I’m writing this with eyes smarting. They’re doing controlled burning of bush across the state, nowhere near us, but the wind’s blowing the smoke down and it’s all through the air.
Anyway, last night I dreamed of gorgeous diva Szilveszter Szabo. He was ice skating, wearing his white damask Death costume from Elisabeth, and everything was going just fine, until he turned into a two-headed creature, like fetus baby, with a woman at his other end. Somehow he/they were still skating, despite not having any feet. I can’t remember how my mind represented that visually. I really had better not let myself develop a crush on this guy, since everything about him is in Hungarian. With an online dictionary I did manage to discover that he writes stories — or used to write them in school, anyway; I don’t know if he still does. Someone has put quite a few on a fansite. Well, I now know the Hungarian words for “the”, “a”, “how”, “where”, “great”, “willies”, and “radiator”. I have a dangerous urge to learn more. Last time this happened, I eneded up learning Japanese. But Hungarian looks quite a bit harder than Japanese, and I really should be learning Thai. I must find a Thai person to have a crush on. Maybe that kid from the gay bar would do?
But wait, the title of this post isn’t “fangirling”, it’s “The Chocolate Mill” — which is where we went yesterday, after persuading my mother that there is no sin in visiting a boutique chocolate factory then going to a pub rather than putting on a Sunday roast. Located just out of Daylesford, in a large straw bale building — impressive in itself, and which owners Jennifer Gregory and Chris Weippert built with their own hands — The Chocolate Mill uses high grade Belgian chocolate with all-natural fillings, containing fresh ingredients with no preservatives. The resulting short shelf life means that chocolates have to be sold on the premises, which hasn’t stopped the business doing extremely well. It was busy when we were there, both in the chocolate shop and the cafe. Naturally we had to buy a few chocolates, and I can say that yes, you really can taste the quality of both the chocolate and the fillings, especially those with fresh cream in them. The liqueur raisin was a particular delight, with a quite complex flavour, and just enough sweetness, but no more than enough — and good liqueur, so none of that sense of consuming cheap hooch tarted up with sugar that you get too often with alcochocs.
The main machines in their factory, which we watched through a window in the shop, all have names, like Black Betty the dark chocolate mixer and Mr T (the something or other). This is Fat Albert, the milk chocolate mixer:

Dad with his hot chocolate and the leftover part of mine:

Mum enjoying hers:

We ate lunch at the Farmer’s Arms pub in Daylesford. Pub food has come a long way, baby. Dad and I had cheese, leek and herb soufflees with fresh dill on top and Mum had tuna sashimi with assorted side bits including wasabi flying fish roe, which was a beautiful shade of green. All very good. Then we toddled off to a bookshop in an old house on the main street, in which there were two rooms full of vintage sheet music — at very reasonable prices, especially considering some of the lovely art nouveau covers. I bought a few playable pieces, and one that I probably won’t be able to play without cutting notes out of the thick chords, but had to have — a book of tone poems inspired by Omar Khayyam, by Frederick Hall. On the back is an easier “Call to Prayer” by the same composer, from a suite of Egyptian tone poems — which I found digitally archived by the National Library of Australia. I had no idea this archive of music existed. The guy at the shop said people don’t buy sheet music much anymore. Certainly, not as many places sell it. Maybe digital archiving has killed the business.
Side note to the twat in the 4WD who tooted me as I turned off to the Chocolate Mill, when turning from a 100kph highway onto a gravel road, you gots to slow down. Quite a bit. I had my indicator on for well over 100m, just for you. As I slowed down, rather than maintaining a safe distance, you kept your big bullbarred nose up my little car’s bum. Who taught you to drive — a dog? Or you — the other you — who tailed me half the way home, then tailed a caravan the rest of the way? If a roo had run out in front of that caravan, his accident would have been your accident too, mate. Anyway, bumsniffers aside, it was a lovely drive home down country roads lined with elms and poplars in their autumn best. 70km round trip; Ren’s fuel gauge didn’t budge from half a tank.
One more soapbox: in the bookshop, I saw a new volume, The Dangerous Book for Boys. This book is a hit. It’s full of egregiously undangerous stuff like “how to make the perfect water bomb, how to read codes, what are the rules of cricket, who were the Kings and Queens of Europe, what are the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World – and just how do you deal with girls?” Yes, I realise it’s a homage to all the Books for Boys of yesteryore, and that there’s going to be one for girls later on. (But not Dangerous; it’s going to be Gallant, or something.) But. BUT. While we at chez Bishop are not fans of politically correct embuggerations of the English language (we are not well disposed towards, for instance, “Person of La Mancha” or “Devil Got My Person”, though we confess a sneaking partiality for “Governess General”, just for the kink value, you understand), we are ardent supporters, we like to think, of social progress, and from our episcopal seat cannot see any merit in designating a book for one sex or the other, when the book is for children, who are already have more than enough pernicious gender-divisive material shouting at them — or worse, stealthily insinuating. What were you thinking, Harper Collins? Yes, yes, we know; you were thinking about money. Maybe that’s why the book is green.
Of coure, girls probably don’t need a book like this. I, for one, make pretty good paper planes (the secret is in an extra fold, a set of labia minora, if you like, to stabilise the glide). Perhaps girls can read the instructions on packets of water balloons, and look up Google if they wish to learn about the kings and queens of Europe (young ladies, don’t miss Charles II, who “love(d) fucking much”). Still, one can hope the future might provide us with a St. Trinian’s Book for Girls, containing instruction on such essential female skills as how to build a nuclear device, abort a late term pregnancy (yours or someone else’s), seduce your teacher of either gender, smuggle plastic explosive onto an aeroplane, biologically engineer a plague, and summon the devil. Until then, the only dangerous books I shall be giving to children of my acquaintance will be the medieval kind that scream when you open them and have to be chained up at night.
Finally, so that I don’t finish this on a whinging note, from the other day, a classic corner building in Maldon (purveyors of covetable Japanese tea ceremony cabinets, lamps, carp kites et al.) :
