2002-11-29 at 10:33 p.m.

Yesterday marked the end of an era.

Ricci's Bitchies are now set to graduate.

Confused? I'll explain.

My piano teacher's name is Mr. Ricci. (Pronounced 'Ritchie'). A while ago- at least a year, but I'm not completely sure exactly how long ago- Jordan, Mr. Ricci's other third-year piano student, coined the phrase 'Ricci's Bitchies' to collectively describe Mr. Ricci's students.

"We should make T-Shirts!" he remarked, on more than one occasion.

I would wholeheartedly agree, and then we'd both forget about it again.

This time, however, things were different. I, the Original Bitchie, and Jordan, the Unofficial Head Bitchie, were playing our final recitals. The time had come to act.

So, I made the T-Shirts. One for each of us. Both of them read, predictably enough-

I wanted to add another caption- something along the lines of 'It's like Charlie's Angels, but with more facial hair' but ran out of time and space.

At Jordan's recital last night, I proudly wore my T-Shirt into the auditorium. Mr. Ricci saw it, grinned widely, and urged me to show it to all the members of the faculty who were present.

They all thought it was great.

Jordan's recital, by the way, went off fantastically. My response when I saw him, immediately afterwards-

"Holy Jumped-Up Jesus in a Sidecar, Jordan! Fuck!"

His response-

"I think I beat you". Said with a wide, self-satisfied grin on his face.

Yes, Jordan. I know this. You know this. You didn't have to bring it up and rub it in my face, you bastard!

Ahem.

My friend Peter, who plays the organ, also had his final recital last night. And, in the spirit of fairness, friendship, and taking the piss, I made him a shirt, too-

He got a kick out of that.

After all the recitals and such were done, we headed down to the pub to partake of liquid merriment.

Much liquid merriment.

But well earned liquid merriment, I think.

Which brings us to a little sub-story, entitled-

While out last night, feeling happy and at peace with the world (although the ground did sometimes appear to be lurching alarmingly) I went to get some money out of the ATM. I stuck in my card, and (correctly) entered my PIN number.

What the fuck?

I tried punching random buttons. I tried yelling. I even tried kicking the wall below the machine. Not surprisingly, these tactics were not very successful.

This morning, feeling rather seedy, I tried phoning the bank.

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHH!

Finally, I decided to walk to the bank and find out what the hell was going on.

The clerk there looked me up on the computer. Then she rang several other branches. Then she rang the Bathurst branch, where I originally set up the account, years and years ago.

"We have no idea why the machine took your card. Sorry. We can't get the card back, so I've ordered you a new one... the teller at Bathurst says she went to school with you, by the way."

"Was her name Charissa?"

"Yep, that was her."

It's a small world after all...

Long story short- I have no keycard, no convenient access to my funds, and the bank has screwed me over right royally.

Hate. So. Very. Very. Much. Right. Now.

Actually, right now I should be at a party- the Con 'end of year, so lets all get horribly trashed' party. However, I have no way of getting there, and since it's been pissing down rain all day, I'm not about to walk. I'm glad the weather has finally broken and it's started raining, though. I was getting sick of the soles of my shoes spontaneously melting into the carpet.

Its sort of nice to get a night to myself, though. I've spent it reading, eating Italian food, and listening to Bart�k String Quartets.

I'm a really, really boring person.

And now, for your enjoyment, more excerpts from

(I find it interesting that a book written a hundred years ago is still so startlingly relevent. Either Ambrose Bierce was ahead of his time, or society really hasn't changed much in the last century. I suspect the latter.)

IMPIETY, n. Your irreverence towards my deity.

INFANCY, n. The period of our lives when, according to Wordsworth, "Heaven lies about us". The world begins lying about us pretty soon afterward.

KILL, v. t. To create a vacancy without nominating a successor.

LANGUAGE, n. The music with which we charm the serpents guarding another's treasure.

LECTURER, n. One with his hand in your pocket, his tongue in your ear and his faith in your patience.

MAD, adj. Affected with a high degree of intellectual independence.

MISFORTUNE, n. The kind of fortune that never misses.

OCEAN, n. A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for man- who has no gills.

PEDIGREE, n. The known part of the route from an arboreal ancestor with a swim bladder to an urban descendant with a cigarette.

PIANO, n. A parlour utensil for subduing the impenitent visitor. It is operated by depressing the keys of the machine and the spirits of the audience.

PILGRIM, n. A traveller who is taken seriously.

Heh. Words are fun.