Chab Gassie

I had a theory that writers would make very good spies because they are very good at treating people like their objects. Writers go about the place working out which of the people they meet can be turned into characters in their books or, even worse, they take pieces of people and mould them all together to make new imaginary people. They look at people and imagine what they might do in different situations.

“What would that man sitting against the wall begging for money do if he was suddenly asked to drive a limousine full of gold bullion across the country for the mafia, and then he fell in love with a mormon heading in the opposite direction?” asks the writer, rather than feeling sorry for the man.

Many writers and would-be-writers and thinking-of-starting-a-novel-as-soon-as-I-find-the-times converged on the town hall in Melbourne for the launch of the Wheeler Center, which is a hub for writers. I was acting like security for the night, which was dumb because it was the most flacid crowd that ever crowded, seeing if there was anybody worth recruiting. Tara June Winch caught my eye. Probably because she wore a yellow, satin-like gown draped over her elegant, feminine figure that reminded me of a golden field where happiness bursts from ripe sunflowers and… she looked hot.

Half way through the night I decided that writers don’t make good spies because they all want to be the center of attention. If you’re a spy, you need to be invisible.

So here is what will probably be my Archibald Prize entry. It is my grandmother who turns 80 next month. Famous, no, but hopefully I can put a solid argument forward for ‘distinguished’. Or it’ll just get disqualified. But doesn’t matter because isn’t the point of Archibald Prize to just enter?

No. No it is not.