I'd managed to wangle another business trip to Sydney (damn, I love my job) and Mute had very kindly offered to host. But only if I brought a buttload of Buffy with me.

Fortunately, I have a buttload of Buffy, so away I went.

Planes, trains and automobiles later, I was installed at chez Mute for the long weekend, with loads of Buffy, an obscene number of comics and some vague plans to wander around the Blue Mountains for a bit.

Lovely.

The morning of Slayer-Fest 2001 dawned bright and sunny and FUCKINGHELLBOLLOCKING BUGGERYFUCKMEOWOWOWOWOWOWOW!

Did I mention that I broke my toe?

Well, it didn't quite go like that. It was more of a muffled curse and then I ignored it until it had swollen to the size of a small gerbil and was a nasty shade of purple. Suffice to say that I had a mild disagreement with a mini trampoline in the hallway and I lost.

The liberal quantities of alcohol and Buffy allowed me to disregard the evil that my toe was becoming. It wasn't until I found the need for things like shoes and walking that it became an issue. But that wasn't until later.

Then the Buffy-philes arrived and it was time for swimming and Buffy and alcohol and nummies and Buffy. And some more Buffy. And what the hey, we have time, let's watch another Buffy.

It was all of the good.

In no specific order, there was also 80s teen films, Cherry Ripe ice cream, Chinese, 'Bring It On', beer in the oldest pub in Sydney, midnight swims (in which the neighbours came out to tell us to shut up, I don't think they appreciated the tone of the conversation--see earlier comment about prehensile penises), falling asleep on beanbags and more comics than I could shake a stick at.

And, of course, the gracious Mute. If I had a way of bringing you the singular experience of watching him rock out to Nerf Herder, believe me, I would. It's not something you forget in a hurry.