I've been sitting at my keyboard for hours now, trying to get a thought to evolve in my head. It's just not happening. Gah. Is it swine flu or just plain stupidity? I don't know. And the pressure is rising: as James Waites reports, there's competition waiting in the wings... or was that with the wings? Yes, some evil genius is training pigeons to tell the difference between good and bad art, thus threatening the already uncertain existence of us poor crrritics. "But let’s see how you all like it when 'that critic shat all over me' is no longer just plaintive hyperbole," says our boy nastily. Heh.

Anyway, having bashed my head against a brick wall, I've realised that hollow sound means that it's quite empty. A woman's got to know her limitations, and today mine are legion: I've overdone it this week, and something blew up. All hail next week. Meanwhile, let me yet again exhort keen theatrenauts to get to the Meat Market to see BalletLab's miraculous Miracle before it closes on Sunday, and not to miss Happy Days and Care Instructions at the Malthouse, which both close next week. And if you're bored, just enter the argument about the Melbourne Festival program, here or at Born Dancin's place, which has been lively.