RIP Maurice Gibb, dead at 53. After he seemed to be recovering, too. I grew up with the BeeGees, thanks to my dad’s collection of ’60s and ’70s LPs. Maurice will be missed.

According to The Spark’s pickup test, I am only 29% pickupable. 89% of test-takers are more pickupable than me. I think this may have been because I only laughed at two pickup lines. These were:

a) “If I had to choose between being with you for one night and winning the lottery…I’d take the lottery. But it’d be close. Real close.”

b) “You remind me of my fear of snakes.”

You have to admit, either of the above beat “You’re so fine, I bet you’d slip through a colander.”

I think I’m an object of pathos. It’s the only reason I can think of to explain people’s willingness to accept me into their families. Today, an Irishman with a couple of kids gave me a free family ticket to get into the cricket, there being four tickets and only three in the ‘family’. It was lucky I didn’t pay anything to get in, as the Australian batting line-up barely made it to lunch. England outplayed Australia this Test match, and deserved their victory. You can tell how dominant the Australian cricket team are by the magnanimity of their supporters in defeat (if not of their players; Matt Haydn’s smashing of the changing room door wasn’t exactly the epitome of gracious losing, even if his dismissal was the epitome of disgraceful umpiring. You don’t have to be deaf and blind to be a Test umpire, but it probably helps get your foot in the door).

I wanted to be a sports journalist all through my teenage years. I think the first thing to mildly discourage me was my dad telling me that, being female, I’d find sports journalism a difficult field to get into. The biggest discouragement, though, was when I didn’t get accepted into the English and Sports Science course I applied for at University. It must have been a close thing, because the university took ages to make the decision, and probably came down to there being an above average number of applications that year (it was the year before fees were introduced). Having met some of the English and Sports Science students since, I can only think they must all be world-class athletes, because they certainly didn’t get accepted on the basis of their ability to write - or speak - English. Anyway, I took that as a sign I should look for another career. Although I’m hardly ever tempted to seek out the course director, pin him up against a wall and demand why he chose to alter the entire course of my future, or anything, sometimes, like today, I regret losing the passion and enthusiasm I had for sport when I was a teenager. Maybe it’s feeling a fraction of that enthusiasm that makes me realize how much I have changed since then.

Sometimes, I’d like to write sentences about “the passion of that marvellous, memorable Friday afternoon lingering in the SCG air like incense”. A description that, for me, is startling in its simplicity and accuracy. Or to speculate that, perhaps, Stephen Waugh will carry on playing because “he can see the Blue Mountains of Jamaica again. They have a magic spell”. It’s strange how most people give up on the dreams they had when they were kids, preferring to believe it was simply a natural progression to maturity from childish and unrealistic fantasies. I’m not sure that I’d choose sports journalism as a career now, because I’m a different person from the one I used to be. But every now and then, I miss that enthusiasm.

Did I mention I hate updating in internet cafes? Especially places which also offer those networked computer games with realistic blood-spurting effects and graphically exploding body parts. The people I’m surrounded by are actually trying to shoot one another, which presumably explains why they feel the need to yell at the tops of their voices. I’m listening to Radio FiveLive in the UK to drown out the roar.

This article in the Sydney Morning Herald has made me wary about searching on Google. You mean there are people sitting in offices watching all the phrases typed into Google pass before their eyes? How do I get that job? And they collect statistics on the weirdest and most popular phrases? That’s a frightening thought. Speaking of Google, I can’t work out why I can’t search for this page, unless I type in “the coldest winter I ever spent”. This is especially puzzling because other people seem to find it OK, typing in intriguing phrases like “Romaine Rand” and “wet dress” (why would anyone search for ‘Romaine Rand’? Germaine Greer I could understand, but why the pseudonym? Unless it’s someone as slow as me, who didn’t realize that RR and GG are one and the same person). But I can type in “Lembit Opik” till I’m blue in the face, and not a sign of my page can I find. I’m not going to type in ‘Lembit Opik’ and ‘unrequited crush’ anymore, though. That’s sure to appear on one of the weirdest phrases lists.

I thought about going to see Two Weeks Notice tonight, because I’ve read a few good reviews about it. But the word ‘romance’ put me off - I’m still suffering from the overdose of mushiness in Sweet Home Alabama. The film I really want to see is The Hours, which has had rave reviews in the US, especially regarding Nicole Kidman’s performance as Virginia Woolf. It might be one of the rare films which adds something to the book it’s based on. Or not. The trailer looks good, at any rate, and as the film isn’t out here till 20 February, I’ll have to be satisfied with the preview for a while yet.

I’m going to go and type strange phrases into Google. If they want weirdness, I’m the one to provide it.

Germaine Greer wrote that Sydney is “a land of lotus eaters”, and for a while today, I knew what she meant. A beautiful summer’s day, sipping VB, watching Steve Waugh play the best cricket of his life. I was there at the SCG when he passed 10,000 runs, one of three batsmen ever to do so. And I was there, in fact I leapt off my seat (along with the rest of the crowd, I should add) when he smashed the final ball of the day to the boundary and reached his century. Without reading the Aussie press for the last month, it’s difficult to appreciate the drama leading up to this innings, the pressure he was under to retire from the selectors. In Victoria, a horse race was delayed because spectators wanted to watch Steve get to a hundred. People up and down the country stopped their cars at the side of the road to listen to the Test Match on the radio. Even the PM was at the ground (the best place for him, frankly). Hey, this is Australia.

It was nice to feel euphoric about something as trivial as sport. After the terrorist threats over New Year (according to the Australian press, Sydney Harbour was the only possible target, which must have been a relief to the rest of the world) and the continual talk of war, it was overwhelming to be part of this crowd applauding, cheering, jumping up and down (that was me), imaginatively chanting “Steve Waugh, Steve Waugh, Steve Waugh, Steve Waugh” (to the tune of ‘Auld Lang Syne’). You could tell everyone who’d been at the game because they were wearing these goofy smiles. I’m tired, sunburnt and happy. There’s something to be said for triviality.