2004-08-20 at 8:06 p.m.

This morning found me walking through the early morning mist, heading to work. Suddenly, about twenty metres ahead of me, a kangaroo jumped out of the bushes, bounded across the road, was nearly run down by a truck, leapt clear of the road and then bounced away*.

It was at that precise moment that I realised for the first time, with startling clarity, that I did in fact live in a small country town.

(I've also realised (with startling clarity, just for form's sake) how difficult it is to find so many synonyms for the word 'jumped').

For the first time in my life, I'm suffering from a distinct lack of Fabulous.

To truly understand what I'm going through, you need to understand this - I'm a Fag Hag. Pure and simple. Through most of my teens and early twenties, I have enjoyed the friendship of men who prefer to 'swab the poopdeck'. In high school, it was my friend Nath. He ticked all the boxes - attractive (if mildly effeminate), musical theatre enthusiast, smelled good, wore nice shoes. He was even gentlemanly enough to squire me to the year 12 formal.

(This is us at said formal, back when we were both in our late teens. Note how both the dress and hairstyle make me look something like a Jane Austen heroine, but without the steely resolve and witty repartee. Also note that I was much thinner back then. I still have that damn dress- it's the most expensive garment I've ever owned, and my chances of fitting back into it someday are basically bupkus.)

There is no better man to escort you to a formal event than a gay man. You don't have to remind him not to wear white sports socks with his black shoes, you don't have to keep dragging him away from the bar, he'll most likely show up bearing a corsage or gift, and he can dance. Sweet Lord 'o Mercy, the man can dance. At our formal, the rest of our year were lined up behind Nath and me in all the pre-choreographed dances, watching us intently to see how each dance was done**.

When I went to university, my quota of Fabulous went undiminished. I was doing a classical music course. Half the students, lecturers, staff, and assorted hangers on were gay, or at least open to interpretation. While none of them ever became a really close friend, I was certainly friendly enough with a few gay men that I could comment freely on their rainbow striped formal wear, or compliment them on their extremely fashionable hair.

This year, living (as I have mentioned previously) in a small country town, the story has been different. My line of work doesn't bring me into contact with a lot of people who aren't either children or the parents of said children. But, to be honest, I wasn't missing the Fabulous much. Until recently.

Recently, they brought in the dancers for 'Annie'. One of them is a young guy who, besides being one of the best dancers I've ever seen, has stylish purple hair and owns knee high, fuzzy purple ugh boots.

Okay, maybe I'm getting a bit stereotypical here. I have absolutely no evidence other than the above (dancer, nice hair, good taste in shoes) to bring to me believe that this boy is gay. And maybe he's not. But he's certainly checking enough boxes to make me crave a Fabulous Fix.

Are there any men out there willing to discuss the merits of Viggo Mortensen's arse?

In other news, I recently bought myself a digital camera.

Be prepared for many pointless, nonsensical, badly taken photographs here in the weeks to come!

*You think I'm making this up, don't you? It's all true.

**Or maybe they were staring at our arses.