New Theme

Tried Matala last night.  No, it’s not Masala, but the Matala theme.  Tonight, trying out Twenty Ten for size.  Decisions decisions.  It’s enough to turn a girl to Masala in the bottle.  If she were likely to imbibe.

I really want a red header, for that mysteeeerious redhead vibe, and the ordinary mysterious vibe, but am impressed with the white background which makes my posts devamastaingly[sic] clear to read.  However, will have to learn how to rejig the header for a more captivating picture or colour block.

In red.

Yellow is so last night!

c.  A Room of Heroine 2012.

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A Whiter Shade of Pale

Something I have been thinking about for a long time.  Time to change the colour of our day.  As much as I really like the white text on dark grey background and the whole mysterious red header – most suitable for a red head!  it is time to bring some font contrast to A Room of Heroine.

So after I have yet another squizz at the WordPress themes on offer, these – interestingly enough, black and red – martial arts shoes are going to take me out into the sunshine down the hill.

Who knows what brighter, yet mysterious layout awaits the eye?


c.  A Room of Heroine 2012.

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BRIDESMAIDING 101 Top Tips for a Proper Bridesmaid


Top Tips for a Proper Bridesmaid

  1.  Don’t tell the bride something looks foul until you’ve tried it on. Chances are it’ll look a lot better on you than it will on the shop shelf or hanger.  Whether it’s foul or fair, you’re probably going to pay for it, so give it a go before writing it off as the tacky pair of shoes from hell.  Something that starts off looking trashy may well prove the coute de rootistance at the reception.*  If, for example, the sales assistant volunteers that she walked in the same style of shoes from The Rocks to Darling Harbour without breaking out into a blister at her work Xmas party, rest assured that the comfortable fit you enjoy in the shop will last an entire wedding day no problems.
  2.  When the bride asks you seven months before the wedding what colour her roses should be, don’t tell her to wait and see what’s in season.  In fact, this should be rule number one.  Brides need to know hues and shades and tinges months in advance.  They say this is because they need to co-ordinate bridesmaid outfits, and handbags and other crap like that, but really, it’s so they have time to surreptitiously plant design seeds into the groom’s side of the business into picking the right colour ties and cummerbunds.  Where the Kyoto Protocol is only concerned with saving planet Earth from global warming between here and eternity, brides have one mission: to save Their Special Day (T.S.D.).  As you embark upon your pre-wedding journey, you will realise that The Bride (T.B.) is the boss of everything.
  3.  When The Bride asks for your opinion upon the colour of chair sash colours at the reception venue, and what you think will complement the dining room nautical-themed carpet, don’t throw a hissy fit and expostulate, “For god’s sake who the hell’s gunna notice – they’re chair sash covers for goodness sake!” Remember the invisible rule that renders all other rules insignificant – only the bride is allowed to throw a hissy fit, and if it’s prompted by a materialistic, superficial reason that she too would otherwise, in more rational times, ie, Pre-Bridal (P.B.), not give a shit about, this is perfectly normal, and par for the course of Briding.
  4.  Bridesmaids should not attempt to co-produce short films long distance whilst attending to their Maiden of Honour duties on the weekend of the wedding.   Your stomach may be churning at a frightening rate of knots as your paltry film budget suffers for your art, but if your focus is anywhere but decorating the tables at the reception centre with the bride and her family the day before the big day, you will fall short of being A Proper Bridesmaid.  She won’t even need to say it.  The artistic nerves in your inside will spontaneously [sic] into waves of guilt that you have not been A Proper Bridesmaid.
  5.  Bridesmaids should refrain from playing hopscotch up the church aisle during wedding rehearsals, even if the vicar does laugh.  This stresses brides out, particularly brides whose sole M. of H. and E. (Maiden of Honour and Everything) has also been so wrapped up in filmmaking that she has neglected to turn up to the reception venue to decorate tables and cannot remember the running order of the ceremony.
  6.  A Proper Bridesmaid will refrain from being politically correct and telling her bride-to-be off for being sacrilegious and shallow.   This is for special cases, where an atheist bride takes her lapsed ex-schoolboy Roman Catholic father into the church, to point out how the stained glass windows, featuring saints, in the vestibule co-ordinate with her traditional wedding theme, and the father decides to start reciting long forgotten catechisms and reminding everyone of how he was once a good little altar boy.  Art and beauty have everything to do with celebrating love.
  7.  If the bridesmaid has a different spiritual calling to the bride and groom, she will likely as not find that her spiritual beliefs are small bickies in comparison with the love she has for true love.  The old maxim, when in Rome do as the Romans do, for a half hour wedding service helps.  Besides, there is a rock solid chance that the marriage celebrant will prattle on about all sorts of positive vibes about marital commitment and love that transcend the tenets of any organised religion, even if several centuries ago, you would have been burned at the stake by the marriage celebrant’s predecessor.
  8.  If the photographer offers you cheap champagne out of the esky in the boot of his car while s/he does the formal portraits out in the hot sun, just drink it.  The bride, despite more than likely knowing nothing about photography or set design, will be too busy telling the photographer how to stage her/his photographs and run her/his camera, in order to catch the eyeball-scorching sunlight in a halo against the back of her dress, to drink.  This also has the run-on effect of warming her thirst engines so that she will be ready to harass you for a drink at the reception.
  9.  Don’t think your duties at the reception begin and end with holding the bride’s handbag while she and the groom welcome the guests inside.  She may never have been married or even a bridesmaid before, but if you don’t know that you should know to fetch her drink from the bar, there is the distinct likelihood that she will become tetchy, as well as thirsty, and tell you off… discreetly or otherwise.  Your bride will depend on you to know your bridesmaid business, even if she thinks she doesn’t.
  10.  Bridesmaids should always size up the available groomsmen.  Even if you don’t get lucky with one of them after the wedding, there is a pretty good chance you could get lucky with their dessert.  Which, after the exhausting day you’ve just had, absolutely justifies eating a second one.  Suggest to the bride that she order a fussy, girly sweet that no self-respecting Groom’s Bloke (G.B.) could have the sweet tooth to handle, such as Pavlova, chocolate puddings and tarts.  A Proper Bridesmaid knows it is vitally important to line her stomach before she hits the dance floor with all the other tarts… well, the ones in satin.
  11.  Always accompany the bride to the toilet, even if it’s just to gossip about the hot waiter.  Whether she needs you to hold seventy metres of tulle up while she plants one on the dunny, or pin her back fat back into the corset she’s never fitted into, it is an unspoken rule that the bride always goes to the dunny in a posse of satin, silk, and perfume.
  12.  When it’s time to dance with your Allotted Groomsman (A.G.) during the bridal waltz,  realise that it will never be as bad as social dancing for P.E. in Year Ten, and the groomsman may well be just as nervous as you.  It is only one dance out of the rest of your life, and with a bit of luck, he will be so concerned about his Groomly Duties (G.D.s), that he will kindly offer to fetch you a drink from the bar.
  13.  When your bride sister or friend says she could not have made it through her special day and months of preparation without you, say thank you.  You never know – one day you could be in need of an experienced Matron of Honour, one who understands your bridal needs perfectly.

*Coute de rootistance.  For those of you not from the Land Down Under, this means the pinnacle of ones shagging opportunities.

c. A Room of Heroine 2012. Continue reading

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Welcome to No Bull Film Reviews

G’Day Possums,

I am officially going to pull my finger out and start sharing some no bull film reviews with you, especially as I’ve seen some great films lately, take generally inconsequential interest in film reviews. 

This will include films I truly like, and others I want to pick a bone with.  If they help you decide whether or not you would like to watch the films at the pictures, or on DVD, just remember that I will probably not be as rude online about the ones I’m annoyed with as I would be if we were chatting face to face, and utterly effusive about the ones I really like:  either of which may be of generally inconsequential interest to you as a film audience member.

But deep down, I enjoy going to the pictures, and hope that you do too.


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Ina room of heroine ona broomofheroin. Censorship.

Ina room of heroine ona broomofheroin.

Just jokes.

Fingers got away with me. I meant to write ….a broomof heroine.

See how we censor ourselves?  Edit.   I could also have written ….abroomofheron.  I see herons above a damn.  I mean, a dam.  Truly, I did.  And they were beautiful.  As was the heat of the day.

Freedom of expression is sometimes the first step toward censorship.

Without freedom of expression, censorship would have no legs,no feet, no fools to parlay.

In parlour games?

Parle vous sincere?

Even in this post, this small piece of writing,  I find that with every fling of the fingers (or fling of fingers)on the keyboard, I delete some letter, some word, exchange it for another.  I burst,upon occasion, with inspiration.  No, not burst.  But burgeon (please excuse my breaking my rule of despising nouns abused as verbs) with thoughts, slings and frings of words, ideas, pictures, visions, and they SHOULD come out on paper, but I don’t always put them to account on paper.

Sometimes, it is the vision of the words, not only (initial idea: ‘nor only’) the meaning coming after, the object of the vision, the impression, the fancy, that …. see, I’ve just ditched a few words in a few seconds – compel me to put them down.

Let’s not get started (first idea: ‘me started’  oh no so egotistical exclamation mark had I a key that was not broken)  – now that I have censored those fleeting words, I have forgotten what the original idea of this sentence was.


Censorship: is often the destructive twin of expression.  Censorship is like an octopus that wraps itself around the utterance, an utterance, and swallows it and shits it out in some makeshift parody of creativity, of free-flowing ideas.

Censorship is: vision stuffed in a box and booted into a black abyss toward a billabong across a paddock which I remember and you do not, but if I were not inclined to go and put the kettle on, I might take the time to tell you about.

Censorship: wastes time.

Censorship:  You decide.

I am inspired.

And question where to begin.

Putting it on paper.

You decide what I mean by the iteration of those last two sentences.

c. A Room of Heroine 2011.

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When European Cinema Doesn’t Shine

I love going to the pictures. 

The only time I haven’t enjoyed the cinematic experience is the time a few years ago I convinced a couple of friends to see this Italian family draaaaaama where the characters did nothing but bitch, and fuck, and argue for the film’s duration. 

It was exhausting to listen to, exhausting to watch, and no amount of cute Italian hand gestures could make up for the fact that this film was exhausting to listen to and exhausting to watch.

For the first time in my personal cinema-going history, there was no choc top from heaven that could have stopped me from walking out.  And I never walk out of a film.  So I sat there, and hoped my friends wouldn’t say anything awful to me afterward.  Of course, when we walked out into the sunshine of Oxford St, I apologised for inviting them to see it.  This is something which I would never dream of doing.  Other people whinge and whine about films, but I love going to the pictures.

As for building the drama, the story up on screen couldn’t flatline any further in terms of dramatic dynamics.  In fact, if it had flatlined, I would not have noticed it.  It was a constant parade of four seasons in one emotional day.  And so much anger (the characters’, not mine).

One of the things screenwriter Billy Marshall Stoneking has to say about drama (and he has plenty to say) is that drama has to build and go somewhere.  It has to do something. I hope he doesn’t mind my quoting his writing on Dramatic Grammar:

A story’s power is proportional to its effectiveness in building and releasing energy in ways that are fresh, unexpected and thoroughly credible

When a story stops building energy, or is unable to effectively release it, the energy dissipates, which is another way of saying the story becomes undramatic.

You can join Billy on his hunt for truly dramatic storytelling at

Highly recommended if I do speak from experience.

Should I tell you the name of this film that altered my perception of cinema-going for all eternity?  No.  I have forgotten the name, and to be honest, I feel a bit mean slagging off the work of other artists.

But it was a growing experience.  I did learn something of storytelling value that afternoon.  It was naive of me to expect that a European film might, by sheer virtue of its being a European film, automatically provide a glowing cinematic experience.   It doesn’t mean diddly squat.

That’s the same as assuming that Australian films are broadly quirky, undramatic, or filled with horror.

Anyway, enjoy your choc tops, possums.


c. A Room of Heroine 2011.

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Back in first year uni, I thought suede was what Desert Boot uppers were made of.  I didn’t know it was a band too.

What was this ‘alternative’ music?  Alternative to what?  All I knew was the Top Forty, and listening to Friday Night Request Line.  I wasn’t that many years removed from a spiral perm and Roxette.   ‘She’s Got the Look’ wasn’t, I suppose now, that much different from Suede’s ‘She’s in Fashion.

It’s just that I was never in fashion.

I used to go blank on my city friends sometimes.  They never knew how desperately uncool I was.  Or perhaps they did and were too nice to tell me.

After all, one day when I wasn’t wearing a flanno (which I took to wearing out of homesickness, and ironically, never wore them so much as in the Big Smoke), I put on my best jumper and ribbon to ask out this nice older boy in my history tute, just before we went into a lecture.

He was so desperate to get out of going with me to a party that he actually went out and busted his leg playing soccer.  The full plaster cast and amnesia-about-being-asked-out combo.  Total blank on Monday after the game.  I was too shy to ask if he was still interested.  Not that I was selfish, but you know, it took a lot of being psyched up by the family I boarded with, and picking the right jumper and ribbon…

I stood there down the hill a bit from the history lecture hall, while one of my friends went on about some English band, Ride.  I should have known what that was about.  I mean, I couldn’t even sit on a horse long enough after it oninto a canter without trying to remember the stunt roll Mum told me about when I was a kid.  I knew enough about horses to know about a band called Ride.  Surely.  Yeah but nooooo, to paraphrase e of the great thinkers ofthe twenty-first century, Little Britain’s Vicky Pollard.

My friend enthused, her beautiful long dark hair and long skirt standing across from me, as she and our other friend gabbed on.  I stood there and realised that I had been left out of the cultural loop.

Where did you find this music?  Why had I never heard of it before?  What universe had I existed in?  I would never catch up.  I didn’t even especially like the Chili Peppers.

Sure I went to the Bar on the Hill on the occasional Thursday nights, and saw these great new Aussie bands play, but I didn’t collect music, and Triple J was new.  To me.  Not to the rest of the planet.  On the East coast, near the sea, where dreams are made in blue and green waves, not red ant hills.

Although I had not been in a dream world, not lived in one for nineteen years, that moment, standing on the hill at uni, felt as if I were coming out of one.  Not a sleep dream.  And I don’t even mean it wholly metaphorically.  I didn’t say anything.

Anyway, my friends knew that I was a country bumpkin from Broken Hill, but they never knew that it was a one FM radio station town, a station that I listened to sometimes on the wireless .   You know, back when a wireless was a wireless radio, and not something sticking out of the crack of a pair of skinny jeans worn by an arseless twat who has marginally more hair on his legs than I currently sport beneath my arms.  Well, up at the top of my arms and under a bit in a lovely warm hollow, and, if you wanted me to wave to you across the street, would stop traffic.  That’s how much I need to shave my underarms.  Who the hell invented that stuff?  Men.  So they could sell razors.  Bastards.

What is it with the pits?  They just grow so damned fast.  A girl doesn’t have time to daydream, procrastinate, create, and shave all in the one day.  No, she just gets a surprise in the shower when she washes her hair.  This is so taking me back to that dose of chicken pox I had when I was nineteen.  Man (pun intended), I could not shave under there for three months in case I knocked a pox off.

But you don’t want to know about my teen pox episode.  Well, you do, but I’ll save that for another post.

Anyway, so, I have been listening to Suede lately, on Youtoot, um, YouTubaclosis, no, YouTube.  It’s so… poppy, that may be it was never alternative.  Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about, even though, by now, I’ve heard them often enough.

Anyway, the beautiful thing is that my gang of uni friends and I may be grown up now, but I have a feeling that we all still love music.

And I suppose I know what the alternative is.


c.  A Room of Heroine 2011.

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