I recently survived my annual migration to the land of politicians and porn, otherwise known as Canberra (or my favourite; Holy Fucking Mother Why Is It So Fucking Cold?!?) in order to partake in the glory that is Floriade. Which I did. For 2 hours, give or take. 

What can I say about this years' Floriade? Not much, really.

I love gardens, please don't think I'm some yuppie/hipster/apartment-living-flake. I have the greatest respect for the designers and horticulturalist and every single person deigned with the creation and upkeep of that huge-ass garden. But. Is it really necessary to have ugly (wait, let me repeat so you can truly appreciate it) UHHHH-GULY teatowels, aprons, postcards, fake flowers, caps, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera with the logo emblazoned in glitter? GLITTER I tell you! Tacky! 

I thank the gods of good taste and reason for stopping the organisers from adding more souvenir stalls. One ghastly abomination is enough, thanks.

So, on to the rest of my holiday. Well, the National Museum is still epic, the National Art Gallery is still awe-inspiring and I still won't bother to visit either of the Parliament Houses, old or new. The idea of them makes me sleepy.

The Film and Sound Archives are a lot less impressive than I remember.

And Telstra Tower? Become one with technology already!!!! Put an ATM in, include EFTPOS, get a psychic to view my bank account to prove I can afford to go up the fucking lift, ANYTHING!!! Just, for the love of chips don't make me drive all the way up that fucking hill (because my car hates hills, and I don't like making her do things she doesn't want to do) AND THEN have a little sign INSIDE the foyer telling me of your inability to take modern payment methods. Jeez.

It's raining. I'm about to explode in happiness, it's raining mother-lovers! And I think I'm falling for someone.

Am I the only one who thinks the bigger the life news, the less there is to say about it? Probably.