37 degrees on the tarmac while taking off from Sydney this morning, which I gratefully exchanged for the blessed relief of 32 degrees at Brisbane. Like jumping out of one sweaty post-football sock and into another one. Chuck in two days and nights spent wrapped around the great white bowl, courtesy of some dodgy chicken on Thursday, and I’m sweating out everything my nutrient-deprived body is screaming for. At least I had nothing to bring up on the flight up. Bumpy.

Why share all this? Cause tonight’s my first night as a tagalong at the Aurealis Awards, of which I’ve heard many things, and as an aspiring writer of good breeding and astute purpose I had intended to prove the quality of my work by holding my own at the bar. But right now I can barely hold down anything, let alone a stiff drink, so I fear that my reputation as a writer of quality is already at risk. I look wan and sickly, as though I haven’t see enough sun for decades, I’m clammy and nervous, worried sick that I’ll be sick. 

Actually I might fit right in.

Hats of to the Brisbane Goths though, who were out in full force at the mall in town, dressed to the elevens despite the heat. That never-say-die anzac spirit personified. Me? I’m cooling my tookus in the hotel room, down to the boxers with the aircon set to 18 degrees, though it still feels a hellavua lot warmer…

…and this is why I like the cold. No matter how hot things get, you can only take so much off and get away with it. But no matter how cold things get, you can always put more on. 

I hope to provide a sober account of the night. With clothes.

Jeremy