Smoke, war and Mudd
Ms TN flew back into the smoke haze of Victoria yesterday afternoon. It was all a bit spooky, peering out from my little metal tube 38,000 feet in the sky and watching this sunburned, smoke-scarred landscape below, all dry dams and empty rivers and bare paddocks. An aerial view gives a dramatic and rather frightening picture of just how drought-stricken Victoria is: you just can't see its aridity from ground-level. I really do think it's about time Queensland stopped pinching our water.
The War of the Roses will take a few days (weeks?) to process; it was a massive experience. I am, however, heroically aiming to post about it early next week. It finishes in Sydney this week, and then heads off for a season at the Perth Festival. Perth persons, if you haven't booked your tickets, go hence immediately. You'll regret it if you don't.
Meanwhile, let me point you to a charming and fascinating rehearsal blog being kept by Christian Leavesley for the production of Lally Katz's Goodbye Vaudeville Charlie Mudd, a co-production between Arena Theatre and the Malthouse. Videos, mathematical posts, reader surveys, bizarre advertisements - what more does a cybergal need?
6 comments:
Jeez, Alison, what did you fly home? Virgin Galactic? 38,000 metres is (just) sub orbital. 50% higher than Concorde ever went!
If you had've got to 80,000 metres you would be officially regarded as an astronaut in the United States! (heh!)
Regards from your diligent Planespotter and metric conversion resource.
I lie, it's 100% higher than Concorde averaged. :-)
That's fucking funny.
Virgin Galactic...
Maybe I meant feet???!!!!
38,000 was definitely the figure the pilot said. And lacking the planespotting gene, I missed the obvious calculation that placed me out of the atmosphere....
And there I was, thinking we were all metric now.
Corrected to feet, with thanks from your diligent star voyager...
Not quite out of the atmosphere, but well into the stratosphere... where, indeed, you belong.
Your humble [choke!] tropospherical servant,
Boswell
Flattery will get you everywhere. But golly. Does that make me Johnson? I hope I'm lacking a little around the midriff for that role...
Though Boswell is the most charming of fellows (and stylists) and thus an appropriate moniker for you, Mr Boyd!
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