerigar shows. Just like that. Decent music, then cut to Budgie Man. I listened for a couple of minutes, thinking it was just some sort of short report, but he just didn�t shut up. He just had a voice that was so mild and bland and �pleasant� and boring. Eventually I felt my blood pressure rising at his sheer insipidness and had to change stations. Here is an approximate example of the guy�s witty banter:

�And there will be a show� at, ah� Gorokan� and that will be held� (raises his voice slightly as though this next bit is an interesting piece of trivia that you might want to know) this Friday (he sounds almost surprised as he says the word �Friday� � yes, it was certainly an interesting piece of trivia), the, ah, second� of December. (We hear papers shuffling.) That should be� a lovely time for all� the, ah, weather has certainly been� quite pleasant of late. (Long pause; we can hear the guy taking a deep breath for the next sentence.) There will also be a show held at, ah, Newcastle� (pauses suddenly) no, sorry, I�ve misread that� it�s, ah� (you can practically hear him squinting) no, it is Newcastle (chuckles mildly at this amusing slip-up), sorry about that; my, ah� nephew has been telling me for years that I should get a new pair of glasses, so, ah� yes, Newcastle, in the main reserve��

It just went ON like that. I tuned back after a few minutes later and he was still going. Apparently budgie lovers everywhere are going to be out and about over the next few weeks, so you might want to bring an umbrella with you when you go for walks.

Apparently Daniel�s mum had her fortune told many years ago. There were predictions that one of her sons would end up with a blonde (hi!)� and apparently also a prediction that one of them would have twins. At the mention of this I looked over at Daniel the Birthday Boy, sitting on the couch, and called out: �you are SO getting an operation.� Fortunately the family found this funny. It�s nice to be able to feel so at home with his family. I once had a boyfriend when I was in my late teens, who had a lovely family but I always felt so formal around them, even though I was with this guy for nearly three years. My relationship with his mother was almost Edwardian:

Lady Wharfington-Crumpett: More tea, Marzipan?
Marzipan: Why, yes, thankyou Lady Wharfington-Crumpett. What a lovely tea-pot.

I felt a bit weird around his dad, who was also a nice guy but didn�t really talk very much, and who I suspect didn�t have the faintest idea of what to say to a teenage girl to make conversation. In much the same way, I had no idea what to say to a forty-something school headmaster.

Marzipan: Hello, Lord Wharfington-Crumpett.
Lord Wharfington-Crumpett: Hello, Marzipan. Er, have you seen my wife�s lovely new tea-pot?

Anyway� work beckons.