3 October 2026
Saturday. Admissions are open in Melbourne. The cheerful voice has a third practice and has bought a new microphone to celebrate.
So Collins Street now hosts two of my personalities at once: the waiter in his slaughterhouse and the man on the intercom in his cell. They share a lift. They do not speak. I have asked them to be civil for the sake of the staff.
An ambitious Melbourne group could, in theory, be chosen by the waiter and then committed by the therapist on the same evening. I would recommend a break in between, a glass of water and a chat about what went wrong.
The coffins are still missing from Melbourne, which galls me. They are booked for the first of March next year. I have circled it in this diary in mulberry ink, then circled the circle.
Until then I am a man in two cities and three disguises, which, for a villain who is never actually in the room, is a remarkable amount of commuting.
— U.
