owlrigh

"I'm sorry, but you need a credit card." It's like everyone in Melbourne goes out of their way to make life just that little bit harder for you.

Firebird and I walked around town to almost every travel agent, seeking one with whom I could book a return flight to Hamilton Island. In Queensland every time I've bought a ticket all I do is turn up to a travel agent, book a flight with their credit card, and then hand over the cash. Not so down here -- maybe it's another sign that Victorians are so very prone to the illegal.

I'd two decisions when I woke yesterday morning: stay and work and earn some money in a place where you are either freezing to death or burning up depending upon whether you are out- or inside, or go home to my poor abandoned kittycat and to more reasonable temperatures. This heating thing is being taken to a far too extreme level down here. The latter won out, and so the hunt was on for a travel agent.

( but I get to see movies! )

Arriving at the convention in middle of yesterday meant I was a wee bit late for the Gaiman reading -- something funny from some book I am not certain of. The bits of the film based upon his work, Mirrormask, were very strange indeed. I am not certain I would like it -- what works fine in the paper medium at times does not make easy translation to film. It looked completely bizarre and like an exercise in CGI.

It's just as well that I think so, because Sony hasn't picked up distribution rights in Australia and if I want to know what the story about I'll be having to read the book. There is a letter writing campaign being organised -- petitions do not work, so everyone was encouraged to send physical (not electronic!) letters. One letter is symbolic for a hundred people or suchlike.

( The few panels I attended )

The "Worst Ever" panel ran overtime, and everyone was kicked out of the room while things were set up for the closing ceremony.

After the ceremony I walked back to the backpackers despite it having finished sufficiently early that I could have caught public transport. I needed the time; I cried as I walked back (on the dark part of the street) and otherwise felt horribly insulted and sorry for myself.

( I was invited to be fan guest of honour for the natcon, but you would be forgiven for not knowing. )

I miss my yacht. That was the first thing which came to mind when I arrived in Melbourne yesterday, and I moped a little as I trudged around the city seeking a place to rest my head. This was a little more difficult than in previous years, for back then the places were not so choosy.

"A Proof of Age card is not good enough," said the places this time around. "You need a driver's licence or a passport." I do not have either, needless to say, and a big lump of horror and self-pity appeared in my throat. "Oh, but there's a place you might go to which isn't so particular. They're not very good, though."

Any backpacker's which does not put me into a room full of guys is just fine by me. When I queried this identity proof oddity of Melbourne's I was informed that locals have a tendency to check in, steal everything they can, and then chuff off. Licences or passports give those running a backpacker's a feeling that they've more control over customers.

( Seeking stripping work )

Before long it was Friday itself and the reason I had come to Melbourne, Continuum (the annual science fiction convention), was starting.

( It should be called Gaimancon )