We still don’t have an elected PM, and thus my migration to greener island pastures is pending. Meanwhile, with under 2 months to go until the finish line, I hereby acknowledge it’s been anything but feverish on the pitch fever front lately – more of a slight sniffle really. But the neglect has been largely unavoidable: I went walkabout. Eight beds in as many nights, gallivanting through the Victorian countryside, listening to Aboriginal people’s stories of country and creation and countenance. I can’t believe it’s only been a week – I feel like I’m returning to reality as an old woman, with an altered understanding of the world. To prove it I am now the proud owner of a stable table. Very inspired, and fecund ground for story ideas, but hard to strike the requisite objectivity when you’re boiling with rage at age-old injustices. Here are some photos to distract you from the fact that this excuse only really accounts for about half of the lapsed time since my last post:
Ancient contraceptive pill
I had visions of pitching from log cabin verandahs overlooking craggy rocks, sipping port and stroking my chin, but barely had any mobile reception, and the only web I encountered was of the arachnid variety, on the slide pictured above. However I do have a handbag full of crumpled, lamb shank-stained serviettes covered in pitch ideas, the less ridiculous of which were tinkered with and shot off last night. Ideas largely mostly triggered by this week’s experiences (such as nibbling on an berry which was used as a contraceptive), Shiraz-fuelled dinner conversations with my two inspiring female road trippers (such as the rise of John Hewson as a sex symbol during this election) and incredible tourism opportunities, probably the most profound being a
Remains of stone hut at Lake Condah
visit to the world’s oldest village at Lake Condah. I’m the first to admit I’m prone to hyperbole, but this folks, is absolutely true – the world’s oldest village, with stone huts and complex aquaculture systems, is in our country. The Poms have been getting their knickers in a knot about a recent discovery of an 8000yr old house in London, and here we have a whole village that’s doubly as old. And only about 1400 people a year are checking it out. So I’ve hit up the new editor at Australian Traveller with that angle, rather than the original idea of all the Aboriginal experiences state-wide. And just for good measure, those serviettes themselves have sparked a pitch – profiling great ideas, businesses and philosophies that began on the back of a napkin or beer coaster.
In other news, my first print story has been sent off to ‘Made you Look’ (an interview with a fascinating lass about dramatherapy), and tonight I’m chatting to a member of Rocktapus, who’s comedy acapella singalongs are set to the rock the Sydney Fringe in a couple of weeks (read my blog post here). What’s more, tonight, tragically, I’ve had to abandon Traditional Tuesdays routine of chicken parmies in jarmies (and a double episode of Modern family) with a deadline for tomorrow morning to whip up a little news piece on the world’s most expensive coffee, found half-digested in the steaming turds of Indonesian civets. Humans are trying to cage the little buggers to meet demand, but like most things we attempt to interfere with, the flavour just ain’t the same. As with Bacon Busters, I’m having to strongly resist the urge to go down to pun town. An extremely difficult task given my penchant for poo-synonyms, as the fine print on this is the birthday card I made for my sister last month would indicate:
Best get a wriggle on. Happy last day of winter, all…
Pitch Fever 
