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It’s been a while since I’ve recapped one of my dreams, but last night I was on The Biggest Loser, being trained by Gillian Michaels. I think it was linked to some kind of in-dream makeup promotion I took part in since I was trying to gain weight by putting on muscle, not lose it.

First I had to sit on a swing and pretend I was on a bike by circling my legs wildly. I questioned the wisdom of this, considering there was a whole gym full of equipment only about ten feet away, and it was hurting my back. Later I found out Pilchen was sleeping on my lumbar region, but Gillian wasn’t swayed from her pseudo bike, and threatened to start moving the swing if I didn’t do a good enough job.

Later, there was a group challenge, where all the contestants (about forty of us) put on formal dresses and did some kind of bootcamp synchronised dancing, which was both insane and captivating. I was interviewed, and asked if my parents had made me feel as though only losing weight would make me a better person. I reminded them I was there to muscle up, so they moved on to someone else.

There were a few interruptions to the flow of the dream, the major one being Miss M, who spent yesterday in a foul mood due to being super tired. She fell asleep at about 4pm, and wasn’t able to wake up even to have dinner. So it follows that at 3am she was wide awake, and I knew good parenting wasn’t sending her to watch infomercials, so I drowsily patted her back until she fell asleep again. She’d also noticed my phone was beeping, which I’d totally shut out of my mind, but every hour or so I’d hear this little noise in my dream (possibly it became some kind of Biggest Loser benchmark) and get brought back to semi-reality.

I’m still riding high on yesterday’s domestic success, which is somewhat tragic. This morning while making breakfast I was even considering wiping down surfaces with paper towels. I unloaded the dishwasher instead, which was far more useful, but there’s still a whole day to go - who knows what might happen?

Today I’m loving: these red boots, which I found online last night.

A couple of days ago I thought it was impossible for me to clean my filthy house. Seems I was wrong - all I needed to do was put on an (admittedly on sale) Alannah Hill dress, a full face of makeup and an enormous rose shaped ring. Bingo - cleaning happened organically.

I don’t know why, but I found myself in the bathroom, cleaning the very mirror I’d been discussing with my mother only a couple of hours before hand, then the hand basin, then putting away many, many clothes which had accumulated over God knows how long. Maybe it was the incredible metallic silver eyeshadow I was wearing (I love Revlon’s limited edition cosmetics), or my super funky Parisian hairdo, but I’m not going to question something so insanely out of character.

The only possible sour note is every muscle in my body being sore, courtesy of a three day split last week. Yesterday I crafted a program of weights and stretching to help my tragically impaired hip flexor, and it feels better than it has in months. Sure my quads and glutes are in agony, but the hip flexor’s great.

Now I have to go and hang out some washing and unload the dishwasher before I lose the vibe.

Today I’m loving: breakfast for lunch

Last night I got soaked riding to and from work, but I didn’t mind. Normally by now I would’ve been drenched many times, but thanks to a lack of precipitation, not so this year. It’s fairly adrenaline heavy, since people getting out of their cars are trying not to get wet, so they slam open their doors, usually right in front of me. Lance Armstrong has a unique way of dealing with this kind of thing, which is best described as insane violence, but I prefer to take the high road and just make sure I can slow down before getting knocked into the path of oncoming traffic.

Yesterday I worked out solo for the first time in ages, without the guiding (crazy) hand of my beloved trainer, Steve. I saw my friend Jade on Monday, she’s been training like a demon, and I was inspired to get my act together - after all, being a trainer does seem to suggest the ability to train yourself. When I woke up this morning, my arms were locked into a t-rex style position, and needed to be drenched with warm water before they could be convinced to move. I can now gyrate wildly when necessary, but the insertion point of my biceps is still sore.

So we’ll see how long this latest workout regime lasts. I ran today, both loving and hating it at the same time. I’m not convinced about running on a treadmill - I think I’m too uncoordinated to do it properly. Yet I’ll happily force other people to do it on a daily basis …

And now I’m exhausted. This week seems to have been especially long, and today, aided by exhaustion, I came to a big decision, which is after the start of next term, I’m going to hire a cleaner to deal with my filthy house. And I won’t even clean up before they get here.

Today I’m loving: my daughter, who can sing an entire Tom Waits song in fairly convincing gravel tones

As I type, an episode of The Simpsons is doing one of the things it does (or did) best, and slagging off television producers. Matt Groening’s other show, Futurama, which I almost love more than the Simpsons, also tears into network execs, and except for some of them being robotic, the portrayal is fairly accurate as far as I can see.

During the ten or so years I worked in television, I spent time at three networks, which differed madly in higher echelon involvement. Blue Heelers was pretty much left to do it’s own thing, and we’d have the occasional visit from a Sydney exec to sit in on a couple of meetings, change a few lines, then get back on a plane before 4pm. My favorite visit from such an executive came when I’d shaved all my hair off, and I heard him whisper to my boss “who’s that boy over there?”, pointing at me. Which was odd, as I had fairly obvious breasts back then.

Later on, when we were caning everyone in the ratings, we had regular visits from a different executive, who was both hilarious and story savvy. He liked to be referred to as The Grand Poobah, and bore witness to my perhaps most embarrassing moment in lunching history. During a meal break at an all day story meeting, somehow a discussion started about the movie “Playing Beattie Bow”. I had loved the book, but the film had sucked, and being the young firebrand I was back then, I loudly said “man, that movie was f%&@ed!” To my utter horror, the writer turned to me and said “I wrote it”, and our producer rapidly followed with “I directed it”. My reply? “I’ll get my coat”. It may have been that very moment I learned to keep my more disturbing opinions to myself.

Working in a gym is worlds apart from TV, which I love. It’s less cerebral, but the knowledge no one is going to send me home to rewrite a forty three minute twenty second script over the weekend is still sweet, even five years later. I can still add minutes and seconds together without thinking about it, and still recite synopses of many, many (too many) episodes of Blue Heelers, complete with episode numbers and sometimes guest characters, but every few months, some of those pieces of knowledge are replaced by advanced anatomy, a variation of an exercise, or some crackpot theory I might have come up with about exercise which makes me sound like I know what I’m talking about.

My only regret about the Grand Poobah was he didn’t take up an option on “the Snapper Squad”, an idea for a show I pitched to him back in ‘97. It was co-developed by my friend Pete, who sadly died last year. I reckon if I repitched it in a couple of years, the world might just be ready for it. Maybe …

Today I’m loving: the powder eyeliner I bought today. Freaky, but awesome.

The house I grew up in is probably the coolest house in the world. It was huge, with heaps of places to explore, trees to climb, roofs to jump off - everything a kid could ever want. And being the person I am, I expected my parents to live there forever, then … well, I hadn’t really worked out what happened after that, but damn it, that house was part of the family forever.

So I was fairly surprised about four years ago when Ria and Josh decided to move. It wasn’t like I could’ve stopped them (or could I …?) and I was a grown adult with my own home after all, but somehow it just didn’t seem right. I’m pretty sure I cried, probably more than once, but ultimately had to accept they could do what they liked. Especially when they told me about the new place they’d bought, since they obviously loved it - almost as much as I loved the old place (only kidding, guys!)

The room that had originally been my bedroom had the best wallpaper, which had mostly been painted over, but still existed in cupboards under the sink (it had been made into the kitchen), so I asked for a piece as a keepsake, and decided I’d fly to Hobart with Miss M, in order to say goodbye to the house. But I couldn’t. We drove up there to pick up some stuff, and I physically couldn’t go inside. But while we were waiting in the car, two guys peered through the gate (it was being auctioned a week later), and I had the hugest urge to run over and punch them both, and shout “get the hell away from my house”. I think you’ll be impressed to know I didn’t.

In the end, it sold so cheaply I probably could’ve taken out a mortgage and bought it myself. But I didn’t, so of course someone else did. And they did things to it, like pulled down the tree house in the horse chestnut tree, and some other things I think I’ve blocked out of my mind. Some time last year my mother told me about something else that had been changed by the new owners, but I couldn’t say anything, it made me so enraged. Wasn’t it enough to buy the damn house - did they have to wreck it as well?

At Christmas time, we drove through the city a couple of times, down a street adjacent to the one we used to live in. I found myself looking towards our old house, but just like going inside before it got sold, I couldn’t do it. The second time I made it all the way to the house next door, but had to turn my head at the last minute.

So here, in no particular order, are some things I loved about that house:

The fish pond every single cousin and friend of mine fell into at some point

The flowering cherry tree in the backyard

The grapes and roses that grew outside my bedroom window

Exploring under the verandah while holding a candle, and accidentally burning off heaps of my hair (maybe not a favorite memory, but I can still smell the burning hair)

Sunbaking on the roof (usually getting sunburnt)

Using nearly every room in the joint as my bedroom during the time I lived there

When I was tiny, playing hide and seek with Josh in the garden, and getting absolutely terrified, but never admitting I wanted to stop

The lemon verbena tree outside the kitchen window, with the most gorgeous smelling leaves, which was also used by one of our cats as a vantage point for ripping into passers by.

The raspberries that grew in the backyard, and the reason for this post, because yesterday I bought a punnet of raspberries from the market, and they tasted exactly like the ones growing in Liverpool Street, which I’ve never experienced before, even though I’ve eaten copious amounts of raspberries over the years.

James doesn’t seem to be as insane about the whole house thing as me. Maybe he just hides it better - or is happy to let me take the heat for all the insanity, I’m not sure. Little Miss M can’t wait ’til we move to a new house. She’ll still be living here part time, but she views it all as an adventure. Maybe I need to take a leaf out of her book …

Today I’m loving: Josh and Ria’s new(er) house, which although what you’ve just read might not make it seem as though I believe it, was honestly worth the old one getting sold. Honestly!

Yesterday we went to the market with Harry and Mieke as usual. While we were having coffee, I regaled them with the tale of the sweet little mouse, and noticed them exchanging looks. I thought it was due to a hatred of rodents, but Harry told me they’d had an encounter with that very mouse the night before.

They have three cats, and they’d all been going insane over the mouse. Nina, who once feral (but was lured into being a pet by Harry and copious amounts of cat food) was carrying him in her mouth, but was finally “convinced” to drop him. Mr Whiskers ran under the couch, under Mieke’s handbag, and was finally captured in a takeaway container and put outside the front door by Harry. Thus making his way into my garden, and hiding near my front door for me to find and keep in a second takeaway container until he was well enough to return outside.

I love the idea of two people in such close proximity both saving the same tiny creature. And I love the idea I’m not the only one who’s such a softy. That mouse earned some spectacular karma, and it’s nice to have had a hand in it.