How to make a Tardis costume in 15 hrs

HOW TO MAKE A TARDIS COSTUME IN 15 HRS OUT OF A CARDBOARD BOX
Warning: vague instructions.
*captured on iPhone 4

–

Day 1 – Make the frame
Duration: 8pm – 1am (5hrs)

STEP 1: Slit the box to make doors.
STEP 2: Cut 3 squares/rectangles out of each door.

STEP 3: Cut out the bottom of the box and stick the cardboard on the back of the square/rectangle holes.
STEP 4: Stick a strip of cardboard around the top edges of the box.
*Tip: Use lots and lots and lots of sticky tape
STEP5: Go to sleep.

–

DAY 2: Cut out bits & base coat it
Duration: 8pm-11pm (3 hrs)

STEP 6: Cut out a square for your head and 2 rectangles for your arms.
STEP 7: Take out your frame in the dead of night and paint a white base coat.
STEP8: Leave it to dry and go to sleep.

–

DAY 3: Paint your Tardis blue
Duration:  10pm – 12am (2 hrs)

STEP 9: Paint your box blue.
*Note: if  your paint is the shit kind from Hot Dollar, it will take a few coats and many tears of frustration.
STEP 10: Go to sleep.

–

DAY 4: Stick on windows, door handle, and signs.
Duration: 11am – 4pm (5 hrs)

STEP 11: Make 8 windows and stick 2 on each side of your box.

STEP 12: Print out 4 POLICE BOX signs and stick those around too.
*Note: The Police Box font is Gill Sans
STEP 13: Print out the Police Telephone sign on the front door and stick that on.
STEP 14: Glue gun on your door handle
*Note: If  you are too frugal to buy a decent looking door handle, settle for the oddly shaped, swirly handles offered at Hot Dollar for $2.50

STEP14: Make a dodgy, wobbly, Tardis lantern/lamp/light.

Step 15: Wear your Tardis.

Step 16: Find your Doctor and companion.

STEP 17: Travel through time, solve mysteries and save Earth heaps.

–

Please enjoy this picture of a delicious loaf of banana bread I baked.

Oh my god yes Oh my god

Explored the new Westfield that opened on Pitt St mall during my lunch break. It was like walking into a completely different country – a country absorbed with glass, bright lights and super shiny surfaces (e.g. Some asian country. Let us say China). It was swarming with curious corporate workers all dressed in their black suits and black slacks and black skirts, scuttling up and down and around and about like ants on roadkill.

To be honest, I felt sort of intimidated in there. My wallet was already slicing wounds in itself as I walked past stores like, Hugo Boss, GAP, Gucci and Salvatore Ferragamo (ZARA was announced to be ‘coming soon’ whee!) It didn’t really help that I was wearing one of my yucker second-hand clothing ensembles made up of a lumpy patchwork jumper, lacy stockings and woven ballet slippers. The only thing polite I had on was my skirt from Kookai (50% off, on sale, bar-gain!). Except my glasses are Salvatore Ferragamo, but they don’t really count since Medicare paid for them. Against all the smart corporate workers, I felt like a Hobbit among elves.

A Loss So Bitter

Typed ‘sandwich’ into Google Images and imagined biting into each appetising sandwich picture I scrolled past.

I almost cried.

P.E.

I feel as if I am running at full speed around and around in circles.
But, I am more relaxed than ever.
I’m exhausted.

Now that I think about it

Retrospecting my last entry, in particular point no. 2, I’ve actually realised I reserve this one house in my mental image bank for certain novel genres or scenarios. It’s usually horror, suspense or glum sounding type moods. I don’t think I’ve ever actually been to/inside this house physically (perhaps I saw it on TV, who knows) but it comes up every so often when I read of an old, miserable, cottage-like house with a woman living in it.

Last I remember envisioning it was when I was reading Nunc Dimittis, a short story by Roald Dahl, and the protagonist had just entered Gladys Ponsonby’s house. I immediately constructed this cottage-like thing for her residence, somewhere I had never been before, but knew extremely comfortably.

I think I also built it for someone (probably some old lady) in The Doll Who Ate His Mother before Nunc Dimittis. Before that, I built it for several character’s in some of Diana Wynne Jone’s books. Before that, I built it for a female sex-crazed, religious fanatic suspect in Echo by Minette Walters. I had also built it for Carrie, in Carrie by Stephen King.

I don’t really remember any further back because my memory is like a nursing home patient’s.

Either way, I know this house almost as accurately as an architect. The rooms and stairs branch off from the long, main corridor. You will see:

• Living room first and then the rumpus room to your right on the bottom floor. The living room always has a fireplace even when I try to erase it and worn but plump cushiony seats.
• A large mahogany mantlepiece or vanity sits on the left side of the main corridor wall, directly facing the entrance to the living room. It has a mirror in it’s centre so that guests may check their appearance upon entering the front door.
• A few small pictures line the left wall (usually 2), leading to a flight to narrow stairs to the upper level. The stairs are kind of opposite the entrance to the rumpus.
• The main corridor opens up to an area that is dining room and kitchen in one. The kitchen is on the left side while the dining table sits on the right. On the right wall of the room, there is a medium sized window. There’s also a large sliding door which leads to the back of the house on the opposite side to where you first enter.
• A door connected to the kitchen opens up to the laundry.
• The floor is timber and there is a long faded Persian runner rug leading from the front door and stopping somewhere between the living room and rumpus.

I would also briefly describe the upstairs (3-4 rooms and carpeted) but I’m sort of tired. This little blueprint is forever stamped into my imagination and I’m pretty sure I can draw a rough sketch of it after much struggle and frustration. After all, there are so many more finer details to mention, like the exact density of the dust and the constant shade of dark maroon overshadowing the place and the scent of foreboding and expectation sagging heavily in the air…I don’t think any physical expression I attempt will do it justice.

Things I’ve realised

1) I have been reading Kafka On The Shore on the train rides to and from work. Sometimes the protagonist talks about masturbating and getting hard-ons and although I’m 99% sure no one is sneakily reading over my shoulder and imposing one hell of a judgement, I still feel really self-conscious.

2) Whenever I read descriptions of houses, apartments, duplexes or any form of living quarters, I semiconsciously envisualise my previous homes. Just say, there’s a description of a quality two bedroom unit, lavishly furnished with art deco furniture. I mentally see our crummy two bedroom apartment in Meadowbank with some chairs and mantelpieces shoved carelessly about. I even keep the original mossy green carpet. Same applies to the duplex in Carlingford and the current house in Eastwood. Even if I’m reading about a lounge room in an amazing quadriple storey, nouveau mansion on Mars, I still imagine my own lounge.

3) Sometimes food falls out of my mouth when I open it to stuff more food inside.

4) Raw avocado’s (eg. in a salad) tastes heaps better than warmish, semi-cooked avocado’s (eg. in toasted sandwiches). But I suppose that’s a subjective matter.

5) I sometimes do not think 1 million dollars is a lot of money.

Do you feel this way too?

Make those bodies sing

The elevators in the building where I work have these rectangular screen things which display a variety of curiosities such as quick advertisements and news highlights, along with the level which you are on/going past. The news highlights change daily, but the advertisement’s mostly stay the same. A few months ago, I realised that a continuous ad promoting healthy snacking via bananas from The Australian Banana Growers Association had a stunning mistake.

“Who’s tummy’s rumbling?” it said in a texta-ed scrawl above a banana strategically placed to look like a smiley face.

Ping-pong! Boo-boo in sight!

I remember doing a double take when the ad first flashed past. By the time my extremely lethargic and snail imitating brain realised that something was wrong with what I had just seen, the 5 second ad was gone and I had to wait another three floors before it was played again.

“Who’s tummy’s rumbling?” the banana ad asked, like Winnie the Pooh would if he weren’t so darn selfish.

I stared hard at the ad, my brain contorting and straining in confusion. Who’s? That’s not right, right? Who is tummy’s rumbling? What sort of English is this? They wouldn’t produce an ad before editing the copy, right? Did the editor die or something? It’s not some special and purposely bemusing rule that I am not aware of in the English language, like silent letters is it? Is it? Is it? Oh god, I’m stupid.

I had to go on msn and confirm with Jelli that yes, “Who’s tummy’s rumbling?” is grammatically incorrect.

That banana advertisement stayed unamended for a good three months (guesstimate) assaulting all elevator passengers with it’s sinful error. I didn’t see it for a while, but just last week, it played again when I was travelling up in the morning and I realised that they’d finally fixed it.

“Whose tummy’s rumbling?” it displays now, almost guiltily.

Apparently someone within the ad agency or The Australian Banana Growers Association, had pointed out that something was not quite right with their ad that was being shown every three minutes to hundreds and hundreds of corporate workers every day. I can imagine the editor laughing nervously and wringing his hands (yes, his. this editor is a middle aged man with a sizeable belly, quite tall with dark hair and a slightly anxious disposition) when he realises the mistake he made the mistake of over looking. “Shit!” I imagine him muttering, “I hope no one noticed!”

Charmed

Was listening to The Smiths while attempting to do some work. How Soon Is Now? played and I was immediately reminded of the good ole days in the early years of high school when Charmed was one of the best freaking shows in existence.

I am the son
and the heir
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar.
I am the son and the heir
of nothing in particular.

You shut your mouth.
How can you say,
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved.
Just like everybody else does.

To be honest, I barely even remember what Charmed was about (Prue, Piper, Phoebe, Paige. Witch sisters. Fighting evil, sexy and delicious looking demons. Ka-blamo.) But I do remember recording episodes I’d foresee I’d miss on the trusty old VCR. My god, I feel so bloody elderly talking about VCR’s.

Watch things on VCR’s,
with me and talk about big love.
I think we’re superstars,
you say you think we are the best thing.
But you, you just know, you just do.

The Parrots

By the time Mary O’Hara had finished filling out the last consignment note, the space invasion was already fledging; and nobody had even noticed yet. In fact, the invasion was so well disguised, the whole world seemed to go about their own business and only the most bored and unfulfilled persons remarked upon the odd formation of the clouds.

“That cloud looks like a really large fried egg,” said Jocelyn James, fellow bored switchboard operator of Mary O’Hara, “Look at how the sun’s rays slice through the white swirly bits. They’re almost like spotlights. It’s so pretty.”

Mary took a brief glance out the windows of the reception area. The sky was indeed very pretty. A soft peachy pink had seeped into the usual motley blue and was spreading with the rolling of the clouds, painting the sky a warm, glowing coral. Bright orange rays shone through the glass and bathed the foyer with warm light. This is probably what it looks like inside a womb when someone shines a torch at it, thought Mary, squinting through the orange hue.

Not quite immediately, but neither entirely slowly, Mary noticed that smaller clouds were beginning to gather at a larger central cloud – the cloud Jocelyn had described as a fried egg. The smaller clouds seemed to be drawn towards the central cloud, stretching out long and thin before wrapping around the fried egg cloud like spun sugar. Rays of light still beamed through to the earth. Weird, maybe it’s going to storm soon, Mary thought, gazing at the spinning cloud and wondered if her office umbrella would fit into her handbag.

“Mary, check it out! The fried egg cloud is turning into a boiled egg cloud!” Jocelyn exclaimed in fascination. Sometimes, Jocelyn became excited over small things.

“There could be a spacecraft hidden in there and those sunrays are actually their searchlights,” Mary replied in mock seriousness, thinking she might as well humour dear Jocelyn. There wasn’t anything more interesting to do as a switchboard operator at the Department of Interplanetary Warfare and Disaster Relief anyway.

Jocelyn put her hand over her mouth and gave a little gasp of understanding. Mary smiled humourlessly and watched the time on her screen. Two minutes until half past five. Two minutes until she could go home, make dinner for her fiancee, nag some at him and call it a day.

It was one minute until half five when the phone rang. Mary pressed the answer icon on her projected keyboard and spoke into her headset.

“Welcome to the Department of Interplanetary Warfare and Disaster Relief. You’re speaking with Mary. How may I assist you?”

“Good god, finally! A person! Don’t you dare put me on hold, Mary!” a male voice shouted in her ear. Mary winced. It was Professor Larkwaithe from Research and Communications, two floors above. Although fitted with a remarkable brain and startling good looks, Richard Larkwaithe had a problem with volume control. “I need to talk to General Du Preez immediately! It’s an emergency!”

“Oh! Hello Richard! How has your day been? ” Mary replied with false cheer. For the past two months Larkwaithe had been calling the switchboard demanding to speak to authority concerning some ‘emergencies’. Mary suspected he just needed an excuse to talk to someone who spoke with words rather than numbers.

“Just put me through, sweetheart,” Larkwaithe said-yelled.

“One moment, please.” Mary tried the extension to General Du Preez’s personal assistant. When no one answered after six rings, she went back to Larkwaithe.

“Sorry, Richard. General Du Preez isn’t answering his extension. Would you like to leave a message or t -.”

Larkwaithe cut Mary off with another wince inducing howl, “This is a global emergency, woman! No, I don’t want to leave a message. Put me through to someone with power – Jekyll? Underwood? It is of utmost importance that the defence force is made aware of the situation and for some godforsaken reason, Du Preez and Hachette and both their PA’s have turned their bloody mobiles off! I’ve got to tell someone that we’ve detected movement from the Parrots!”

Mary frowned. The Parrots were eliminated months ago. Even she, a person who rarely kept up to date with the worldly events, knew that. By God, the company she was working for made sure of it!

“That can’t be right, Rich,” she said, “The Parrot’s were defeated after the fall of Volynski-6 and Alsteen-8. Besides, a resurgence this fast is virtually impossible. I mean, the whole world physically saw – well on TV, I suppose – the entire Parrot Fleet retreating from Earth. From our whole galaxy, actually.  Wouldn’t it take lightyears and lightyears for them to repair themselves and then lightyears and lightyears more just to travel back to the Milky Way?”

By then, Jocelyn was eavesdropping heavily onto the conversation. “Who is it?” she mouthed when Mary glanced at her. Jocelyn took an incoming call.

“Richard,” Mary mouthed back, pointing at the ceiling and wincing again when Richard hollered at her about making rubbish assumptions from office gossip.

“Sorry Richard,” Mary said, cutting Larkwaithe off when a light on her monitor flashed green, “I’ve got another call coming in. If I see General Du Preez come by I’ll be sure to inform him about the Parrots, okay?”

Larkwaithe’s voice lowered into an irritated growl. “Fine,” he said, “I’m going to keep trying his mobile. And watch the sky if you don’t believe me. There’s definitely some sort of Parrot activity in that cloud that looks like fairy floss and it’s driving me mad because I have no idea why we weren’t able to detect them before now. My charts are going bloody bonkers…”

“Good luck,” Mary said and hung up to receive the incoming call.

“Welcome to the Department of Interplaneta –.” She was cut off by the gravelly and permanently angry voice of General Du Preez.

“Mary, I want you to stay calm and listen carefully to what I say,” growled General Du Preez in her ear, “Don’t ask me where I am, just listen.I want you to shut down the foyer and launch Code Yellow.”

“Blast! Not again,” Mary hissed, “I thought we took care of it last time!”

“I thought we did too, but apparently we might be at war again.”

“Bother, and I just packed away all the guns for the summer as well! Did Richard get through to you?” Mary rapidly flicked the switches and unplugged the chords from her operator desk.

“No, but his assistant did,” General Du Preez replied, “Anyway, I need to attend some emergency meeting at the Whitehouse. Goodbye and good luck, Mary.”

He hung up and Mary swore.

“Jocelyn!” Mary called, “We’re going Code Yellow.”

When Jocelyn didn’t respond, Mary clicked her tongue and started to walk over to where the other operator was, standing strangely still in front of the window.

“Jocelyn, what –.” Mary paused a few steps behind. There was something eerie, something unsettling about the way Jocelyn stood there in front of the glass, head tilted up towards the sky.

“Mary…” she whispered, “You’d better take a look at this…”

Mary stepped cautiously towards the other woman

“Jocelyn, what is it?”

“Look at it. Just look at it.” Jocelyn’s voice shook.

Mary kept her gaze fixated on Jocelyn. She couldn’t bring herself to look up. A complicated knot had coiled itself in her stomach and she just couldn’t. But I must, Mary thought angrily and looked up. Sunlight hit her face and burned her vision for a moment before she blinked the spots away and focused on the spectacle before her.

The large cloud shaped like a fried egg had grown exponentially larger and rounder over the last fifteen minutes. It seemed to be drawing in more strips of cloud from greater distances and swirling them around and around, almost as if it were digesting. The cloud was larger than any other Mary had ever seen before. It blocked out the sun completely and made everything glow a dusty orange.

But it wasn’t the cloud’s grandeur or the speed of its growth that had both the women frozen in front the window in horror. There was an enormous crack, slicing vertically down the cloud and through it, one gigantic, dazzling ray of sun beamed out and hit the earth. The cloud hovered over the city like a humungous split piñata. Only the small objects that fell out of it was not candy but –

“Bodies,” Jocelyn breathed, “Human bodies.”

White, limp and lifeless, hundreds of naked human bodies fell at impossibly average pace, thudding lightly as they landed. It was gruesome and horrendous, yet somehow…entrancing.

It was only when the sharp blast of a gunshot splintered through the air did Mary blink and tear her eyes away. She blinked again and noticed the noise from outside. The entire city was in chaos.

“Come on,” Mary said, pulling Jocelyn away from the window. Jocelyn stumbled a few steps back but still stood, fixated.

“Come on,” Mary repeated and slapped Jocelyn across the face.

Jocelyn gasped and her eyes began to water. She stared down at the shorter woman for a moment before collapsing to her knees and throwing up.

Code Yellow. Code Yellow. I must remember that. Mary thought as she ran briskly to the utilities room, swiping her employee card and turning a sharp right when the door slid open. She swiped her employee card again across a well-camouflaged interface, which opened up to a weapons storage. She took out a Slijper .47 raygun, a LMG, a Glock .19 pistol and cartridge of tablet sized screen bombs.

“Guess we’re working overtime,” Mary said, passing the LMG to a shaking and reeking Jocelyn. Jocelyn smiled weakly, strapped on the LMG and took several deep breaths.

“Foyer shutdown,” Mary said into her headset and pressed a tiny purple button on the side. She removed it from her head and put on her jacket, placing the screen bombs in her pocket. On one side the Glock .19 pistol sat in its holster on her belt and she gripped the Slijper .47 in her hand.

Finally, she took out her umbrella from her top drawer and placed it into her handbag.