I am tired, forgive me for the typos.

After handing over, in one go, what I would consider a frightful amount of money to someone from an agency with the word ‘Hooker’ in its name, I have now taken residence in my own small (rented) piece of Adelaide. It has lounges, a table and chairs, fridge, TV, microwave and two air conditioners, among other things. These items are scattered (literally, since the carpet cleaners have obviously been here recently) around its living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, laundry and bathroom. And these rooms still bear most of the charms of distinctive décor that leads me to place the unit’s heritage as being somewhere in the early sixties.This is all fine bar the fact that it does not come equipped with a bed. This has made me resort to a fold-out sofa bed which I have discovered features more waves than the Indian Ocean during a cyclone, along with a distinct dip in the middle. In fact when I first laid down on it I thought it was some sort of three-dimensional contour that charted my emotional state from the beginning to the end of last year. There’s as bit of a drop for when Uni started back; a few of lumps for when I went on holidays, turned 21 and met the boi (and a big stain showing when we… umm...you know); and this great fucking chasm for after we broke up…or maybe that’s for when I got my last exam results - not sure.Anyway I wish I’d had a more stable time last year because my mood changes are rather difficult to sleep on. That is why I am writing this at five in the morning on first night here (Friday February 20th), not having yet had any sleep. So this entry is brought to you, however indirectly, by my changing mental state in 2003. But then I guess there’s nothing so unusual about that: much of the inspiration for this entire journal could be linked somehow to events in ‘My 2003 – The Short Stories (Abridged)’.While my lumpy mood contour bed and SSRI-induced insomnia keep me awake (still) I might move the subject of this rich-text expression of my early morning thoughts on to Adelaide’s built environment. Renowned as the city of churches, the SA capital has had many of its places of worship converted to bars, clubs or function centers. (Fuckin’ seppo spell check, I guess its prefers ‘meter’, ‘color’ and ‘alooominum’ as well, yes? You know when I re-installed windows I vaguely remember selecting English (Australia) as my language and since we are impartial to phonetic spelling here in this small-but-largest-island-continent-on-earth-place-that-helps-out-in-wars I thought Word 2000 would behave but yet it just tows the USA (that’s ‘oooossa’) line so really Windows is maybe just one of Dubya’s minions. Wow! The metaphors are flowing thick and fast tonight aren’t they: beds are mood maps, operating systems are insidious political tools. If it weren’t for my convoluted sentences, inconsistent tense and excessive use of punctuation this might actually be something approaching good comic literature.)Now, where was I?Churches…right.I can’t help but wondering if some of the regular visitors to these places (before they were deconsecrated) are still turning up as if nothing has changed. They may notice that the proprietors aren’t playing those old hymns anymore, having traded them for something slightly more upbeat – like Bad Cabbage. Maybe they are appreciating the greater variety of beverages on offer – that church wine was always a bit sweet anyway. And hasn’t the Reverend got a new lease on life: not only does he spin wicked beats on the decks all night long but hasn’t he learnt to work the crowd like never before? And those altar boys have sure toned up – which is lucky since they are dancing shirtless on podiums. See you about. Maybe in a former church.