my name is

I've been thinking about blogging, and it's kind of weird, the reason I've finally done it.
I'm sitting here in my flat in Melbourne, looking out at a pretty spectacular sky, listening to that Postal Service song with the "seems so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex", and it's the kinda cheesy song rather than the sky that makes me miss Glasgow like crazy.
And for the moment it's not enough to just miss it. I need to make sure anyone could know, by accident, that I do.
And that a cheesy but somehow addictive song is the thing that made me.
A year in Glasgow left me so well-watered, that I'd almost become restful inside. It made coming home in time for Black Saturday all the more terrifying. I'd forgot how to let days like that strip your skin off.
I dunno about calling it that. It makes it sound like history, like it's taught in schools already. Like we know the effects of it already. And like I have the authority to say, yes, it was a black day.
I spent the day: swimming in St. Kilda, lying on the loungeroom floor with most of my family under the ancient AC, at Nova watching Slumdog Millionaire, pretending the world wasn't ending outside.

eeeeek! I blame the clouds.
I can't resist melodrama with clouds like that just outside my window.

So- now to create a dinner of gnocchi with sweet pot. something-yum, as promised by text to Aaron. Dinner, because I've no idea how to let him talk about Pen leaving.