Melbourne Dreaming

Happy V Day fellow geeks!

2012-02-14T09:08:00.002+11:00

For those among us who went through puberty in the nineties. And fellow eyebrow freaks.

Inspiration Friday

2012-02-10T10:05:00.000+11:00

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So beautiful. So true.

Sunday 7-up

2012-02-05T23:09:00.000+11:00

Reading: The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro

Browsing: Letterheady
Watching: John Safran's Race Relations
Eating: Icy-poles
Listening: Born to Die by Lana Del Rey
Visiting: St Ali (recommend the 'Bada Bing Bada Boom')
Wanting: More paid work...

Duke Uke'em

2012-02-01T17:25:00.002+11:00

I'm learning to play a simple version of 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow', largely thanks to this awesome kid. As you can see, I've a ways to go yet. I haven't yet mastered the art of doing anything else while playing, like say, singing along or keeping time. Sorry about the pauses while I change chords.

But it's loads of fun. I highly recommend it.

More thoughts on freelancing

2012-01-23T18:49:00.002+11:00

It's been fairly quiet over the Christmas period, workwise. I've spent lots of time in the flat, browsing lots of silly web sites on the web of silliness.

I've been applying for several part-time positions with the notion that maybe a regular gig might help prop up my finances, as well as giving me a much-needed social outlet (and a reason to get up before 9am). It's a delicate balancing act; my current clients like to know that they can contact me anytime and that I can turn something around super-quickly, and I'm aware I might not be able to do that so easily if I'm working a couple of solid days a week. We'll see.. if the right couple-o-days-a-week position comes up, I will probably take it and see how it goes.

I've also experienced my very first dead-beat client recently. Woowee! I am thanking my lucky stars that it's only a small sum that they owe me for (if it was a more significant amount, I would be hiring a hitman). I met with these people a few months ago. They had found me via Gumtree, and seemed like a lovely, if slightly clueless couple who were in the process of starting up a creative business in their spare time and with their own money.

[distant alarm bells]

At our initial meeting we got the niceties out of the way. They talked me through all of their vague and rambley ideas, and I made encouraging noises. They contacted me the following week, saying they wanted to go ahead but could we meet up to talk some more things through?

[more bells]

We meet up again, they ramble some more, ask for some printing contacts, and give me a tiny little starter job which they proceed to micro-manage to death ("we want to use this font, these colours, and it needs to look exactly like this file I mocked up in Powerpoint").

DING F-ING DONG.

For some reason I agree to a third meeting where the client tells me they want to proceed to the next job, and outline exactly what they want. I say I will put together a quote for their approval, which I do. They agree to let me make a start on the job and I send them some initial designs.

No response.

It's been nearly 2 months. I have emailed, called, and left initially-polite-but-increasingly-pissed-off messages. NOTHING. There have been times when I have called her mobile, only to have her pick up the phone but sit silently on the other end while I fume down the line. Yes, it's only a small amount of cash, but I wasted approximately 4 hours in meetings with these people on the promise of a long-term project and now they're giving me the silent treatment? I'm chasing it up on principle. And rage: my general feeling on this is BRING IT, B*TCHES.

I'm not the timid high school girl I once was.

Lessons?

- Be wary of 'hobby' businesses. Likewise, start-ups. If you do end up working on one, protect yourself by getting a signed contract before you do anything.

- Think about charging clients for time spent in meetings (beyond the initial briefing meeting) - I wasted a lot of time running around to see this client on three separate occasions, only to get stiffed. Charging for that time = less time wasted, as clients have a financial motivation to get their shit together.

- Trustworthy clients are gold. Treat them as such.

- Final lesson: trust your instincts - they're pretty much always right. Those alarm bells are there for a reason.

Girls on Bikes (a frequently interupted series)

2012-01-21T13:11:00.000+11:00

The beautiful Nat Portman.

David O'Doherty @ Melbourne Comedy Fest

2012-01-17T16:00:00.001+11:00

One of my fave Edinburgh Festival comics. Damn I wish gigs in Australia weren't so prohibitively expensive. I need to get a boyfriend in the entertainment biz (Bert? Daryl? Rove? God forbid, Eddie?*)

*Sorry to be obscure, non-Melbournites.

Sunday 7-up

2012-01-15T23:01:00.007+11:00

Reading: Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Browsing: Ghetto Hikes
Watching: Ae Fond Kiss
Eating: White Christmas
Listening: Fever Ray by Fever Ray
Visiting: NGV
Wanting: a cute ukulele

Resolutions

2012-01-13T14:58:00.002+11:00

2011 was a big year for me - I put a deposit on a flat, settled back in to Melbourne life, started working for myself, joined the Squeaky Wheel committee, dated several amiable losers (and one super lovely guy but it's complicated so please don't ask me to elaborate or we could be here all night, srsly).

So 2012. I'm not really into the resolution thing - I tend to think about doing things as and when they occur to me, on the fly and sporadically, cos that's the kind of lazy ass I am. I already do yoga and zumba once a week, and ride my bike. I already try to eat right - in between sweets - and there's NO WAY IN HELL I'm giving up sugar like some ascetic freaks out there. I hardly drink; I don't gamble, take drugs or sleep with supermodels - sugar is my one and only only vice. Well, sugar and cute boys. Cute geeky boys who wear specs, in particular.

So don't even suggest giving up the sugar and the boys. Take those away and I have no reason to live. None.

So... one random resolution appeared to me one day out of the fuzzy static in my brain. It's a little embarrassing. I can't believe I'm confessing it to the internet.

I decided I would like to learn to play an instrument. A piano seemed like a logical place to start, but they take up so much room and I live in a teensy one bedder, and guitars are really cool but kind of intimidating, and then I saw this clip:

...and I decided that a ukulele would be perfect.

Compact. Cute. Not too hard (don't tell me! I prefer it here in fairy-land). Would look good on my shelf even if I never learn to play it. Won't annoy my neighbours (too much). Fits with my geeky outsider status.

So... I've been looking on ebay. I'm going to buy me a uke.

Sometimes it sucks being single and knowing your life is of little consequence... and sometimes it's awesome.

2012: Let's hope it's a good one

2012-01-03T20:16:00.000+11:00

I've been thinking a lot about hope recently. How hope for the future is the main thing that keeps people going, and how the loss of that hope, however temporary, can feel like the end of the world; like a dead weight dragging you down, down, down.

On a personal level, my greatest future hope is for a stable relationship, and further to that, to have a family (my definition of 'family' has changed somewhat over time). As I get older and another year passes, this hope has become more distant and cloudy. Sometimes it evaporates altogether, and the weight in my heart becomes overwhelming.

Thankfully, I have found a medication that stops me from sinking to the extreme depths where I was marooned for many years without hope.

On a wider level, I have hope in human nature. Couples staying together despite being dealt all manner of shit (Karleen, I'm in awe of you). A little kid being thrilled to discover a 10c piece in the grass. The good humour of friends. Inspiring documentaries. The comforting huddle of my immediate family; my ever-expanding tribe. Wired magazine.

It's easy to feel cynical about humanity and our future prospects - and believe me, I often do. It's much harder to be hopeful. I have consciously taken a decision to try not to worry too much about the larger problems and to focus on myself and my immediate community; the people I come into contact with every day. I follow the philosphy of those great thinkers of our time, Bill and Ted:

"Be excellent to each other".

Right on, dudes.

I am starting to learn that we can nurture a sense of hope within ourselves, and that hope can take many forms.

So here we are in the year 2012. I hope it will be a great one for you.

Rainy Day Pickles

2011-12-22T23:44:00.009+11:00

...or Lagab Nu Achaar (wedding pickle, apparently)

Shout out to the lovely Cyren for the idea and the recipe, plus the use of her nice big kitchen during the (rather messy) preparations.

100g dried dates
300g raisins
300g dried apricots, thinly sliced
2kg brown sugar
2kg grated carrots
250g jaggery (palm sugar)
750mls vinegar
50g grated ginger
100g garlic (I press this in the garlic press)
Salt to taste
15 dried red chillies
2 tbspns garam masala

Soak the dates, raisins and apricots overnight in 1 cup of the sugar and as much vinegar as you need to cover.

In a heavy bottomed pan cook the carrots, the remaining sugar, jaggery, and the rest of the vinegar on very low heat, stirring occasionally. When soft add garlic, ginger and salt until mixture turns sticky and syrupy.

Add the date, raisin and apricot mix and bring to the boil. Add chillies and garam masala. Remove from heat and pour into sterilised jars (sit clean jars in hot hot water or for 2 mins in a slow oven).

I've been including these in mini Christmas hampers, in pretty jars tied with ribbon and a hole-punched name tag cut from old cards.

Enjoy on a sandwich with cold meat (I have been) or with soft cheese. Scrum!

Blogging instead of sleeping

2011-12-21T23:22:00.000+11:00

A few great cover songs of 2011

Cee Lo Green covers Band of Horses - No one's gonna love you

Karmin covers Chris Brown ft. Lil Wayne, Busta Rhymes - Look at me now

Dum Dum Girls cover The Smiths - That light that never goes out

The Black Keys cover Buddy Holly - Dearest

Happy Christmas...

2011-12-21T11:39:00.001+11:00

Have a relaxing break, everyone. Sorry I've been a little quiet on the blogging front recently. Work is quiet; life is busy.

See you in the New Year!

xoxox

Sunday 7-Up

2011-12-11T20:40:00.000+11:00

How's your week been?

Reading: Snugglepot and Cuddlepie by May Gibbs
Browsing: Sweet Swedish designs
Watching: The Apartment
Eating: Home made chutney
Listening: Metals by Feist
Visiting: Collingwood Childrens Farm
Wanting: more exercise

I ♥ Melbourne, and so do lots of other people by the looks of things

2011-11-29T16:42:00.001+11:00

Is it just me, or has Melbourne grown up and found it's (beautifully shod) feet? Everywhere I go, people are telling me how great Melbourne is, how much they want to move here, and declaring that this here is the creative hub of modern, urban Australia.

Preaching to the choir there.

Every week it seems there's a new rag on the streets extolling the virtues of Melbourne living, from the endless cafés to the pop-up shops to the burgeoning cycle culture. And to complement this new-found Melbourne-crush are a host of goods and services that celebrate the lovely, quirky and iconic things about my home town.

The trams:

The coffee obsession:

The skipping girl:

The architecture:

The slightly grungy, vintage style:

Hook turns:

The Nylex sign:

The railway stations:

Even the good old Melways:

I'm feeling the Melbourne-love right now. It's in the air like the pollen, dusting you gently every time you step out of the house.

(click on images to visit supplier).

Sunday 7-Up

2011-11-27T22:00:00.031+11:00

Reading: outdated copies of British Vogue (from the library, yo)
Browsing: Creative Women's Circle
Watching: Marty-bom and his class performing "The Billy Goats Gruff"
Eating: Lindt Passionfruit Intense
Listening: Ceremonials by Florence and the Machine
Visiting: Harvest workroom
Wanting: Christmas to hurry up

Inter-generational friends

2011-11-24T17:41:00.000+11:00

A few weeks ago, my good friend Karls informed me that her 6y/o Marty would like to invite me to 'Special Friend's Day' at his primary school. My heart melted a little. Soon I received my invite in the mail, complete with sunshine/rainbow drawing and xo's around my name. Lord, the cuteness. So this afternoon I caught a train and cycled to his bayside primary school, where a bunch of grandparents and I watched the kids perform 'Billy Goats Gruff', followed by scones with jam and cream.

Let me tell you a bit about Marty. He's the epitome of sunshine; full of high energy in that 6y/o boy way, and he talks at HIGH VOLUME, ALL THE TIME (which might have something to do with sharing a house with 3 teenage girls). I've never seen him throw a tantrum, although once he got mad for about 2 minutes when an old guy pretended to tip his chair over. He's thoughtful and caring, loves to talk but also listens. He's curious and playful, a natural acrobat who likes to use me as a climbing gym. He will talk to anyone and throw himself into any new situation with absolutely no hesitation. He's told his mum, a social worker, that he would like to be a nurse when he's older so he can look after people.

He has the most beautiful head of curls and leonine eyes. If I had to sum him up, I would describe him as a 'happy lion'.

What an awesome kid. I'm proud to be your special friend, Marty.

Anatomy of the perfect weekend

2011-11-21T16:28:00.002+11:00

I had a super-busy, super-lovely weekend.

Friday night: Roman Holiday and tim tams on the couch. Audrey Hepburn. ~~Cary Grant~~ Gregory Peck (I always get those two good looking men confused). Rome. *the mother of all contented sighs*

Saturday morning: Up and off to yoga class in the warm rain. Afterwards, stretched and calm, a friend and her curly-headed moppet of a 6 y/o pop over for an impromptu brekkie, bearing flowers and raisin bread. Then off to Williamstown, where we enjoy a delicious veggie lunch with friends and play with their 3 crazy dogs, driven inside by the continuing rain. On the way home, after a quick detour through Costco at Docklands, we catch the King Tut exhibition at Melbourne Museum and ogle at the ancient treasures on display.

Sunday: Local coffee and breakfast with a mate. Come back and read the weekend papers on the couch. Wander over to middle bro's to say hello to mum and dad, who have dropped in on their way to the city for a quick cuppa. Lots of hugs and banter. Browse the outlet shops on Bridge Road, where I buy these:

Aren't they amazing?? I don't even want to wear them, I just want to look at them and marvel at their awesomeness.

The shop assistant tells us that we should go to the Spanish fiesta in Fitzroy, he would if he wasn't working, it's such a gorgeous day for it. Why the hell not, we decide, and jump on a tram. 20 minutes later we are caught up in the festive crowd, handing out balloons to gorgeous hispanic kids and being told off by the police for drinking Sangria in the street. We head home before dark, and end up watching The Big Bang Theory/Mythbusters on the couch before falling asleep.

Bliss.

You may have noticed I'm using the royal 'we' for this post. There's a boy in my life right now, and I'm having trouble keeping a lid on the gushing.

Let's just leave it at one word: 'lovely'.

Creativity takes time

2011-11-21T12:03:00.000+11:00

Sunday 7-up

2011-11-20T21:00:00.013+11:00

Reading: Australian Rolling Stone mag
Browsing: Vintage bike poster set on Flickr
Watching: Breaking Bad
Eating: Aussie mangoes
Listening: Theme Time Radio Hour, with your host Bob Dylan
Visiting: Espresso 3121
Wanting: A cure for hayfever

Welcome back to Australia!

2011-11-14T11:27:00.000+11:00

"Oh hai there!! Ooops! Looks like you dropped your soap. You just continue your shower, girl, don't mind me hanging out here on your window. I'll keep an eye out for you, in fact I'll keep FOUR eyes out for you, that's not creepy AT ALL hahahaa! Can I borrow your razor? I think my legs need going over..."

Workin' for the man... oh wait, I'm the man

2011-11-08T17:46:00.001+11:00

Six months in and this 'working for myself' thing is turning out great...SO FAR. I don't know why I'm so reluctant to jinx myself by talking about how well it's going - I'm usually the opposite of superstitious (I can't believe that people still get upset about opening umbrellas indoors - as Napoleon Dynamite would say, GOSH) but for some reason I'm reluctant to celebrate the fact that I'm doing alright. It still feels a bit precarious, and I'm still getting used to surviving quiet weeks/months (August... yeeesh) without fretting that I will never work again.

But overall, I'm surviving. I've met some great people. I am loving it, still. I am never going to be rich, but that has never been my motivation. I just want to work. I still have a little trouble getting motivated in the mornings, but I'm quite happy to work into the evening, so - hey, it doesn't really matter, and I love that freedom. My interest in design has been rekindled. It was the corporate office environment that was killing me - the clock-watching. The time-wasting. Feeling hemmed in and straight-jacketed, even though I could wear jeans and flip-flops (I mean thongs).

More things I've learned on the way:

1. Be transparent about costs. Most people have no concept of how long something takes to design; and even less about how much time is spent mucking around with it (at their behest) afterwards. Be clear with your clients about how much time you're spending on a job and what it will cost them.

2. Protect your intellectual property. This is such a grey area, but after a client alerted me to it, I have added a clause about my designs remaining my property until the invoice is paid in full, and specifying that I retain the right to use the work for my own promotional purposes (unless they opt out).

3. Marketing without tears. I've been somewhat proactive about marketing myself, but I could certainly do more. However, networking is not my strong point and I'm not going to bust a gut going to events where I hand my card to 3 people and never hear from them again. I tend to do more 'passive' marketing, like leaving my postcards at cafés, posting (and replying to) ads on gumtree, and emailing studios with a link to my website. If I'm going to do networking, I want it to be fun - which is where meetup interest groups come in. This is something I was doing anyway, and occasionally I get asked for my business card, or even make a lovely new friend (hello, local buddy!).

4. Roll with the punches. You just have to go with the flow - enjoy the lulls - my flat, btw, has never been cleaner - and put your head down in the busy periods.

It's a fun, challenging, and endlessly interesting ride.

Cycling = community

2011-10-24T14:11:00.001+11:00

I have certainly been spoilt by living right by the Yarra bike trail: I can ride into the city anytime, in complete safety and comfort (apart from the odd renegade lycra-cycla or kamikaze duck). However, I think this lucky state of affairs has left my road cycling skills somewhat lacking.

On the weekend, I had to cycle from Williamstown to North Melbourne, along some very busy stretches of road. Man, it was scary. Most of the time I was pedaling like mad on my big ol' Pashley, fingers mentally crossed and breath held as a truck/motobike/car seared past me. Every time I got onto the footpath after such an encounter, I would release my breath and say a little prayer of thanks.

It got me thinking, why don't we have more bike paths around Melbourne? Not just a laneway painted on the side of the road which might, for instance, COME TO AN ABRUPT END HALFWAY ACROSS A BRIDGE WITH NO FOOTPATH (hello Maribyrnong city council), but proper cyclist/pedestrian only paths that are separate from the road? It would certainly go some way to encouraging timid or new cyclists to take more journeys by bike, which has multiple benefits for everyone involved, as well as society in general.

Less congestion. Less pollution. More space. More freedom. Better health. Less expense. More enjoyment!

The cynic in me thinks that politicians aren't interested in supporting cycling infrastructure as it doesn't provide any source of revenue. If only they saw that investment in the quality of our collective environment and lifestyle will have it's own many knock-on benefits.

Lately I've been getting more involved with the Melbourne cycling community, which is made up of various interesting people from all walks of life; families, sporty types, alternative thinkers, hipsters. I'm proud to be associated with The Squeaky Wheel, a fantastic volunteer group that's all about promoting cycle culture in Melbourne. Next weekend we start the My Bike program, where we'll be working with migrant communities to pair up young people with bikes donated by the Victorian Police.

One of the things we'll be doing is teaching them about road safety. I could brush up on this, myself.

I can't wait!

Stolen cumquat marmalade

2011-10-13T18:36:00.000+11:00

Walking around my neighbourhood on a regular lemon raid - if they're hanging over the public walkway, I declare them mine under the little known 'footpath bandit' act - I came across bunches of these gorgeous orange delights dangling tantalisingly over a head-height fence. Being a true neighbourhood bandit of the solitary and sneaky kind, I looked each way for spies who might be taking note of my interest, calculated that I couldn't carry as many as I would need*, made a mental note of their location and concoted a plan to return later with a plastic bag to cart off my booty.

Black polo neck and camo make-up optional.

Post fruit-burgulary, I decided to make some marmalade with my haul. The end result was the first time I've attempted a jam, and oy, there's a lot of labour involved. But the end product is so good, it's worth it.

2 cups cumquats, washed and sliced
2 cups water
juice of 1 lemon
1.5 cups sugar (more if you don't like your marmalade 'sharp')

Wash and slice fruit finely, removing the seeds for safe-keeping (warning: this take ages). Place the fruit in a large saucepan, cover with water and soak overnight. Put the seeds in a mug and soak in a small amount of boiling water overnight.

Next day strain the liquid from the seeds into the cumquats. Discard the seeds. Cook the fruit gently on a low heat until the fruit is tender and the liquid is reduced by half. Add the sugar and lemon juice. When all the sugar has dissolved, turn up the heat and boil rapidly until the mixture jells (around 30-45 minutes). Stir often, or the marmalade will burn.

I tried the test where you put in on a cold plate to see if it sets, but I just stopped when it seemed thick enough and my arm was about to fall off from stirring.

Pour into hot sterilised jars (to sterilise: wash in hot soapy water and dry in a slow oven for 20 mins) and seal.

I got 2 big jars from this. Larga vida al bandido de frutas!

*Wasn't sure what I 'needed' them for at this stage, just had a vague idea I would need more than two grabby handfuls.

This video tells you everything you need to know about having little brothers

2011-10-03T11:08:00.002+11:00

It's EXACTLY like this. Multiplied by many years interspersed with lots of cork legs, arm punches and giggles.

Peanut Butter cookies (WARNING: may not make it out of the mixing bowl)

2011-09-28T20:59:00.002+10:00

Oh my goodness, the batter for these cookies is TOO GOOD.

225gm butter (I used sunflower margarine)
100gm caster sugar
200gm soft brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
240gm crunchy peanut butter
340gm plain flour
2 1/2 tsps bicarb soda
pinch salt
75gm dark chocolate, chopped

Cream butter and sugars together, add eggs one at a time (either by hand or with a hand beater). Add the vanilla and peanut butter and mix. Add flour, bicarb soda and salt and mix well until you have a delicious, fluffy, irresistible batter. Stir in the chocolate bits.

Fight the urge to eat every last bite and spoon onto greased baking trays. Cook for 10 minutes until just golden brown.

Makes about 24, depending on how much you managed to not eat in the making stage.

Bikes and boys ahoy

2011-09-26T22:33:00.000+10:00

The more observant amongst you may have noticed that I put a blog post up recently, only to take it back down again a few days later. The truth is, I'm sick of hearing myself whinge about singledom/men. As someone* pointed out to me earlier tonight (when I was less drunk than I am now**), I was making lots of generalisations about an entire gender. I really need to stop doing that. People are individuals who happen to be male or female, beyond that - well, it's really not up to me to make sweeping judgements based on a handful of experiences with individuals.

*changes subject apropos of nothing*

You know one side effect of riding a beautiful bike that I really love? The people who start up random conversations with me because of it. It's like having an adorable puppy***; everyone wants to stop a while and exclaim and fuss over it, ask questions about it, and maybe even pet it. Tonight as my friend* and I approached the princess, there was a small group of well-dressed people taking a close look over it, and as I got closer they cooed over my panniers, wanted to know where I got my (knock-off knogg) lights, and asked did I buy the bike from Steve, purveyor of fine bicycles in South Melbourne?**** We all stood around and had a nice little late night (drunken**) chat about how fine it is to ride a bike in Melbourne.

And just like that, I'm feeling more hopeful about the world once more.

Good night!

*you know who you are!
**two glasses of wine and I'm officially off my face.
***God I wish I did have an adorable puppy. Then my life would truly be complete.
****Details may not be correct, see '**' above.

What's your favourite memory?

2011-09-20T23:04:00.000+10:00

Sitting across from my grandfather at his kitchen table, watching his face light up with laughter.

Girls on Bikes (an erratic series)

2011-09-19T14:01:00.000+10:00

Twiggy cuteness!

Shake it like a polaroid picture

2011-09-15T12:11:00.000+10:00

Lately I've been feeling a little... restless. A little spike of existential angst is poking me in the side. I feel like I need to take off and drive away for a bit. Like I need to shake things up and toss them around like salad. Like I need to break free and cut loose and do something a little... dangerous. Not dangerous as in shooting-up-and-sleeping-with-strangers, but dangerous as in, unconventional and new.

Isn't it funny how you crave for things to be settled, and when they are you feel a bit... bored?

I read this article about how more women are leaving their marriages out of boredom than ever before, because we have the freedom to do that now, or because we are more narcissistic than previous generations, depending on your point of view. I think a few of my relationships have ended out of boredom and restlessness, especially when I was younger and more flippant about these things. It takes a great deal of discipline to stay with one person for ages, to just put your head down and trudge on through the crap bits.

Respect, crap-bearers! I never had a great tolerance for it.

In conclusion, it's time to try something new and different. Cute boy? Yes, please. Holiday? I'd love to, but it will have to be short and sweet. Learn a new skill? Hmm, sounds intriguing... suggestions?

Girls on Bikes (an irregular series)

2011-08-28T22:19:00.000+10:00

Cate Blanchett puts her feet up...

The reluctant (semi-)vegetarian

2011-08-26T13:49:00.001+10:00

In an ideal world, I would be vegetarian, no question.

(while we're at it, in an ideal world I would be married to a vet/retired model, with two adorable adopted kids and a house with a veggie garden. And someone would pay me to write this blog. In chocolate.)

But here in boring old "reality", I have found myself moving further and further away from meat in general, and red meat in particular, for various reasons.

Environmentally, eating meat is one of the worst things you can do for the planet (up there with driving a car and having kids). It's horrendous how much waste goes into that chain of raising animals, feeding them, slaughtering and butchering them, packaging them up and shipping them to supermarkets all over the world.

Ethically, it's not nice to treat sentient creatures so abominably just so that we can enjoy a roast dinner on a Sunday. As the meat.org website says, if slaughter-houses had glass walls, everyone would be vegetarian.

Finally, eating meat is kind of gross when you think about it. Eating the cooked flesh of a living creature. Especially with red meat, there is a particular smell it gives off when it's just starting to cook that is stomach-turning.

And yet... human beings were designed to eat meat. We're omnivores. The smell of a sausages frying outside Bunnings is undeniably attractive. It has even been argued that meat was the essential ingredient that allowed us to evolve into the brainy idiots we are today. Closer to home, my mum recently gave me a lecture about getting enough protein when she thought I was looking a bit pale and skinny.

And so my answer for now is, in the emminently sensible words of my Pa (oft repeated by my Mum): "Everything in moderation". I eat a small portion of meat maybe 2-3 times a week, and try to buy meat from animals that are outdoor-raised and free-range. I am aiming to ultimately cut down to "only on special occassions when I really feel like it" meat consumption. I'm not there yet, but I hope to be in the next couple of years.

* * * * *

For those of you with concerned mothers, good non-meat sources of protein are: potatoes, whole wheat bread, rice, broccoli, spinach, almonds, peas, chickpeas, peanut butter, tofu, soymilk, lentils and kale. Peanut butter, y'all! I'm going out to buy some right now.

I do love a colourful kitchen gadget...

2011-08-25T19:05:00.004+10:00

... almost as much as I love a gadget with a backstory! The lovely mug that I stole from a large Generic Financial Corporation (it was lying sadly neglected at the back of a communal cupboard and I love it to bits. Je ne regrette rien!). The ice-cream scoop given to me by my lovely ex-flatmate when she moved out, in commemoration of my voracious ice-cream devouring habit. The retro orange teapot with wicker handle gifted to me by a friend who spotted it at a garage sale. An old-fashioned egg beater that never fails to remind me of my grandma and her elegant hands.

I love being surrounded by colourful, cute and quirky things. My idea of hell is a beige room with white couches, glass coffee table and a black and white print on the wall. *Shudder*

Fantasy Dating: Nerds-Done-Good edition

2011-08-11T18:55:00.001+10:00

I'm taking a little break from online dating. The endless cascade of rejections was getting a little disheartening. Seriously, how do people survive this?! You need the skin of a rhino to withstand it, I reckon. It's certainly not for "sensitive young weeds" like myself (and Stephen Fry).

Back to daydreaming, where the men are hot, available and infinitely variable.

Bring on the charming geek-fest!

It's probably best to take your glasses off, Mr. Tempah. You can leave the bow-tie on, though...

Moss from the IT Crowd: the ultimate tech-geek, complete with "reboot" chime.

Um, hello STEVE URKEL?!

Ditto Neville Longbottom.

I wasn't sure about Michael Cera at first - he seemed so weedy in Juno, and like an effeminate Jesse Eisenberg in everything else - but I watched Youth In Revolt last night and I found myself won over by yet another understated dork-at-peace-with-himself performance.

Girls on Bikes (a sporadic series)

2011-08-08T17:55:00.001+10:00

The gorgeous Audrey Hepburn (and terrier).

Man I'd love to get a dog. A little basket-sized dog.

The downsides of being self-employed

2011-08-08T17:32:00.003+10:00

It occurred to me recently that I should offer a counter-point to my previous post on the joys of working for oneself; detailing the not so great stuff about being self-employed (and the pleasure of referring to oneself as "oneself").

I hereby present to you the downsides.

1. Work dreams (in which your clients refuse to return your calls/you miss an important deadline/your mac dies). Yep, you're involved in your work in a very personal way - it's hard to leave it behind when you're utterly immersed in it.

Speaking of which:

2. It's always there. The work, that is. You find yourself tinkering into the evening, sending emails at all hours and working in spare time at weekends. This doesn't bother me so much, as I tend to have plenty of downtime throughout the week in which to do my laundry/go to zumba/meet friends for coffee.

3. If you don't work, you don't get paid. No sick leave, no holiday leave, no public holiday pay, no super or benefits. Be sure to take this into consideration when setting your rate.

4. You're on your own. This hasn't affected me too much yet, as I've been spending a fair bit of time working with a bunch of lovely people. But I am aware that I could quite happily slide into hermit-ville if I was working from home more often, so I have been making a concerted effort to get out and about in my spare time. Meetup has been a great forum for social events, and the dating has been keeping me busy (if driving me crazy). In fact, my social calendar is more crammed than ever.

Apparently there are places where you can rent some studio space with other freelancers. I haven't looked into this but it's a great option for those more in need of regular social contact than myself.

5. Oh, the irregularity! It's hard to make plans when you don't know what tomorrow is going to look like, let alone next week. You just have to take each week as it comes, and make/change plans on the fly.

6. It's all down to you, baby. I have had moments of mini-panic at the thought that soon, I will be solely responsible for paying a mortgage out of my piecemeal income. It's up to me to find work, keep my clients happy, get paid. There's no back-up or Plan B, it's just one chick at her computer. That's f*cking scary, let me tell you.

I find it's best not to dwell on this one, for reasons involving my sanity.

* * * * *

Taking into account all of the above however, the pros definitely outweigh the cons for me right now.

Online dating: The Dealbreaker Edition

2011-07-29T17:17:00.003+10:00

– Have a kid from a one night stand several years ago? But it's 'OK because you never see him'?

– Still live at home or recently moved back in with your parents?

– Have to borrow money off me to take me out to dinner?

– Follow an obscure religion that allows you to eat chicken but not duck, because ducks 'have webbed feet'?

– An aspiring fantasy novelist?

– Ill-advised facial piercing/tattoo?

– Not a fan of punctuation? Or conventional spelling? Frequently confuse 'your' and 'you're'?
(a little grammar-nazi of me, I admit, but if you can't write at an 8th grade level, I cannot bring myself to respect you)

– Hungover every time I meet up with you, even on weekdays?

– Look like a gangster in your profile picture, complete with mutton-chop sideburns, shaved head and mirror sunglasses?

– Never returned the CDs that I lent you on our third date?*

Well those, my friend, are what we in the biz like to call DEALBREAKERS.

Good day sirs!

* still waiting.

Girls on Bikes (an intermittent series)

2011-07-25T16:38:00.001+10:00

A fresh-faced Marilyn Monroe (and puppy).

The joys of being self-employed

2011-07-25T12:42:00.001+10:00

Well, this particular experiment seems to be going better than hoped, thus far. I was hesitant to become self-employed, but ended up gradually being nudged across the line by a variety of events and I can honestly say I haven't looked back.

I've been thriving on the challenge, the freedom and newness of my situation. After many years in the same position at a large firm, it's so nice to be doing something different.

Here's what I've learnt so far:

1. It's all about relationships. I can't even think of that word without hearing my dad saying it in an OTT American accent. Sorry pops, but the yanks are right on this one - life is all about relationships. I work hard to keep up a good relationship with my clients and I can see the benefits.

What I am aiming for ultimately is having clients who are more like friends - how great would that be?

2. The internet rules. I have clients who I've never spoken to in person, y'all. They email me, I do the work and email it back, they transfer money to my bank account. It's fantastic. Without the internet, my job would be ~~difficult~~ ~~limited~~ impossible.

Thank you, computer nerds, for this most brilliant invention of my lifetime (after the ipod).

3. Anyone with a brain, a computer and a modicum of talent could do this. You don't have to be an entrepenuer. You don't have to be rich. You don't have to be ruthless and cut-throat. You don't even need to be particularly business-minded, you just have to be smart. If you're not good with numbers, you can get someone else to look after that for you. I'm doing everything myself right now, and it seems to be manageable so far. Then again, I haven't yet done my first tax return...

4. It is surprisingly satisfying to be able to do a load of washing in the middle of the day. I've spoken to several self-employed people and this always comes up as one of the main benefits of working from home. Likewise, wearing pyjamas/trackpants all day long. Also, feeling smug when you see all those suited commuters rushing for the train at peak hour.

We're a weird bunch.

5. I owe a debt of thanks to my old bosses. Without even realising it, I've absorbed so much from my previous bosses. They've all had a hand in shaping me, as an employee and a person. I was so lucky to have had a succession of nice, genuine, normal bosses. I've heard some horror stories.

6. I wish I'd done it sooner. Working for myself would have been unthinkable before now - too scary, too risky, too damn hard. Actually, the hardest thing was taking the mental leap.

Thank goodness circumstances conspired to push me into this. I really hope things continue in this vein.

Online Dating: The Stealth Version

2011-07-13T23:20:00.000+10:00

The advice pretty much everyone gives me re: dating (those many happily settled friends of mine, that is) can be pretty much summed up as follows: "Forget online dating. Join a group." Hmm. I tend to bristle at this advice for several reasons:

1. The things I'm interested in doing in my spare time are inherently girly and do not tend to attract folks of the manly persuasion (baking, cycling my vintage pashley in a skirt, crochet, watercolours, zumba, reading, yoga). I know girls who have taken up rock-climbing/football/beer-tasting for the sole purpose of meeting a husband; but I just can't bring myself to do it. It just seems too much like... faking it.

2. Groups scare me.

Well that's it, which really isn't much of an argument now that it's laid out in print.

But the truth is, I have quietly been getting out there and meeting people through various online forums since I've been back. Just dipping a toe, in typical 'fraidy-cat fashion, into the waters of Socialising With Strangers. Just every so often when I've got nothing better to do on a quiet weekend. I've been to a couple of arthouse movie meetups, a group bike ride to a gallery, and I'm off to a (women only) book group this weekend. It's a little strange, and I'm still getting over the awkwardness factor, but it's also kind of interesting. People are generally interesting, don't you think? Everyone has some kind of story.

I've found I've met more interesting girls than guys - I'm in that age bracket now where there's a surplus of amazing, accomplished girls and a dearth of comparable guys, sadly - but you never know, I guess. And if I only meet great girls via this particular avenue, I'm fine with that.

I'm sort of treating my life like a giant science experiment at the moment; meddling with the ingredients, recoiling from spillage, agitating the mix, and trying not to set anything on fire.

Men of 30 Rock

2011-07-13T08:40:00.000+10:00

Mmm. 30 Rock satisfies on so many levels.

If you overlaid Tina Fey's and my Chart of Hotness, you'd end up with an almost entirely overlapping Venn diagram. God bless you, Liz Lemon!

Oh, and sorry Kenneth.

Reflections in a rain-spattered train window

2011-07-10T19:19:00.000+10:00

Ever have one of those weekends that makes you so glad to live the life you live? It's weekends like these that make me regret ending my OneHappyMoment experiment. This weekend has been chockers with them.

I shared pizza with middle bro on Friday night (using a voucher I got from my estate agent), went for an epic bike-ride to Hiede Museum of Modern Art with a group of like-minded women and a couple of dapper gents on Saturday, and had a lovely lunch and vino with friends at the Shadowfax winery today, followed by a winding game of 'tag' with her little boy giggling hysterically the whole time.

Lately I've been thinking, if only I had a boyfriend, things would be perfect. Then I realised that actually, no they wouldn't. It would just make my currently reasonably balanced life way more complicated.

What is it with us girls? It's like we're conditioned to believe that without a man, we are nothing and none of our achievements amount to anything. I have a good life, I am enjoying my work more than I ever have now that I have a certain amount of autonomy, and I am surrounded by loving family and friends. My life is great. But still I feel like something major is missing. I can't tell whether it's society at large that is responsible for the pressure on women to settle down and procreate; whether it's biological; psychological; familial/tribal; or just innate.

I like to think that if I had a daughter, I would make sure she understood that the choice to be with someone or not is hers and hers alone. The choice to have children or not is hers alone, and no one has the right to judge her based on those choices. That her life is entirely her own to enjoy and experience. I like to think I would teach her to think for herself so that she could see beyond the social and cultural templates that offer women a limited number of roles.

So why can't I apply these beliefs I support so passionately to my own life?

I guess we all need love and intimacy. Sure, relationships are hard work at times, but there is nothing like that feeling of having someone on your side. It doesn't make any sense. But I still want it.

I guess that makes me a typical woman, huh?

365 days of Happy Moments

2011-07-01T09:58:00.000+10:00

One Happy Moment Every Day, my year-long experiment in positivity, has come to an end!

I'm a little bit sad, but I hope the habit of noticing the small, good things will stay with me. Read more here.

Any Woman's Blues

2011-06-21T15:47:00.003+10:00

Oh boy. This dating thing is all fizzy lemonade while you're not that emotionally involved; when it's all: "let's go for coffee! Yeah, I like Peep Show too. Oh, you like dark chocolate? Yeah white chocolate shouldn't even be CALLED chocolate". Once you've made yourself vulnerable though - this is not a euphemism, by the way, I haven't so much as smooched one bloke - and put your heart out there on that line, the pain of a million remembered heartbreaks comes roaring back. The pain that brings all your insecurities out of hiding and returns you back to that angsty teenage girl wailing to Tori Amos in her bedroom all over again.

Yup, it's time to put on some sad songs and wallow like a hippo.

Best comment under an Elliot Smith video: "everytime i feel depressed, i listen to this song. then i feel more depressed; it's awesome"

(worth repeating. *Sigh*)

All Ages Pumpkin and Ginger Tea Bread

2011-06-17T10:15:00.000+10:00

This lovely, soft, sunflower yellow bread/cake was devoured by everyone from little Nathan (aged 9 months) to my Dad (aged 59) with gusto and relish. I baked two in a row, it was so good!

175gm butter, melted
140gm honey
1 egg, beaten
250gm raw grated pumpkin/butternut squash
100gm light brown sugar
350gm self raising flour
1tbs ground ginger
2tbs demarara sugar

Pre-heat oven to 180°. Grease or line a loaf tin. Mix the butter, honey and egg, and stir in the grated pumpkin/squash. Then mix in sugar, flour and ginger.
Pour in the prepared tin and sprinkle the top with the demarara sugar. Bake for 50-60 minutes, until golden brown.

Serve thickly sliced (mine was so soft it fell apart when I tried to slice it!), buttered if you like. Gorgeous still warm from the oven, but still bloody good the next day - and believe me, it won't last beyond that!

Mr. Slater does it again - Late Night Chicken Stew

2011-06-10T21:27:00.002+10:00

Nigel Slater is the creator of my all-time favourite food book, The Kitchen Diaries (it seems I'm not alone in my fandom). Part diary, part cookbook, with the most beautiful photography and production, Nigel's bible is my go-to book for elegant and unfussy meals.

150gm canellini beans (I used a tin)
1 large chicken, jointed (I just used 3 chicken marylands from my butcher)
olive oil
balsamic vinegar
garlic, 4 plump cloves
3 or 4 bay leaves
Dried Herbs du Provence (I used mixed herbs)
Orange rind, pared (I used lemon)
2x large leeks
1 massive Silverbeet leaf (or several smaller ones), sliced - my own addition
mash, to serve

Put the chicken joints in a glass dish. Pour over 50ml of olive oil, a couple of tablepoons of balsamic vinegar, then tuck in the peeled cloves and bay leaves. Scatter over the herbs and pared orange peel, and give it a good grinding of pepper and salt.

Leave in a cool place overnight (or for as long as you can).

Heat enough oil to cover the bottom of a pan, then fry the chicken pieces (shaking off the marinade to save) until golden brown on each side. Transfer the chicken to a clean plate, then fry the leeks in the same oil. Add the garlic, pour in the remaining marinade, the rest of the balsamic vinegar and add a litre of water. Bring to the boil, season generously, then return the chicken to the pan (Nigel transfers it to the oven in a casserole but I don't see the point of making more dishes so I just left it on the stove top). Leave on a low simmer for as long as possible (I think I had it on for over an hour), until the chicken meat is falling off the bone. Make sure the chicken is always covered in water. Add the beans and the silverbeet for the last 5 minutes or so.

Serve steaming hot over mashed potatoes.

Two-timing, double-dating hussy

2011-06-06T11:01:00.001+10:00

Wow, this online dating thing really is an emotional roller-coaster. One minute you're top of the world, ma! with four dates lined up in one short week. Next minute you're All-by-myself-ing into your chocolate gelato after a date gone bad, wondering where it all went wrong.

Lordy! So, there are currently two* potential dudes (although after last Saturday, it may have been whittled down to just the one). I don't want to go into too much detail about these guys, in an attempt to protect their privacy - Melbourne is a small town, after all - but I will say that they are both lovely and decent, but also quite different in nature. Light and dark, you might say. One is a confirmed urbanite who reads the Guardian online and wears a suit to work, the other grows his own vegetables and wears hi-vis. I'm intrigued by both of them, and I am enjoying the process of getting to know them.

But oy, it's taking me from one emotional extreme to the other, sometimes in the same day.

Dating in your thirties? Completely different ball game to dating in your twenties (frisbee in the park vs. juggling sharks, let's say).

You have been through so much. Sometimes you wonder if you can survive one more heartbreak. You're alternately wary and hopeful. You can't help imagining what someone you just met would be like as a long-term partner, a husband, a father, based on whatever crumbs of information you have to hand. Something about them reminds you of an ex. You recognise certain traits which put up a red flag. And of course, they're sitting on the other side of the table, also having experienced heartbreak and battling on and trying to find the right girl, looking at you and wondering whether their future wife would eat her pizza quite so messily.

You get pickier as you get older, no doubt about it. You live, you learn. Isn't it ironic? And other Alanis Morisette lyrics.

On the other hand, it is exciting. A text message gives you flutters of excitement. A great date leaves you on a high for days. You spend hours detailing your experience to friends and family, and they give words of encouragement or caution. I am loving this about being back home: my family have taken an active interest in the nuances of my love-life. I have my brothers threatening to beat up anyone who treats me badly, my sister-in-laws picking favourites, and my mum giving me dating advice that she's learned from god-knows-where (certainly not reality). My Dad is mildly amused by the whole shebang, concerned for my safety but also wanting the same stability and happiness for me that he and my mum have enjoyed.

So, I'll keep putting myself out there. It's been interesting. Mostly enjoyable, all told. I haven't entertained one dark thought about quitting and becoming a bona-fide hermit. I am, amazingly, hopeful. Once more unto the breach, dear friends! I'll keep you informed.

* Yup, two. I did not expect to be dating two guys at once. It's uncomfortable, and I don't like doing it; and I'm hoping the situation will resolve itself soon. It's just that I wasn't sure I was going to hear back from the first guy; so I agreed to meet the second, and then eventually I did hear back from the first guy**, and by then it was too late to cancel the second guy, yada yada, here we are.

** Word of advice blokes: a woman likes to know where she stands. We love it when you text the next day. Love it.

Virtuous Veg-Crisper Minestrone

2011-06-06T09:54:00.000+10:00

I'm not a huge fan of tomato-based soups, but the ingredients I had in the crisper spelled one word: minestrone. It's a great hearty, healthy soup for chilly Melbourne, which is currently experiencing it's fourth coldest Autumn on record (I could have sworn it was the first). I also felt the need for a healthy dinner after a weekend heavy on the burgers/dim-sims/Mint Slice.

Thanks to Sanjosh, my lovely next door neighbour, who kindly let me use his microwave to defrost my home-made chicken stock. It would have been a very late dinner without your help Sanj!

2 tbs olive oil
1 onion, chopped
100gm bacon (I trim the fat from mine but it would probably be more delicious if you leave it on)
2 large carrots, chopped
1/2 fennel bulb, chopped
1 medium potato, peeled and chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped finely
1x tin of tomatoes
1 litre stock (I used chicken)
Silverbeet (full-grown spinach) - 1 massive leaf, chopped
1x tin of beans (I used a mixed selection, haricot would be fine)
Handful of fresh parsley, chopped

Heat the olive oil in a big pan, then add the onion and bacon and fry until it starts to soften. Tip in the carrots, fennel, potato and garlic, and cook for a bit.

Add the tomatoes, stock and any seasoning you like (salt, pepper, oregano, sage, thyme) then bring to the boil, stirring. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes, stirring in the silverbeet for the last 10 minutes. Toss in the parsley and beans at the end.

Serve with sourdough toast, or a bit of parmesan stirred in.

Online Dating - Southern Hempishere edition: Jumping a bracket

2011-05-24T20:02:00.000+10:00

It's back on, baby. The online dating escapades. The occassional thrills! The inevitable spills! The slightly hurtful bafflement of being rejected by three different men with three different automated responses in one evening: "Sorry, I'm overwhelmed with responses at the moment". "Sorry, I don't think we have enough in common". "Sorry, I may be on the cusp of 40 but I'm really looking for a supermodel aged 20-22, because I am a LAWYER".

Honestly, it's been ok so far. Similarly to my experience in the More Crowded Hemisphere, the online dating world in my experience is mostly full of nice people like myself, who are looking for a relationship but aren't in the habit of talking to strangers in bars (hello! Who does that?). The main difference between the site I used in the UK and the site I'm using here is the subscription fee; or lack thereof in the current case. It's literally a free-for-all. This concerns me a little, so I'm being quite discriminating about who I have contact with. Although, realistically? Psychopaths have money and addresses too, so I guess it probably doesn't make that much difference - I'm just working on the assumption that your average axe-killer would not want to give up their credit card details in case the detective on the case of MY MURDER discovers the electronic paper trail that leads back to said psycho.

Hmm. Well, I'm still here. FOR NOW.

I went on my first "Date" on the weekend (I don't classify the first meeting as a date, see here for more). We went ice-skating, at his suggestion. It was good fun, a bit silly, and reminded me of London. Aw! I hope I'll see him again, but I'm feeling quite relaxed about the process (the meds are helping with that). I have another coffee/milkshake meeting scheduled.

Of course, I've had those moments where a great weariness descends and I feel exhausted by the whole process; usually when an overweight, fifty-something trucker messages me to say "How about it?", or when you don't hear back from your awesome ~~date~~ first meeting. This isn't helped by the fact that sometime in the last 6 months I have skipped from the "could-be-late-twenties-on-a-good-day" bracket to the "definitely-in-her-mid-thirties" bracket. Sure, I scrub up pretty well, but there's no denying my age any longer - especially since I have lost weight (a nice layer of fat is nature's facelift).

But it's been mostly interesting and enjoyable so far. And eye-opening to boot - I was a little discriminatory towards my fellow aussies on my homecoming, I must admit. I'm ashamed to say I had fallen for the stereotype of the big, dumb, sports-obsessed aussie bloke versus the refined, well-read Englishman.

Current bogan hit-rate = 0 (discounting the trucker). Well played, Australian men.

A tour of Melbourne's laneways: Part 1

2011-05-15T22:45:00.001+10:00

Hosier Lane.

Especially magic if stumbled upon by accident.

Shameless self promotion

2011-05-10T15:57:00.004+10:00

Need more silly

2011-05-04T16:44:00.000+10:00

My kooky friend Karls - a refreshingly hands-off, let-him-discover-his-limits kind of mother - is over at my flat with her 5 year old son, who has disappeared to the bathroom. Eventually I realise that constant hissing noise is the sound of the taps running.

I pop my head into the bathroom. He's standing at the sink, both taps covered in soap - too slippery to turn off.

Whatcha doing? I say.

Washing the taps for you, he says.

The previous time he came to visit, he played with a soft Barpazoo toy of mine, which has traveled with me since I bought it during my first trip to Paris eight years ago. In his excitement and 5 year-old-boyishness, he tears it open. I am upset and a little annoyed, but then I realise that it's a toy for chrissake - it's meant to be played with.

This is the boy who, while riding his bike recently, yelled out "Look Mum, no hands!", let go of the handlebars and promptly fell flat on his adorable little face. This little scamp doesn't know the meaning of the word "fear".

Later on, we are lying on the grass in the park while he tears around the playground. She tells me that on their way over, he told her that he's in love with me. My heart melts.

The things kids can teach us, eh? Don't get too attached to objects. Take risks. Give your love freely and whole-heartedly. And when busted, make up a story so cute that the other person can't possibly be mad.

Home/time (part 2)

2011-04-21T13:05:00.133+10:00

The top 3 questions I get asked since coming home:

1. What does it feel like to be back?

It feels a bit like being an astronaut who is going through a very drawn out and bumpy "re-entry" phase. Starting my life over again from scratch. Selling myself unconvincingly in job interviews. Most of all, endlessly explaining to people - strangers and friends - why I came back; why I stayed in England and in my previous job so long; why I am single again. Coming back has been rougher than I imagined. I still don't feel settled but I imagine I won't for some time yet.

2. Do I miss London?

Overall, generally, despite everything, I have not regretted the decision to come home. Even when my parents and I have bickered over the most inconsequential things, even through the moments of extreme loneliness and "everyone's settled down except me" self-pity, even when I ended up on my brother's doorstep soaked by the flooding rains and streaked with tears; I never wanted to run back to London. I have had only a couple of flickers of missing the UK - literally seconds-long - but nothing more. Just the odd "oh, wasn't the Borough Market/Hampstead Heath/St Pauls in the early evening lovely?"

3. Has Melbourne changed?

Yes, Melbourne has changed. There are more people, more shops, more traffic, more restaurants. The cars are fancier, the houses bigger, everyone seems to have an iphone. People seem better off (except the poor sods who, like me, didn't buy before the boom). But the things that were always lovely about Melbourne, are still lovely. I am enjoying so much the thrill of rediscovering my home town after having been away for so long. The hidden laneways; the religious fervour of the coffee culture; the trams rattling and dinging around town in their own sweet time; descending to the cool calm of the Yarra.

It will get easier, I tell myself. I will feel more settled soon. I won't be on my own forever. The mantra of the lonely astronaut, separated forever by his experience.

In which I don't discuss any world events whatsoever, or indeed any events taking place outside of my flat.

2011-04-18T18:11:00.000+10:00

Sorry I've been so slack on the blogging front. The world goes on spinning, Charlie Sheen goes on winning, my thighs are thinning. Helpfully, the stress of moving home combined with a new job have conspired to make me get back to my pre-London weight. Unhelpfully, that manifests itself in the following ways:

Instead of shrinking, my butt just gets flatter. You ever see those plump girls with butts that stick straight out at the back like two basketballs? Yeah, I'm like a deflated version of that at the moment.
My boobs have retreated back into non-existence.
Shorts/jeans bought at the peak of my weight now fall off me. Literally.

However, I feel sleek and light and I can wear jeans on my bike without cutting off circulation to my thighs. Hopefully, once things settle down a bit my butt will come back. All is forgiven, butt! I'm sorry I ever cursed you and wished you gone from my life.

Despite the wobbliness of my job situation (and the lack of wobbliness in the rear department), I love my new flat. It's the one bit of stability in my life right now, and I'm clinging to it like a drowning polar bear to a chunk of iceberg. I love that I can watch the sunset behind the city from the POÄNG in my living room. I love re-organising my shamefully large DVD collection. I love puzzling over random pieces of furniture left out on the footpaths of Richmond, taking home what I can make use of (if I had have known about this new phenomenon of Melbournite's chucking out good furniture on a daily basis, I could have furnished my flat entirely from hard rubbish). I love the high pressure, hot-as-hell shower. I love that I can text my bro at random and meet up for coffee 5 minutes later. Good coffee, too.

Now, I just need to sort out my work situation. It looks like I will be going back to freelancing at the end of the month, and this time I need to sort out whether this is a viable long-term option for me, financially as well as emotionally. I'm a little worried about the possible isolation of living alone as well as working from home, but I'm sure there are lots of things/groups/events that I can sign up for to get me out of my lovely flat. I'm slowly rediscovering the fun stuff going on in Melbourne, which generally requires a little more research and forward planning than the stuff going on in London. Melbourne is revealing herself slowly to me, like a wary lover burnt by one too many heart-breaks.

I know the feeling, Melbourne. We are soul-mates, you and I.

Creamy pumpkin soup

2011-03-28T19:29:00.000+11:00

Suitable for Melbourne's very un-Summery weather.

1kg butternut squash (or other kind of sweet pumpkin), peeled and cut into chunks
1 clove garlic, finely sliced
1 red chilli, deseeded and finely sliced
olive oil
tarragon (fresh if possible)
375ml low fat milk
750ml low veggie stock
low fat sour cream

Toss the pumpkin in olive oil with salt and pepper, then roast at 200 for 20 minutes or until tender.

tip the pumpkin, chilli and garlic into a saucepan with the stock and milk and bring to the boil (don't panic if it separates). Reduce heat and simmer for 8 minutes.

Cool a little then whiz with a blender until smooth.

Serve with a dollop of sour cream and a few pinches of tarragon.

Ikea and me

2011-03-23T20:24:00.002+11:00

I moved in to my new flat on Saturday. A little one bedder in Richmond, grimy (not to mention cat-smelly) from the previous tenant. But finally, living on my own "like a grown up" in the words of a dear friend. I spent a day or two scrubbing it from top to bottom, calling out the plumber when it transpired that the toilet leaked when flushed, and the locksmith when I couldn't get back in. I spent my first night sleeping on the thermarest in the bare bedroom, marvelling at how quiet it was for an inner city pad and imagining burgulars making off with ~~all my worldly goods~~ my mac while I slept.

Since then I have spent several days racing through the local Ikea store, mostly backwards (which is by far the easiest way to do Ikea, trust me), back and forth and in and out as I kept thinking of more things that the flat could do with. Once by car, with my mum, once by foot, once by bike and once by tram. All modes of transport explored.

I know people love to hate Ikea, and moan about what a hellish way to spend a precious Saturday it is, what with the shlepping around endless mazes of showrooms, trying to locate the right brown box in an enormous warehouse full of brown boxes, topped off with the nightmare of having to assemble it yourself when you finally get home, allen keys and anonymous bits of plank strewn around the place as you tear your hair out etc. etc.

Well, I have a confession to make.

I actually like putting together Ikea stuff. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I love it. I love the challenge. I love that it's a few-hours-long-project that has a useful and beautiful outcome. I love puzzling over the universal instructions and the moment of "aha!" when you realise the bit you were trying to attach to the bob was upside down. I love they way everything lines up perfectly - so Swedish! - and that there is the exact amount of screws/doohickeys needed for the job, so that you can watch the packet empty as you near completion. It's very rewarding; mentally consuming as well as physically demanding - the perfect antidote to worrying too much about whether living on my own is really a good idea.

I have had lots of Ikea furniture over the years, but I've outdone myself this time: I'm now the proud owner (and assembler) of a MICKE desk with LAVER chair, ENGAN bed, half-price EKTORP couch, KILBY bookcase, and the one I've had my eye on forever, the coma-inducing POÄNG armchair. Just so it's not totally generic, there are a few of my own pieces around - namely a pretty cane chair that belonged to my Nan and a couple of funky retro stools from a good mate who also supplied me with a fridge and various kitchen implements.

I'm thinking about going back tomorrow to get some sheer curtains for the living room (which looks straight into my neighbours tightly venetianed windows), and to check out a bedside table I spotted in the bargain corner today. And I could use a better reading lamp in the bedroom.

I guess the only problem I have with Ikea is knowing when to say "when".

* * * * *

I am all too aware that this post goes against all the anti-consumerist stuff I've been writing about recently. My priority at the moment is to make myself a comfortable home, as cheaply as possible, without a car, and Ikea provided the perfect solution to that. Also, I'm hoping that these will be some long-lasting pieces of furniture - especially the armchair, which I hope to be rocking in my old age (literally).

The madness that is my life right now

2011-03-04T16:59:00.000+11:00

Gosh. To think that only a matter of months ago, I was drifting around Victoria, flitting around the great outdoors and having plenty of time to ponder and write and enjoy the squeaky green-ness of Spring.

My life could not be any more different right now!

Fast forward a few months and I've got so much going on, I feel like a robot spooling a constant reel of times, dates, names, appointments, interviews, invoices, login codes and timesheets. I am temping for 2 different agencies, freelancing, applying for jobs, squeezing in interviews and second interviews for various full-time roles, and hunting for a flat. Of all of these things, the most stressful has been - surprisingly - the flat hunting. Normally I quite like getting to peek at other people's spaces (by which I mean, judging their taste in art and soft furnishings), but flat hunting in Melbourne - as compared to flat hunting in London - is a b*tch. I mean, I know London is the capital of convenience (to wit: a convenience store on every single corner, those lazy poms) - but I think I got used to being spoilt for choice in the UK.

Problemo 1: Melbourne is experiencing a shortage of rental properties right now - which means that by the time you book a spot in your diary to see a place, it's probably already gone. By the time you've finished reading the ad, it's probably gone. I've booked in to see nine places already, and guess how many of those I actually got to see? Two.

Problemo 2: The above situation fosters a tribal-like competive atmosphere where you have to bid against other potential renters, and it's common to offer more than the advertised rental rate.

Problemo 3: A typical viewing time for a flat will be - for example - from 2.05pm to 2.20pm (truly). On a weekday. Hello real estates agents! Some of us have jobs? In order to be able to pay to rent a flat? Why only fifteen minutes, real estate agents?!

So I've had to cut down on those luxuries like "sleep" and "toilet breaks", but apart from that, I think I'm coping. I'm doing my best to be a world-class juggler. Is this what it's like to run a family? Because I have seriously reached my threshold of number-of-things-in-the-air-without-dropping-one-or-all-of-them.

It's not all bad though - I have had a few promising interviews (after diary-loads of ordinary ones) and I have committed my weekend to some military-style flat-stalking. Wish me luck. And Zzz'z.

The Accidental Environmentalist

2011-01-25T13:17:00.004+11:00

Dads, in my experience, seem to fall into one of two categories - the ones who rush out to buy the latest gadget as soon as it is available at the Apple store, bugger the expense; and the ones who will happily wait several years for their preferred brand of socks (Explorer) to go on sale (at $2 off).

My father falls squarely into the latter category.

As a teenager, my Dad's frugality was a sore point for myself and my brothers. We rolled our eyes at his home-made "security" system - silver-backed tape on the windows to fool the burgulars into thinking we actually had a security system - and derided him endlessly for taking his own snacks to the cinema (not even packaged snacks - apples and gladwrapped sultanas and almonds!). We begged him to buy some new clothes to replace his worn and mended overalls and paper-thin t-shirts. We refused to tell him how much a new pair of sneakers cost to avoid the outraged rant that would inevitably follow (as far as he was concerned, anyone who paid more than $10 for a pair of shoes was being ripped off).

It wasn't that he didn't have the money to spend. It wasn't that he was greedy and loved money; he wasn't miserly in that sense. It was just that he couldn't see the need for new things where old or existing things would suffice.

Naturally, we all reacted to this tight-arsedness in various ways. I became an avid bargain-hunter, who often lashed out on pretty, useless objects just for the joy of owning them. My middle bro became a model of generosity, a soft target for chuggers and friends who endlessly "forget" their wallets. And my youngest bro married a lovely girl who comes from a family where money is made to be enjoyed, who believe in buying the best quality that you can afford, and naturally he has swung over to that way of thinking.

My Dad never changed his position.

Over time, I've come to recognise the value in my Dad's frugality. I have even taken some lessons from him - I have no qualms about picking up items from a skip or hard rubbish collection, for instance. I will often make-do with whatever I have to hand, rather than replacing it with new. Buying anything over, say $100, causes me a little twinge of panic. Of course, I still buy stuff - but while my Dad taught me to wait for something to go on sale rather than pay full price (unless I really love it or it's shoes*), my WWOOFing experience taught me to question the impact of every purchase beyond the price tag.

Lately, I've come to see that my Dad has managed, unknowingly, to be what I like to call an Accidental Environmentalist. He's not motivated by some higher environmental or spiritual goal, he just doesn't like to spend money unnecessarily - and as a side-effect, without even trying, he's been saving the planet for fifty-nine years. His values are from a different era - the Great Depression, or post-War austerity, when everyone had to make-do and mend. A time before climate change and cheap long-haul flights; before shopping became our number 1 leisure activity; before the internet, even. Imagine that, kiddies.

At some point in the future, we are probably going to be forced to revert to a simpler, more localised way of living, because our current lifestyle is simply unsustainable. If this change occurs in his lifetime, my Dad will be in his element. People will be flocking to him for his words of wisdom; he will be a guru of frugal living.

"The best thing about them is they're already worn in!" (about dead man's pyjamas from the op-shop).
"I found this old hook at a construction site on the way home, it might come in handy" (twenty years later).
"You can eat the whole apple, you know. Are you going to eat that core?"

My Dad, the unwilling eco-warrior. We should all be more like him.

*Shoes. My weakness. I have large size 10-11 feet; there are hardly any shoes in my size and never on sale, so I will happily fork over full price for a decent pair that fit me. Or a gorgeous pair that don't quite fit me. Sorry, Dad. And planet. I'll try harder.

Me n' Heidi Klum...

2011-01-20T07:04:00.001+11:00

Sisters in colour pairings, yeah?

Heidi at the Golden Globes the other night...

...and a resin bracelet I made at a jewellery workshop recently. It's all about tan and hot pink, baby.

And so it is...

2010-12-30T18:59:00.003+11:00

The end of another year, eh? Nothing quite like it to make you feel a little melancholy/sentimental/panicked at the unstoppable passage of time all at once.

2010 - if it had a slogan, it would surely be The Future is Now! Unfortunately, hover boards and inter-galactic travel are still some way off (despite Richard Branson's best efforts).

For me, 2010 was a year packing some pretty hefty ch-ch-changes.

I got back together with a boy and in April we moved in together - in South London (let's not revisit the controversy). My lovely friend Gem and I were foiled in our churro quest in Barcelona, but I did discover a pharmacy that dispenses lollies as medicine. I watched a 20-20 match in St. Lucia and got mugged in Soufrière. I quit my stifling corporate job and bought a ticket back home to Australia, minus the boy. I shipped my Pashley (and other less important items) halfway around the world. I spent 3 happy months travelling around country Victoria, working on farms and enjoying the combination of dirty hands and complete lack of responsibility. I wrote my first short story. I caught up with old school friends and realised how things change, and don't change. I signed on for the dole, heavy with Working Class Guilt (not quite enough guilt for me to turn down the offer of money for nuttin', however).

And most happily, I witnessed my little bro - one of these days I'm going to have to get used to the idea that my "little bro" is a man, but that day has not yet come - get married. I got myself a sister! Two of them, in fact. We've already been shopping together and collaboratively given my mum a makeover, so as soon as we have our first bitch-fight over a "borrowed" dress I'm pretty sure it's official.

Just kidding, Stace n' Anny!

Ephemeral stuff I enjoyed this year:

Contra by Vampire Weekend. Boy, those fresh-faced preppy boys know their way around a crazy happy toon. Especially the joyful goose chase of Cousins.

Mad Men (series 1-3). TV was where it's at in 2010, man. Mad Men drew me and a bunch of other people in with its combination of understated acting, finely tuned writing and highly polished visual style. Refreshing and slightly bitter, like a good G&T.

30 Rock just keeps getting better and better, which is a relief - so many comedy series seem to cram an entire back catalogue of jokes into the first series and tail off noticably after that. Tina Fey, I salute you and your deceptively cute, quick-fire quirkiness.

The comedy of Eric Laempart. What a weird-lookin' spidery-horse man he is.

Latitude festival, a very chilled out festival in Suffolk, on which the sun uncharacteristically shone and shone. The could-have-been-tailor-made-for-me 2010 line-up was as good as it's ever gonna get, as far as I'm concerned.

High Violet, by The National. Really, anything he does with that deep sad voice is fine by me.

Moon. Yup, it was released in 2009, but I didn't get to see it until this year and it was awesome - a properly scary, claustrophobic, plot-driven film with great characters and a big idea behind it - just as great sci-fi should be (see Alien, Bladerunner, 2001, Silent Running, Gattaca).

I Speak Because I Can, by Laura Marling. This girl has a seriously gorgeous voice that belies her age (she was born in 1990, which is surely impossible or maybe illegal?). Check Devil's Spoke and Goodbye England - my very own 2010 anthem.

See you next year, Dreamers! I for one have my fingers crossed that 2011 is a deal-maker year.

Lovely lemon butter

2010-12-17T10:08:00.003+11:00

I love making Christmas presents. I like going against the consumer-zombie approach and making simple little gifts for people to enjoy. This lemon butter is perfect: simple to make, pretty to look at and bloody delicious smeared on toast (or straight out of the jar)...

125ml lemon juice
4 eggs (free range, please!)
125gm butter
220gm sugar (I used raw sugar, but caster would give a brighter yellow)
2 sterilised jam jars

Whisk the eggs and sugar together over a gentle heat until the sugar dissolves. Add the lemon juice and butter, and whisk constantly until the mixture thickens (about 15 mins). Do not allow to boil.

Pour into sterilised jars and label/decorate as you please! Keeps for 1-2 weeks in the fridge.

Pickled onions for Pops

2010-12-14T14:28:00.003+11:00

Whenever we went to the fish n' chip shop as kids, my Dad would invariably get a pickled onion in a brown paper bag to eat while we waited for our meal to be prepared. He would offer us a bite, and I would usually take a tentative nibble - it was so sour and so strong, I couldn't understand why he loved them so much, but I didn't want him to stop offering them to me.

Anyway, this Christmas I thought I'd make a jar of pickled onions for my Dad, so he has a ready store on hand. It's really ridiculously easy - although I haven't taste tested them yet, so here's hoping they're good!

1kg small pickling onions (I used normal brown onions as I couldn't find pickling ones)
white vinegar
salt
spices (I used a small handful of bay leaves and peppercorns)
sugar
preserving jar

Peel and trim the onions, being careful not to remove the whole root as this will keep the onion together. To make the brine, dissolve 100gm salt for every litre of water (you will need enough water to cover the onions in a bowl). Leave to soak overnight.

Drain and rinse the onions, pat dry with a cloth. Dissolve about 4tbs sugar in the vinegar by warming gently over the stove. Add the spices to your own taste and strength, then leave to cool completely. Sterilise the jar by washing it thoroughly in warm, soapy water then placing it into a slow oven for 15 minutes or so. Remove the jar and let it cool down enough that you can touch it, then place your onions in, pouring the vinegar over the top so that all the onions are covered.

Seal and store for up to 3 months (apparently, the longer you leave them, the better they are - ie. the more face-pulling will happen when your dad eats one).

The Hot List - All Australian Edition

2010-12-10T17:40:00.010+11:00

Mr. Sean Micallef. Silver. Foxy. Funny surreal, as opposed to funny weird. Currently pantomiming as a game-show host on My Gen, but I'm swooning over old episodes of the Micallef P(r)ogram(me).

Mr. Angus Sampson. Husky-voiced and hairy-faced, with an extremely dry sense of humour. How could I not love him?

Loving Mr. Charlie Pickering's slicked-back hipster look on the 7pm project. And he rides, man (or at least, is prepared to pose with a bike).

Mr. Paul Dempsey, lead singer of Something For Kate. I first fell in love with his haunting, melancholy voice after seeing him play barefoot at the Corner a long time ago. Doesn't smile often, but when he does...

Oh, Hamish. Oh, Andy. Oh, Hamish n' Andy. How could I ever choose between you? The correct answer is, you can both be my boyfriend (see Clement, Jemaine and McKenzie, Bret).

Tales of Country Vic, Part 4: The Full On Hippy Experience

2010-12-03T12:12:00.009+11:00

Whoa. Whoa. I just need a few minutes/days/weeks to process my last WWOOF experience.

I spent the last week or so with a bloke called Hamish who lives in Fryers Forest, Fryerstown (15 minutes from the thriving alternative township of Castlemaine), where he manages the forest and teaches Permaculture. He laughed off the suggestion that it was a "hippy commune" - but if that's not a hippy commune mate, I don't know what is. I guess the fact that most of the residents have jobs and cars makes them somewhat different from a 70's-style "drop out, tune in, turn on" hippy - but for a suburban gal like me it was still something of a mind-f*ck to live in a community that has been carefully designed and built by its residents in preparation for future environmental collapse; where all the houses are connected either physically (with windows and doors between individual homes) or by a radio intercom system; where 95% of food is grown, foraged or hunted; where nothing new is purchased if at all possible; where cupboards are scarily bare except for a few recycled jars of organic, locally sourced spices.

Pathetically, I think the empty pantry was the most unsettling part for my food-obsessed self. I can deal with composting toilets, piss-weak solar-powered-showers, and sleeping open to the elements, but an empty pantry?! Panic stations!

One of the most confronting moments for me was when I was on my own in the house one evening, and realised I would have to prepare my own dinner from what was available in the garden and the very sparse cupboard. After the initial hyperventilating fit, I built up the fire, par-boiled some diced potatoes and fried them up with some Cavolo Nero and silverbeet leaves, and sprinkled over some grated cheese and an array of fresh herbs. And you know what? It was fine. In fact, it was better than fine, it was good.

A little lesson for me there in "what you think you need vs. what you actually need".

It was interesting to monitor my emotional response over the course of my week "outside the system"; from initially a little shell-shocked, to intrigued and wanting to absorb as much information as possible, to feeling hopeful for a greener, powered-down, local-community-based future, to eventually feeling a bit overwhelmed and tired of feeling bad about my current lifestyle and life choices. I guess it takes a particular strength of character to reject the casually abundant (and ridiculously wasteful) lifestyle on offer to the average affluent-Western-middle-class-white-dude.

It was eye-opening to say the least, and I have a huge amount of respect for people like Hamish who have the self-discipline and vision to live like that. Then again, it's a pretty exclusive movement whose more hardcore members have a certain piousness that's a little hard to stomach. I came away thinking I want to make positive changes in my life in order to live in a more sustainable way, but removing myself from the system altogether? Not for me, not right now.

So what changes can I realistically make? Well, I can read up on possible future scenarios. I can buy less and make sure what I do buy is made to last. I can check where my food comes from and source local produce. I can be active in my local community. I can grow stuff (I can grow stuff!). Gardening is magic, I am fast learning.

But first, I need a garden. My banana passionfruit seedlings need to have somewhere to grow and spread and bear fruit. Project next: home (of some description), with some land (of some description), with a local community (of some description).

Oh, and paid work (of some description).

Apple Clafoutis (that's right, I said Clafoutis)

2010-11-22T09:49:00.002+11:00

Kind of like bread and butter pudding, but without the bread. And with apple. And way yummier.

6 medium apples (900g), peeled, cored and chopped into chunks
(doesn't matter what type or if they're a bit old and soft)
50gm butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup caster sugar (I used raw)
1/3 cup plain flour
1/3 cup self raising flour
4 eggs, beaten
2/3 cup milk
2/3 cup cream
80gm butter, melted
1 tsp vanilla

Heat oven to 200°. Melt the butter in a saucepan over a low heat, then add the apples and cook until well softened (cooking time will depend on the type of apples used). Add brown sugar, cook 5 minutes until caramelised. Place in a greased dish to cool.

Meanwhile, combine caster sugar and flour. Gradually whisk in remaining ingredients until smooth, then pour over the apples and bake for forty minutes, until golden and risen.

Amazingly delicious; I had requests for seconds approximately 15 minutes after it left the oven.

Tales of Country Vic, Part 3: That's more like it!

2010-11-12T14:14:00.008+11:00

After the back breaking job of digging up a septic tank with my third hosts (after which the wife took pity on me and gave me some very easy watering and seed planting to do), I was fortunate enough to have two fantastic experiences with my next couple of stays.

First up was Rain, Hayne and Shine in Bittern, just a few stops out from the end of the Frankston line (on the diesel train). Sue, Ian and their staff look after all sorts of donated and reared animals and do "mobile farm" visits, as well as the farm itself being open to visitors 364 days of the year. Their home was a warm and happy place where the WWOOFers are treated as an extended, international family - which included two Swedish sisters and two Korean boys practising their English while I was there.

And the animals... oh, the animals! Travelling as I am at the tail-end of an incredibly bountiful and wet Spring, the country is bursting with life and growth, and the farm was no exception. It was brimming with gorgeous creatures who were used to being handled by lots of grubby little hands, so it was absolute heaven for me - bottle feeding calves and lambs, playing with the hilarious and nibbly kids (the cheekiest of whom I seriously thought about sneaking home in my Samsonite), catching silky chooks, holding tiny fluffy bunnies, feeding a baby magpie whose mother had abandoned it (probably because she couldn't take any more of it's unceasing demands for a constant supply of worms and crushed snails), and walking the dingoes. Yes, dingoes. As in, the ones that ate Meryl Streep's bay-bey.

After a quick break back at home, I was off again - this time to French Island, a short ferry ride from Stony Point (or Cowes on Philip Island). After a little hiccup with the ferry - Melbourne transport have helpfully arranged to have the ferry leave just a few minutes prior to the train arriving, so that you can watch it sail away from the comfort of the jetty - I arrived and was welcomed by my hosts, two amazing, pioneering and inspirational women in their late fifties who run a farm where they keep llamas and alpacas and grow olives.

French Island is such an interesting place. First of all, the population is around 90 (90!!), with 70% of the island being National Parkland. Secondly, even though it is a couple of hours from Melbourne city, it feels like a very remote outpost - there is no power and no water; in fact no council and no police. I guess that might make some people nervous, but I enjoyed the slightly lawless feel of the place and the self-sufficient, adventurous and community-minded spirit of the people who live there.

The farmhouse I stayed at runs on solar and wind power, with diesel generators for back-up in Autumn, and they have a composting toilet which, for the record, was cleaner and less smelly than a conventional flush toilet. Every day there are fresh eggs from the hens, fresh unpasturised milk from the jersey cow down the road, and fresh food direct from the garden. They wake early, work hard but at a managable pace, eat well, care for their animals beautifully, are active in their community, and live their lives mindfully.

Jane and Alison showed me that a "life well lived" can be crafted and nurtured and made, with nothing more than good intentions, careful thought and a bit of work.

Definitely worth putting up with the mosquitoes/charging bulls for.

Tales of Country Vic, Part 2: The Dark Side

2010-10-28T10:25:00.006+11:00

So, as described below, my first two WWOOFing adventures went like a dream; lovely people who welcomed me into their homes, gave me some nice-to-pleasantly-grubby jobs, with lots of time off.

My third WWOOF experience was with a Swiss/Australian family with four kids under 8. All adorable as heck, from affectionate, smiley baby Tya all the way up to the pretty, imperious Yaysia. They lived on a big, sloping property in a magical, leafy, mountainy, rivery spot, with no TV and a hand-made pizza oven. It was a deliberately child-centric household - and as a direct result (I believe) of being listened to and considered equally important as their parents, the children were well-behaved, clever, and utterly secure in themselves. It was idyllic.

My first day, and the father of this little Swiss-Oz clan gives me my first project: find the septic tank. OK, I say, I like digging. It's in this vicinity, he says, pointing to where the plumber has spray-painted a patch of violets bright pink. Alright, I say, undaunted. About half a metre down. No problem.

First, I relocate the violets. Easy-peasy. Dig them up in neat square patches, gentle with the roots, carry them down to a new designated spot halfway down the slope. Under the soft soil of the violet patch, I hit clay. Hard-packed, typical Victorian-style clay, the kind I used to eat as a baby while my parents sweated over their own back garden. No worries, I think, and put my back into it. Then I hit the rocks.

Lord, the rocks. Have you ever tried digging up a patch of clay that is filled with rocks? With a shovel? It's virtually impossible. I struggle on fruitlessly for several hours.

I need a pick, I tell the owner, when he returns briefly from his job of pruning branches that are overhanging the spa. Nup, he replies. I can't have you going through the tank. You'll just have to find the edges of the rocks and dig them out. OK. I'm not defeated yet, I am working up a good sweat but I still have some energy. So I try to find the edges of the rocks that I keep hitting every time I try to jam the shovel into the ground, but it's pretty hard because this ground is basically 80% rock; if there are edges down there, they are obscured by more rocks.

So I keep relocating more violets, making the hole wider and wider, and slowly, incredibly slowly, I manage to dig out some rocks, smaller fist-sized ones at first, then I keep widening the hole until I find the edges of some of the bigger rocks. By this time I am trembling from the constant jarring of the spade handle that vibrates up my shoulder, and I have to stop regularly to catch my breath. Sweat is pouring off me. Determined (pig-headededly so), I keep going, angry with the rocks now as I am with the owner for palming off this sh*t job. There is a lot of internal swearing as Fyn has decided he is king of the growing mound of dirt and rocks piled next to me, and babbles away happily unaware of my struggles.

I manage to unearth half of one rock that is the size of a basketball - and the rest of it is still lodged in the clay. I slam the shovel into the clay around it again and again, trying to find a bit that gives. There is none. I go wider. The rock reveals itself to be the size of two basketballs. I collapse on the swing set, heart pounding, face red. The owner comes up and asks me if I could use a break. I look at him, unable to speak, and nod.

"Why don't you and Sofia (the Finnish au pair who is also staying with them) go and collect the logs I cut last weekend down the back of the property, and bring them up to the wood shed."

Sofia and I spend the rest of the afternoon lugging barrowfuls of logs uphill. We take it in turns to heave the barrow, but the other person still needs to pull it from the front as it is so heavy it is splitting under the weight.

I know how it feels.

* * * * *

There is one saving grace at the end of this sorry tale: this man; this man whose vague, hippy, work-shy ways are seriously starting to grate on me, this man who nearly breaks my back by working me so hard on my first day, spends his weekdays working at the Cadbury factory.

After carting twelve loads of wood, I stagger into the lounge room, where his wife looks a little stunned at my appearance and tells me I look shattered. I am too tired to reply, so I just smile weakly and collapse into the nearest chair with a groan, legs trembling and back aching.

Without a word, she hurries into the kitchen to collect the box of chocolate that they keep for WWOOFers, brimming with Time Outs and Crunchies, and places it next to my chair.

Jamie's sexy Swedish buns (for Anny)

2010-10-22T16:43:00.005+11:00

Massive, messy, delicious blueberry buns for those who don't mind getting their hands stuck into some claggy dough. Courtesy of Mr. Jamie Oliver.

For the dough:
1 x 7gm packet yeast
375ml warm milk
1 tsp ground cardamon (I replaced with ginger)
2 large eggs (I used eggs from the farm I stayed at in Kyabram)
pinch salt
200gm caster sugar (I used soft brown)
50gm melted butter
800gm plain flour, plus extra
15gm unsalted butter
75gm demerara sugar

For the filling
400gm blueberries (I used frozen)
75gm caster sugar
1 orange (from my the tree in my parents backyard)

Stir the yeast into the warm milk, and set aside. Beat the eggs and salt in a large bowl, then add the spice, sugar, melted butter, 500gm of the flour, and the milk and yeast mixture. Stir constantly as you add everything in until you have a thick, gluey consistency. Mix in the remaining flour until you have a dough. Use clean, floured hands to bring the dough together, then dust the top with flour. Cover the bowl with Glad Wrap and leave in a warm place (like Melbourne) to prove for an hour or so, until doubled in size and full of air pockets.

Meanwhile, put the blueberries and sugar into a bowl. Add finely grated oranze zest and a squeeze of the juice, then mash together with a potato masher. I had to put mine in the microwave so it got pretty wet, but it's better if you keep it chunky rather than juicy. Line a large baking tray (or 2 small ones) with greased baking paper.

Dust a clean surface and your hands with flour and gently stretch and pull the risen dough out until it's a bit bigger than A4. The next bit is very messy, be warned! Don't be worried if it seems quite wet. Using a slotted spoon, spread half of the blueberry mixture on to the dough, without using too much juice. Pull the sides of the dough up and into the middle like an envelope, and keep turning and pushing the dough together. Mine was getting very messy at this stage, so I didn't play with it too much.

Cut the dough into 8 portions, then attempt to shape them into rolls by whatever method you prefer - I didn't even attempt Jamie's instructions to stretch them into a sausage shape and then knot it, I just curled them around into a vague roll shape as best I could. Arrange them on the tray/s, leaving plenty of room for them to spread. Push your fingers into the top of each one to make a well, and spoon in a few of the remaining berries. Spoon over a little of the blueberry juice, then sprinkle with the demerara sugar. Cover with a damp towel and leave to prove for about 20 minutes in a warm place.

Preheat your oven to 180°C. Once the buns have risen, cook them for about 25 minutes, until golden and crispy. Serve them hot and delicious, or with a little butter, to your loved ones.

Tales of country Vic

2010-10-13T21:42:00.005+11:00

Well. What an amazing few weeks it's been so far. I've only been on two WWOOF assignments, but I am absolutely loving everything about it - the change of pace, the change of scenery, the new experiences and people, the scratches on my arms and the dirt under my fingernails.

I've planted Bok Choy seedlings, heaved a barrow, laid down a big area of wet newspapers and mulch ready for planting, washed dogs, baked bread and cleared weeds up to my waist. I've taken a V-Line train. I've squashed wolf spiders and eyeballed a croc (leering from behind a thick pane of glass, mind you).

I've met some great characters - young Sam, the inspiration for my first written piece for the creative writing class I'm doing. Elvis the growling rooster. Nettie, the woman with a thousand lives and a heart of gold; and her two grown boys who brought me flowers from the roadside (sweethearts, both of them). Marshmallow the newborn calf with the cutest pink nose you've ever seen. Brucey the overenthusiastic border collie. And Screech the cockatoo who thought he was a cat, sidling up to you and resting his head on your leg until you stroked the downy feathers under his crest.

The warmth and generosity of the people I've stayed with has been a pleasant surprise, but the beauty of the Victorian countryside has left me open-mouthed. Where have I been all these years? After heavy rainfalls all over the state last night, on the train journey home I looked out of the window and actually caught my breath at the sight of the trees rising out of the vast pools of still, muddy water.

I have seen some beautiful sights on my travels, but this was something else entirely, something that pulled at my heart and said you belong here. It only took 7.5 years away for me to realise it.

Hipster begone

2010-09-11T17:25:00.009+10:00

Are we witnessing the dying days of the hipster? It seems that the back has well and truly lashed on those particular dudes. Much as I love perusing Unhappy Hipsters however, I would be very sad to see this particular strain of trendies go the way of the Plesiosaur.

(I'm with Dinosaur Boy - when are they going to bring a 'saur back? Jurassic Park was released in 1993 for gods sake. That's 17 years you've had, scientists.)

Ahem.

Why would I miss this bunch of vacuous, image-obsessed, cooler-than-thou twats, you ask? Well, for a start, without hipsters life would be a lot more beige. Who but a hipster would catch my eye by striding past wearing lace leggings with leather shorts and yellow suspenders? Who else would have the chutzpah to wear glassless national health specs, with a tipped back trilby and a deadly serious bitchface? What brightens up an inner city footpath more than a brace of beautiful, sleek, and completely impractical fixie bikes?

Without hipsters, how would we know what the latest trends are, if only so that we have occassion to reaffirm our own inherent uncoolness?

I think it's dangerous to stray into the territory of naming that which is cool - as soon as you (meaning I) mention it, you can guarantee it's officially over and the hip kids will sneer in your general direction for your sad inability to keep up. I'm reminded of a scene in the Mighty Boosh (movie, please!) where the bible of cool - Cheekbone magazine - is so current that it's delivered by ninjas every three hours.

Far easier to name that which is not cool*:

Being jolly. Being simple (emotionally, not intellectually). Being a dag. Laughing (unironically). Laughing so much you cry. Laughing so much you snort. Watching action/rom-com blockbusters. Being alone. Not caring about fashion. Buying clothes because they are cheap. LOLcats. Being enthusiastic. Excercise. Scoffing food. Ordering lemonade at a bar. Not drinking. Ordering tap water at a restaurant. Smiling at strangers. Talking to older people. Older people in general (by which I mean over 25's). Not owning a mobile phone. Not owning a laptop. Trash mags. The X-Factor. Modern day children's television shows. Reading Stephen King. Reading John Grisham. $2 shops. Cheerful decor. MP3 players that are not ipods. Ringtones. Living in the suburbs. Shopping malls. Being awake before 10am (unless you're still going from the night before). Decaffeinated coffee. Tea with milk and sugar. Being in the normal weight range. Calling drugs by their actual names.

I could go on - this is familiar territory for me - but I think I'd better leave it there for now.

I'll leave you with this ode to regionally specific hipsterdom by a new Melbourne-based discovery of mine:

*Some, but not all, of these may or may not apply to me. I'm not here to judge, just to opinionate. The last sentence may or may not be true, subject to objectivity.

Melbourne Living

2010-09-06T10:48:00.004+10:00

Hello from rainy Melbourne! Man, it's good to be back. Apart from a little wobble on the plane, when I had to lock myself in the loos and have a little cry, I have been loving every minute of being back in the homelands. In fact, I find myself wondering why I didn't come back sooner - bugger the passport, I was so ready to come home two years ago, when the exchange rate meant I would be 100% better off than I am now. Never mind. I'm here now, and I am thrilled to be ensconced in my family once more, and free to think about what to do next.

Free! What a wonderful and scary thing to be so unencumbered. I am consciously not looking for full time work, as I want to try some different things rather than getting stuck straight into the work/rent/gym/sleep treadmill. WWOOFing is one thing I'm taking steps towards trying for a bit. I love the idea of getting properly dirty on a daily basis, switching my overactive brain off and doing a physical job for a while. Writing, obviously... but possibly in some sort of semi-professional capacity. Study? Maybe. Teaching? Maybe.

But in the meantime, for the next 3 weeks or so, I'm lucky enough to be house sitting for friends of mine who live in a lovely property at the foot of the Dandenong Ranges, overlooking miles of hills and gumtrees, with kookaburras, rosellas and cockatoos making daily visits. I'll have nothing to do but take care of their two small mutts, sip mugs of hot tea and receive various visitors who want to escape the city for a day or two.

I can't wait.

* * * * *

nb. this post was prompted by a friend of our family, who admonished me for not updating my blog for a while! Apologies auntie Chek, hope you guys are all coping with the deluge.

My hips don't lie (but I wish they would)

2010-08-07T00:35:00.016+10:00

Is it time for a nineties revival already? What is the deal with fashion reviving an era that only ended TEN YEARS AGO? At this rate, we'll have to start wearing fashion from last week with a side order of irony in order to be current.

I couldn't quite get on board with the eighties retro look - I lived it the first time around, kids, and despite what you may have been led to believe, it was not remotely pretty, at least not in my outer-suburban town. It was less off the shoulder sweat tops with leggings in muted greys, and more high-waisted turquoise tracksuit with lace stripes that your mum sewed on.

Nineties flashbacks though, those I can appreciate. Ahh, the nineties - grunge was god, girls could embrace their tomboyishness, everyone recycled (fashion and rubbish), shoes were stompy rather than... stripper-ish. Customising was big. It was actually uncool to wear designer labels, and if your wardrobe was mostly gleaned from op shops then you were far cooler than the preppy kids with money.

Oh how times change.

Ever since I started noticing the nineties stuff in the shops, I have been feverishly obsessed with tracking down the perfect pair of ankle boots before I leave London. An update of the black elastic-sided combat boots I wore in the nineties, generally with a long skirt (these were unsexy post-AIDS times, remember). I have a very clear picture in my head of what my new boots should look like: tan leather of good quality, lace-up with hooks at the top, possibly but not necessarily brogue style, round or almond toed with a flat or low heel. In a size 9. Yup, that's one bigger than they make them for women (generally). GREAT. Wish me luck, y'all.

As well as the last minute perfect-shoe-finding panic, I'm having to contend with a little wardrobe dilemma in the shape of a smidge of extra weight. Alright, more like a dollop. Make that a sack. I have been taking medication which, while it is a godsend for helping me cope with my anxiety and sleeplessness, is notorious for making you stack on the pounds. I have put on somewhere between 10-12 kilos since I started taking it, and although I'm still in the healthy weight range for my height, I have put on enough padding around my middle that I don't fit into most of my pants anymore and the sight of my new profile in the mirror makes me... well, kind of anxious.

Full disclosure: I am well aware of the body issues that most girls suffer from a young age, and I feel very lucky to have never had to worry about my size or weight up to this point. Don't think I got off lightly - I just skipped straight to obsessing instead about my terrible teeth, huge chin and complete lack of cleavage.

This new figure has, however, given me a new insight into the life of the vast majority of privileged western women in that I find myself:

1. Dressing strategically rather than haphazardly
2. Painfully aware of how many calories are in that cupcake with frosting staring at me from the bakery counter
3. Obsessing about my size and weighing myself daily (I can't believe I am displaying this classic neurotic woman behaviour, and yet I am unable to stop).

I'm reluctantly coming to terms with my new fuller shape, even though I'm a little nervous that I'll never lose it now that it's there. But I'm learning to live with it. Thank god for loose dresses and leggings. Hopefully by next Winter - a good year away as I'm skipping a season by moving back to Oz in Spring - things will be back to normal, in every respect.

With any luck I'll be wearing those tan ankle boots while riding my pashley around Melbourne, looking like a right nineties-loving librarian.

I'm cheating on MelbourneDreaming...

2010-08-06T00:27:00.003+10:00

...with One Happy Moment Every Day, my new(ish) blog chronicling the little crumbs of raspberry flavoured joy in the economy-sized bran of everyday life.

Bikes, bikes, everywhere!

2010-08-05T21:00:00.008+10:00

London has been taken over by hire-bikes! I first spotted a bank of shiny new bikes sitting along Southwark Street behind the Tate a few weeks ago, and was so entranced by the spectacle that I stopped to take a closer look.

It turns out that this is another of Boris' initiatives to get Londoners on their bikes: 6,000 brand new hire-bikes located at 400 stations throughout the capital. You sign up to the scheme online, pay an access fee (which starts at £1 for 24 hours) plus a usage charge - which is nada for the first half hour and pretty reasonable thereafter - and off you go! You can return the bike to any docking station, and if the one nearest to you happens to be full, you can request an extra 15 minutes to find another one close by. They are dotted all over London - I have noticed at least 5 on my way to work - so it shouldn't be too arduous to pick up or return a bike no matter where you are.

The bikes themselves look to be built for comfort and practicality rather than speed. The low bar, enclosed chain, fat tires, wide seat and wire basket on the front make them quite girl-friendly, but their no-nonsense sturdiness and dark blue colour makes them look more like a unisex work bike.

To some this scheme may seem wildly optimistic - I was a little wary myself, thinking that most of the people who want to cycle in London probably already do so; knowing that a similar scheme in Paris has been marred by thefts and vandalism; not to mention how the bikes will cope with being left outdoors through the London Winter - but in fact, I've seen lots of people using them out and about (a mix of men and women, usually in business attire) and it is very cheering to see these smart new bikes being used as they were intended. I haven't seen any cases of vandalism yet (apart from - shock horror! - a box of fried chicken left in the basket of a parked bike), but it's inevitable that some will fall victim to the rougher elements of London. I sincerely hope those tyres are slash-proof, especially the ones stationed just off the Elephant & Castle roundabout.

Despite my concern for the innocence of these lovely and thus-far pristine bikes, I truly hope that they become an iconic symbol of London, similar to the red buses or black cabs. There is something very British about cycling; it implies a free spirit and somewhat eccentric outlook to sail along on a contraption that has changed very little since it's invention in the 19th Century amidst the roar of trucks, cars, cabs and buses. And anything that introduces more people to the many pleasures of getting in the saddle is a very fine thing indeed.

Cute funny men being funny (and cute)

2010-08-04T22:32:00.001+10:00

The power of one

2010-08-03T21:05:00.006+10:00

Sure, it's lonely sometimes; especially when you are single in a world that seems to be cluttered with couples and families. But being alone can also be great: calming, productive, peaceful, happy. This lovely little video reminds me of all the great things about spending time in my own company (something I've been doing a lot of lately).

Homecoming outpourings

2010-07-27T01:28:00.001+10:00

I've recently made the momentous decision to return home to Melbourne. After 7.5 years in London-town, the last few years of which have been an almost vertical uphill struggle, it's well and truly time. A lot of people said "you'll just know when you're ready to go home", and that has turned out to be true. In fact, I've known it for quite some time. However, I gritted my teeth and focused on acquiring my UK passport - my own personal Holy Grail - with all of the hoops and hurdles and waiting and hoping that that entailed. When I finally got my hands on that little red book, it was an incredible relief. I don't feel English. I never will be English. I will always be Australian. But to have that option of returning to Europe should I choose to, to live and work without threat of a goverment enforced end-date, is a wonderous thing.

So now, to the business of packing up my life here, closing accounts, shipping the 7.5 years worth of crap that I've managed to accumulate - and saying goodbye.

Goodbye London.

I don't know how I'm going to live without you. Oh boy, you've gotten under my skin in the time I've been here. You've gotten so far under my skin, you're in my blood. You're part of me now, like my organs are part of me. How will I function if I physically remove myself from you? How long does it take to recover from a Londonectomy? Or maybe it's a Londonotomy: how will my mind work without the endless wonders of this city to stimulate it?

Goodbye London.

I love so much about you - the mass of diversity and the endless cultural clashes and mish-mashes that make you so colourful and so wonderful. I will miss your distinctive, erring on eccentric style. I will miss the dreamily beautiful Hampstead Heath, especially the old-fashioned tranquility of the Ladies Bathing Pond. I will miss the music, all that incredible music being made in bedrooms and basement bars and old concert halls and under railway arches all over this capital. I will miss your faded glamour, the cheekiness and good spirits that fly in the face of all the odds. I will miss the travel.

Goodbye London.

I won't miss the Winter. God, no. But I'll miss the glory of the Summer, the palpable sense of excitement that comes with the weather finally turning after another bitch-cold Winter. It was so great of you to put on this spectacular Summer, London - the best since I arrived here all those years ago - to see me out.

I won't miss Ryanair. I won't miss the horror of peak hour tube journeys. I won't miss the litter and filth and grey, the abiding grey that characterises this city. I won't miss the noisy, steaming, heaving pubs. Above all, I won't miss having to fly halfway around the world to see my family for a few short weeks every year. And to be honest, that is my number one reason for returning home after all this time - to be closer to my family, whom it has pained me to be away from (and whose pain my being away has no doubt caused). I can't imagine how lovely it will be to be once again enmeshed in my family's ever-expanding life. A wedding in October; my little brother marrying his long-term girlfriend. I can't wait.

Goodbye London.

But man, it's going to be hard to leave this town. It's going to be hard starting over, but actually leaving is the first and most wrenching step.

Goodbye London.

I will always carry the scar from where I removed you, to remind me of these years.

Week 13: Low-fat summer berry polenta cake

2010-07-23T23:49:00.006+10:00

Possibly the last of the Cake Zone Cakes ever owing to termination of said agreement. Sadness.

As a gesture of goodwill, the lovely Dave made me one last cake to remind me what I'm going to be missing in my fuzzy, solo, Australia-bound future.

175gm margarine or low-fat spread
225gm golden caster sugar
3 eggs, beaten
150gm polenta valsugana (instant polenta from what I can tell)
100gm ground almonds
1tsp vanilla extract
2tsp baking powder
400gm raspberries
300g blueberries
zest and juice of one lemon

Cream the margarine and 175gm of the sugar together. Add the beaten eggs and polenta and beat until well combined. Stir in ground almonds, vanilla and baking powder. Gently fold in half of the raspberries and blueberries with the lemon zest.

Pour into a lined cake tin and cook at 180 degrees for 35-40 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean.

Meanwhile, prepare the syrup by heating the juice of the lemon with the remaining 50gm sugar by boiling in a saucepan for 1-2 minutes. Make small holes all over the surface of the cake with a skewer and pour the warm syrup evenly over the top.

If serving as dessert, invert the slices so that the fruit is at the top and decorate with the leftover berries and some marscapone.

Look: *** Lovely yellow, sticky looking cake.
Taste: **** Very lemony, which is always a good thing in my book. Nice and light tasting, perfect for Summer.
Texture: **** Syrupy and soft, with lots of interesting stuff going on - soft berries, crumbly polenta and the lovely sticky lemon syrup.

OK this is just getting ridiculous

2010-07-21T00:43:00.004+10:00

Even the New Yorker is in on the geek lovin'!!

Ah, graphs and geeks. Just like peanut butter and jam. Or vegemite and cheese, if you're a savoury person.

Things I've learned while cycling

2010-07-07T19:00:00.005+10:00

1. Babies/toddlers can't get enough of you. If your kid doesn't look up and smile ecstatically at each bike that goes past, pointing their chubby fingers and saying "buh! buh!", then I'm sorry but there's something wrong with them and you really should check in with your paediatrician.

2. Cowl neck tops and cycling do not mix, especially when pedalling into a strong headwind.

3. Likewise wrap dresses.

4. In order of danger: trucks, buses, white van men, pedestrians, 4WDs, young men whose cars reek of marijuana, sedans, hatchbacks, Smart cars.

Red lights make me see red

2010-07-06T19:45:00.006+10:00

Let's be clear about this: today, as I do every single working day when it's not raining, I broke the law. I, Kelly Sarah Reynolds, run red lights. Not just occasionally, but every single day that I ride my bike. Normally, I don't think twice about this, for several reasons:

1. It's far safer for cyclists to cross with pedestrians rather than battling the traffic as it takes off, especially if you need to turn right;

2. it means you don't lose momentum, and if you are cycling over 11 miles everyday, that lost momentum at every intersection adds up to one big pain in the ass; and

3. I don't like rules. They make me feel hemmed in, and my natural response is to bust out. Rules are for game shows and beauty pageants.

Today, however, as I rounded one particular corner, I came across a police car sitting in the line of traffic going in the opposite direction. AWKWARD. There seemed no point stopping and backing up, so I just pedalled gingerly on, holding my breath and waiting for the sound of sirens to puncture the early morning air.

And then... nothing. The sweet, sweet sound of silence.

Obviously they were on their way to something more important than busting a lone cyclist committing a victim-less crime - like a stapler theft at a nearby office? Or some blatant littering involving a piece of gum rolled up in some paper? Or an illegal release of a helium balloon that hadn't been approved by the local council?

I couldn't help but wonder - I have been watching a lot of SaTC lately - how great was that show? - the movies really don't do it justice - whether there wasn't a better way to organise the road so that cyclists could legally cross at the lights, separately from cars and without endangering pedestrians.

So here's my idea: continue the cycle lanes (which are already demarcated on the left hand side of most roads) through intersections, and add a green "cycle crossing" light next to the green walking man. This already exists in some random places, but there aren't defined places for cyclists and pedestrians, and it's not really clear whether it's legal for cyclists to ride through these lights or whether we're supposed to get off and walk. The pedestrian crossing lane would take prominence over the cycling lane, so that cyclists would have to slow down and give way to pedestrians, but if it was clear, they could just pedal straight through. I think this would go some way towards making the road safer for cyclists and pedestrians, and encourage more cyclists onto the road (which is what every city should be aiming for).

You're welcome, London.

Tightrope and shoes

2010-07-05T20:33:00.001+10:00

How cute is she?? And those shoes, man. Love.

Epic insult compilation

2010-07-02T01:05:00.003+10:00

*strong language warning!*

My personal favourite: "people that talk in metaphors aughta shampoo my crotch" (Jack Nicholson in some film where he still had hair and no gut)

Not too shabby skinny chocka-mocha cake

2010-06-25T00:01:00.003+10:00

This cake is properly low-fat (unlike this pretender). Amazingly, there is no fat in the cake itself apart from the eggs, and not much at all in the icing. In fact, I was so worried about the cake being too dry that I added the crème fraiche and raspberries at the last minute, which I figured would make it more palatable as well as looking prettier. Actually it turned out quite nice and soft (if slightly chewy), and very light, despite collapsing in the middle a bit! Nothing a dollop of crème fraiche couldn't disguise...

3 large eggs
85g golden caster sugar
70g plain flour
1 tbsp cornflour
2 tbsp cocoa
½ tsp baking powder

For the icing:
40g dark chocolate
1 tbsp strong black coffee
100g low-fat yogurt
2 tbsp icing sugar

To finish:
Low fat crème fraiche
raspberries (or any other berries/fruit pieces)

Heat oven to 180c. Lightly grease and line the base of circular cake tin. Whisk the eggs and sugar until light and fluffy (takes about 10 mins using an electric hand whisk). Mine never quite got beyond the frothy stage, so I would recommend whizzing the eggs before adding the sugar.

Sift the flour, cornflour, cocoa and baking powder and fold in gently. Pour mixture into the tin and bake about 25-30 mins, or until it is well risen and has begun to shrink away from the sides of the tin.

Microwave the chocolate and coffee together for 20-30 seconds until the chocolate has melted. Gently stir until smooth, then cool slightly. Beat the yogurt and icing sugar until smooth, then mix in the chocolate and spread over the top, letting it run down the sides.

I let the icing set in the fridge overnight, then added the crème fraiche and raspberries before serving.

Just another day in the big, bad city

2010-06-22T19:12:00.005+10:00

Pedalling to work this morning in the peak hour rush, I see a couple of stretch limo's ahead trying to pull out into the traffic. The first one gets though, but the second nearly runs into the cyclist in front of me and honks his horn - even though he's supposed to give way. Dickhead. I keep pedalling, following the first cyclist and giving the limo a wide berth, but unbelievably he is still pulling out and nearly knocks me down 'cos he's too busy staring after the first cyclist. I veer sharply to the right to avoid being crushed by his huge fender, and yell "HEY, WATCHIT!! DICKHEAD!" and pedal past him, shooting him a furious glare all the while.

I pedal on, shaky but righteous. I miss the turn-off in my rattled state and adjust the map in my head to compensate.

Hmm, those people in the back of the limo didn't look very happy. Aren't you supposed to be having fun in a limo? Isn't that the whole point of a limousine, getting tipsy in the back of a big car on your way to a party?

It's pretty early to be going to a party.

Oh my god, I think I just swore at some people in a hearse.

I am definitely going to hell.

6 ultra-basic beauty products (for lazy ex-tomboys who don't like spending money on beauty products)

2010-06-18T19:18:00.000+10:00

If I had one bugbear about the practicalities of modern life (ooo, the list of things I could rant about!), it would be the utter bullsh*t that surrounds 99.99% of beauty industry marketing, most of which has been designed purely to make women feel unnattractive and inferior in order to con them into buying all manner of chemical gunks.

Because we're worth it! Right? Well, I don't buy it, and neither should any thinking woman. Here are some simple, low-hype products that actually do what they're supposed to. None of them will make you look 10 years younger, but Newsflash! Neither will that miracle cream you just spent your bonus on.

1. Blistex lip balm
Without it I wouldn't be able to smile all Winter, ie. 6 months of the year in the UK - which I think you will agree is a long time to look grumpy. All the other main brands of lip balm leave a greasy layer that comes staight off, without moisturising properly. Blixtex is King. About £2.

2. Vaseline hand & nail cream
When my nails started splitting and peeling a few months ago, I couldn't work out why they had suddenly turned so ratty.Then I remembered that I have been a little obsessed with nail polish since NY and cheap manicures came into my life. So I've ditched the polish (for now) and started using this, and they have improved 100%. Nice to see a product that actually does what it claims to. About £3.

3. Exfoliating gloves
My brother's girlfriend always has incredibly soft skin, and I noticed when I stayed at their flat in Gothemburg (STALKER ALERT, sorry Anny) that she uses exfoliating gloves with a moisturising body wash. I have never been a fan of "body wash", preferring good old fashioned austerity-style SOAP which does a perfectly good job thank you very much, none of your fancy pants, overly packaged modern rubbish here if you don't mind. I am prepared to admit here in the public blogosphere that I WAS WRONG. About £2.

4. Johnson's holiday skin
Gently tans pasty skin to a light glow, without being too streaky. Haven't needed it this Summer however due to the Barbados sunburn incident, which has since faded to a 'healthy' tan. About £5.

5. Neutrogena beauty bar
I have used loads of different facial cleansers in my time and recently rediscovered the simplicity of a block of transparent soap, at about 1/100th of the price of most fancy-pants cleansers. You're right Mr Kellogs, the simple things in life are often the best. About £2.

6. Facial oil
I use Neal's Yard orange blossom facial oil. At £20 a pop, it isn't cheap - but considering you only use 2 drops, literally, on your whole face, it is well worth it. A little vial lasts for ages, and it's almost 100% organic. And it smells wonderful.

The Hot List - appended

2010-06-10T20:58:00.017+10:00

Chris Rock

"I prefer dark topics when I'm doing comedy. I like to kind of dig myself out of a hole. And I don't take it for granted that people are going to laugh … so if you're up there and no one's laughing, wouldn't it be great to be talking about something interesting?"

Guillaume Nery

Jason Segel

Devouring Freaks and Geeks right now, which I adore. Adore! Look at me with the enthusiasm.

David Eagleman

I love him for his MIND. His amazing, creative, playful mind.

Jack Donaghy

He makes me laugh - and if a man can do that, he's golden. Although, Tina's the writing genius behind 30 Rock, Alex just brings the silver fox to the mix - so I guess I should transfer at least 50% of my crush to her.

The Joy of Wordle

2010-06-09T01:34:00.013+10:00

My most used words in 2010, presented for your visual pleasure by the rather fun Wordle.

I was having a conversation with some primary school teachers last weekend and I suggested that there are three streams that most people fit into from a young age: pictures, numbers and words (or, to really force those little tackers ever tighter into their respective pigeon-holes: graphic designers, accountants and journalists). I guess I am part word, part picture - which goes some way to explaining why I love these word cloud diagrams so much. That, and it really rams home the fact that "sugar" is my most frequently used word, followed closely by "cake". Hmm.

Week 5: Low fat (?) choconnaise cake

2010-06-04T20:36:00.007+10:00

Another triumph from the house of Dave!

225g self-raising flour
75g cocoa powder
1/2 tsp baking powder
150g golden caster sugar
2tsp vanilla extract
200g low fat mayonnaise
1 large free-range egg

Optional: 100g dark chocolate cut into small chunks

Icing
300g low fat cream cheese
200gm icing sugar
100gm dark chocolate, melted

Sift the flour, cocoa and baking powder into a large bowl then stir in the sugar and make a well in the centre. Add the vanilla, 150ml cold water, mayonnaise and the egg. Beat with an electric mixer until it is smooth, then mix in chocolate chunks. Spoon into a cake tin and bake at 180C for 45 minutes or until firm to the touch.

Look: *** A big old chocolatey mess! In a good way.
Taste: **1/2 Rich and sweet. Not convinced that it is truly low fat though - I would cut the cream cheese, and just use cocoa rather than 2 (!) 100gm blocks of chocolate to make it slightly less indulgent.
Texture: ***1/2 Fudgey and dense with chocolate bits. Lovely creamy icing.

The thick blue line

2010-06-03T01:43:00.005+10:00

I was quite excited when I started noticing some buzz about Boris' fabled Cycle Superhighways in London. I have been doing a lot more cycling on main roads since the move South, and I am aware that my risk of accident and/or injury is higher than it was previously. Unfortunately, there just isn't a nice, quiet, straight road that goes directly to my work like there was when I lived oop Norf.

[think of the cake Kelly, think of the cake!]

Cycle superhighways! Don't they sound super-whizzy and safe? Doesn't it conjure images of some sort of futuristic elevated monorail type thing far above the traffic and particles and stop lights and clueless ~~f*ckers~~ pedestrians? It does for me. I could picture myself sailing along the Cycle Superhighway to work, a gentle downward slope obviating the need for pedalling as I high-five other like-minded cyclists all the way. Rainbows would shimmer on the horizon as the sunlight winked off lovingly buffed spokes and handlebars.

The reality is turning out to be somewhat different to my shiny happy daydreams. Somehow this initiative - which, bear in mind, may cost as much as £150m - amounts to painting the side of some roads blue. Not even clear roads at that; roads which have parking bays along them for Chrissake, which renders the whole exercise depressingly futile. Not to mention, it's a blue freakin' stripe. This isn't a toothpaste commercial, Boris. How is a blue stripe going to protect me from homicidal bendy bus drivers? How is a blue stripe going to make my journey any faster, especially when I am still weaving around traffic and parked cars like a third class citizen of the road-nation? How, in fact, is this any different from my commute right now, except that I will have a different colour to gaze at while I lay on the ground waiting for the ambulance? "Oh look, a bit of blue to comfort me before I die of being run over by a bus. How nice and calming. Reminds me of..." [fade to black]

If you want to discuss a more sensible mono-rail cycling system, Boris, you know where to find me. I am prepared to be flexible on the rainbows.

Friday Hall of Immense Anonymous Eyebrows

2010-05-28T20:30:00.004+10:00

Click on the image to find out who these beautiful eyebrows belong to. I can pick these babies a mile off, but I realise not everyone shares my facially hirsute fetish.

Week 3: Change it up

2010-05-27T19:37:00.006+10:00

Much as I'm loving the caval-cake, I miss baking! Last night I put some seriously over-ripe bananas to good use in this Banana Bread recipe. I tried banana bread for the first time in Sydney a few years ago, and I have been hooked ever since. It is so good lightly toasted with a little butter/marge - wholesome and filling and perfect on a typically Melbourne day (bright but chilly) before going for a surf or an epic shopping trek.

150g golden (unrefined) caster sugar
60g margarine
2 eggs
3 tablespoons water
3 over ripe bananas, mashed
220g wholemeal plain flour
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon baking powder

Preheat oven to 180c. Line a loaf pan with baking paper.
Beat sugar and margarine until smooth and creamy. Beat in the eggs, water and bananas until well blended. Mix in the flour, bicarb soda, salt and baking powder until the mixture is just moistened. Be sure to scrape the sides of the bowl to blend all ingredients. Pour into prepared pan. Bake in preheated oven for about 50 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean.

Week 3: Union Jack surprise cake + bonus aussie flag pav!

2010-05-24T19:33:00.009+10:00

It's been a bumper week in the cake zone, in honor of two very special events - first up, I got my UK citizenship on Friday!! Wow, that's been a long time in the making. I'll drink to that:

Secondly, we had a house-warming BBQ on the weekend, for which London put on the most spectacularly beautiful weekend of the year (possibly of the last 7 years). Our guests and I were the awe-struck recipients of not one, but TWO beautifully decorated dessert stuffs.

Aussie Flag Pav

*Note: my boyfriend wasn't happy with this recipe and took a couple of attempts, and he never managed to get the egg whites to the "stiff peaks" stage - he literally had to pour the mixture onto a baking tray. However, it tasted absolutely amazing and had a lovely marshmallowy centre, so it was a success in my book. I've tweaked the recipe so that you whisk the egg whites before adding the sugar, and replaced the cornflour with custard powder. If anyone tries it, let me know how it goes!

8 large egg whites (at room temperature)
pinch salt
350g caster sugar
2 tsps custard powder
pinch of cream of tartar
1 tsp white wine vinegar
4 drops vanilla essence
300ml double cream, firmly whipped
Strawberries and blueberries

Preheat the oven to 180c. Line a baking tray with greaseproof paper. Whisk the egg whites in a clean bowl until soft peaks form (much easier with an electric whisk). Continue beating while adding the sugar and pinch of salt until stiff and shiny. Sprinkle over the custard powder, cream of tartar, vinegar and vanilla essence and fold in gently with a metal spoon.

Place the egg white mix onto the paper in whatever shape you desire, smoothing the edges. Place in the oven and immediately reduce the heat to 150C/300F/Gas 2 and cook for 1¼ hours. Turn off the oven, leave the door slightly ajar and allow to cool completely. Transfer your pav onto a plate, then pile on the cream and dress with the fruit.

Look: ***** A-mazing. Pavlova always looks impressive, but the Australia flag made out of blueberries and strawberries made it extra special.
Taste: ***** Gorgeous. Light, crunchy outer with soft marshmallow in the middle. And you can't go far wrong with whipped cream and berries.
Texture: **** Perfect, as far as I'm concerned - but I'm not giving it 5 stars because the chef wasn't 100% happy with it.

Union Jack surprise cake (can you guess what the secret ingredient is yet?!)

175g sugar
175g butter
3 eggs
200g flour
a tin of tomato soup
spice/cinnamon to taste
some blueberries

For the topping:
Crème fraiche with some sugar mixed in
Strawberries and blueberries

Cream butter and sugar together. Add the eggs, beating in one at a time. Fold in the remaining ingredients until mixed well and pour into a cake tin. Bake at 180c for about 40 mins, or until the top springs back when pressed. This is quite a dense cake, so the skewer test doesn't work so well!

Decorate with the crème fraiche and berries. Union Jack optional.

Look: ***** Very pretty round cake with crème fraiche all over and union jack decoration on top.
Taste: *** Pretty different. None of us guessed tomato, but as soon as it was revealed, you could recognise the unusual flavour! I wasn't 100% convinced, but points for adventurousness.
Texture: *** Dense and fudgey in the middle.

Bonus points: 3: for making both cakes on theme; taking extra time to decorate them beautifully; and using an unexpected ingredient that Herr Heston Himself would approve of.

Week 2: Low-fat moist carrot cake

2010-05-19T20:30:00.005+10:00

Low fat at my own request, just so there's no controversy...adapted from a Delia recipe.

175 g dark brown soft sugar
3 medium eggs
120 ml sunflower oil
200g self-raising flour (you could use wholemeal, we didn't have any)
1½ tsp bicarb soda
3 tsp mixed spice
grated zest 1 orange
200g carrots, peeled and grated
175g sultanas

For the topping:
250gm low fat cream cheese
20g caster sugar
2 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp ground cinnamon

Whisk sugar, eggs and oil together in a bowl using an electric hand whisk for 2-3 minutes. Sift in flour, bicarb soda and mixed spice and stir in.

Add the orange zest, carrots and sultanas. Pour the mixture into a lined slice tin and bake 40-45 minutes, until it feels firm and springy to the touch.

Make the topping by mixing all the ingredients in a bowl until light and fluffy, then cover and chill for 1-2 hours or until needed.

Look: ***1/2 Pretty impressive, rich looking cake. The spice in the cream cheese is a nice touch.
Taste: *** Rich and sweet. A little overpowering, would work better as a slice rather than a tall cake.
Texture: *** Super moist! She's not joking, that Delia.

Mugged (not smug)

2010-05-15T00:58:00.012+10:00

I just got back from a whirlwind trip to the Windies (which, incidentally, were not actually that windy at all - why not the Sunnies?). Anyway, I spent 3 nights in Barbados and 2 nights in St. Lucia.

Smug? Well, I might ordinarily have been, a little... except that this holiday was not quite as I expected. The beaches were stunning, the weather was gorgeous, the hotels were lovely - but as for my time there? Well, let's just say it was...eventful.

First of all, I foolishly got very badly sunburnt on my first day, which was followed by an excrutiating night during which my aloe vera-ed legs stuck to the sheets and needed to be torn off inch by inch, resulting in a pain so extreme it made me look back on my last bikini wax with a fondness I usually reserve for cute boys with cupcakes.

Second of all, there was the vomiting. All the vomiting. I was sick in the air, I was sick in the sea, and I was sick in the bus depot at Bridgetown (do NOT recommend).

Not quite the glamorous, sun-kissed look I was going for - more lobster pink body topped with pasty, sweating face grimacing between heaves. Sexy times!

And thirdly, the cherry in my Banana Daiquiri: I think I got mugged in Soufrière. I say "think" because I'm still not entirely sure what happened; all I know is that I ended up handing over 60 Eastern Carribbean Dollars to a local who told me his name was 'Isaac'. I prefer 'Dodgy F*cker' thanks, or DoFo for short.

He was already hustling us through the window of our mini-van as we pulled up to the ramshackle town, saying he would take me on a tour and telling my boyfriend don't worry, don't worry, he would look after me, and to make sure I had enough money for the day. Alarm bells should have been ringing at that point, but I am so ridiculously naive that I always expect people to be well-intentioned and am unfailingly disappointed on the odd occassion they turn out not to be. As my boyfriend and driver took off so he could hike the Gros Piton (not that I'm blaming him or anything), I was ~~abandoned~~ left behind willingly in a very shabby run-down town, alone with a skinny and poorly dressed man in his late thirties - just us and a couple of chickens scratching around a neighbourhood back street that had a sorry air of neglect to it.

It scares me a lot more now that I reflect on it. At the time, I was feeling a little vulnerable to be left on my own in a strange and not particularly nice place, so I was happy to be in the hands of a local who was promising to show me around (I believe that people are mostly good, remember). As he led me away from the main streets - I didn't realise this until later, for the moment I had no points of reference to tell me otherwise - he pointed out 'sights' that included such highlights as: a woman selling coconut cookies by the side of the road, an abandoned estate, a hummingbird. As we made our way further away from the centre of town, he was reduced to pointing out trees and shacks, all while keeping up a stream of heavily accented babble which I had to concentrate to understand. I made positive but non-committal noises, wondering how long I would have to walk around with him before I could politely take my leave and figure out where the hell I was.

Damn my stupid, obliging, subservient politeness. It really doesn't serve me well in situations like this.

Eventually, after about twenty awkward minutes, the 'tour' ground to a halt and DoFo demanded 100 ECD - all the money I had in my wallet. My jaw dropped. At this point, I still didn't realise I was being mugged, if you can believe that. I thought he literally expected me to pay him 100 ECD for his crappy tour. I said something like "100 EC? But it cost us 80 to get all the way here from Castries!", about a 1.5 hour journey. He insisted, his tone darkening. I quickly re-counted the bills in my wallet, buying time while I decided what to do. Despite my ludicrous naivety, I realised what a nightmarish proposition it was to be left alone in this dreadful and possibly unsafe place with no money. I needed water, and food, and possibly an escape route. So I stood my ground, and decided that I could reasonably give him 60 and be OK with only 40 left in my wallet for the day. I said shakily, "I'll give you 60". He was getting jumpy by this stage, not looking me in the eye and hassling me in a low voice, asking hadn't I enjoyed the tour? And he must have 100, it was worth 100, give me a hundred. I gave him 60 and started walking away, in the direction of where the mini-bus dropped me off. He came after me and insisted that 70 was the only reasonable amount, he would take 70, 70 was a good price, but 60, no. I just kept saying 'sorry, no' as he trailed me, and eventually he gave up and took off, muttering darkly to himself.

Relaying this story to a St. Lucia travel agent who approached us with a questionaire in the airport, she said, eyes wide, "You were robbed!" and I realised that yes, actually, I was. I didn't realise it at the time - I even joked about having 'survived' Soufrière when my boyfriend (finally) arrived to pick me up - but I was well and truly mugged, for the first time in my life. And I'm so daft I didn't even realise it until after it happened.

Makes for an interesting cautionary tale, no?

You know you're in your thirties when...

2010-05-14T04:45:00.003+10:00

...the hotel staff wish you a Happy Mother's Day.

I mean, lady, I am well aware I've been steadily putting on weight for a while now (my mellow-making drugs and too damn many delicious cakes are the main culprits) - and yes, I am aware that a childless woman in her thirties is something of a bizarre curio in your family-centric culture - but really. For a minute there I was enjoying the novel sensation of actually filling out my unpadded bikini top, enough so that I could ignore the plumper new bits further south.

Isn't life just one big series of trade-offs for women? Skinny no-boobs or chubby McBooberson. Boring safe guy or dashing cad. Chocolate honey-comb or pink grapefruit (can't do both together! Or CAN you...). Faithful werewolf or moody vampire.

*sigh*

Week 1 in the cake zone: Apple cake

2010-05-06T20:12:00.000+10:00

This went down a treat, especially with one Missy Slam Dunks.

200g butter
200g golden caster sugar
3 eggs
200g self-raising flour plus a little baking powder, sifted
3 tsps cinnamon
two bramley apples, peeled and cut into small chunks/grated, squeezed to remove excess juice
handful sultanas
lemon juice to taste
demerara sugar to sprinkle on top

Cream the butter and sugar, add eggs one at a time. Mix in the flour, followed by the other ingredients. Pour into cake tin and sprinkle with demerara sugar, bake at 180 celcius for about 40 mins (he's a bit hazy on the details).

Look: **1/2 Looked like an ordinary cake.
Taste: **** Excellent, lovely apple flavour with subtle spicing, not too sweet or overpowering.
Texture: ***** Sumblime. Soft and not too moist, contrasting with a delicious sugar crust on top.

How to negotiate with a sweet tooth

2010-04-24T02:02:00.005+10:00

I'm moving home this weekend. For the third time in a year. It's been a transient and somewhat unsettled 12 months, in more than the physical sense.

However, this time it's somewhat different - I'm moving in with my boyfriend, and I'm moving south of the river. South! (breathe, Kelly). We had long and fraught conversations about where to live, my North vs. his South, which degenerated into my Anywhere but Balham To Prove Your Unswerving Devotion to Me and his I Love You But I Love Balham More.

We reached an impasse.

Eventually, he offered to bake me a different cake every week that I lived down south with him. I thought about it for all of two seconds and accepted.

As he's going to be away for nearly 5 weeks for the world cup, the procession of cakes has started in advance of our moving in together. So far, I and my workmates have been the lucky, lucky recipients of some rather amazing concoctions, as follows:

- Dark chocolate and ginger fridge slice (part of the reconciliation push)
- Chocolate cupcakes (for V day, again not strictly part of the Cake Zone agreement)
- Lemon Drizzle cake (currently holding number 2 place)
- Banana Chocolate cake
- Courgette cake
- Chocolate cornflake cups
- Coffee and Walnut cake (comfortably holding the number 1 place; not remotely compromised by being dropped on the concrete outside my flat)

I think in order to give this truly astounding effort the recognition it deserves, I am going to start documenting the cakes on this site, with ratings based on look, taste and texture, with extra points being awarded for embellishments (decorations, additions, off-piste flourishes).

Let the caval-cake commence!

Panic at the zebra crossing

2010-04-21T18:57:00.004+10:00

I am making my way home, cycling along in a little bubble of a daydream and feeling a little shaky because I have forgotten to throw back a late afternoon snack to keep me going. I try to change lanes in the peak hour traffic at a particularly tricksome roundabout when the car in front of me brakes suddenly and I skid to a halt just behind it, my tyre bumping their back bumper.

I can see the businessman in the front seat put on his handbrake as he hauls his massive bulk out of the drivers seat and waddles around to the back of the car, sun glinting off his bling-tastic cuff links. "Sorry!" I smile apologetically, a little surprised that he feels the need to come and inspect the back of his vehicle. There is a tiny scuff mark where my tyre touched his bumper, which he points to with a chubby finger, bellowing "What do you think you're doing?". He reaches down and wipes the smidge of dust off his bumper. There is now no trace of any contact on the bumper. "I could SUE you for this you know!" he spits in my face, turning purple in his rage. "Really?" is all I can think to respond. I look down at the invisible mark on his bumper. I stare at him. He stares back. "You cyclists think you OWN the road!!" We stare at each other some more. I say "sorry" again, because I really don't know where this is going and I am tired and need some food. The collars of his expensive looking purple shirt quiver.

He stares at me some more. I sit back on my bike seat. He finally decides to leave it, and walks back around to the drivers seat, stopping to give me one final hard stare (just in case I didn't get it with ALL THE STARING). He takes off in a fug of petulance and I cycle on home.

I've been seething quietly ever since.

You want to know who acts like they own the road, Mr. 40-carat cufflinks? DRIVERS, THAT'S WHO. Drivers who turn left in front of me. Drivers who get impatient if I delay their journey by all of two seconds who then scream past me with a whisker to spare. Drivers who nearly run me off the road twelve times a day. Drivers who pull out without checking for cyclists (the cause of all the accidents I and other friends have ever been involved in). Drivers who refuse to give way to me at roundabouts. Drivers whose short-sightedness and lack of care and general recklessness I am CONSTANTLY compensating for. And don't even get me started on white van men!

And yes, I reserve the right to feel slightly superior to fat car-driving types like yourself.

North London // South London

2010-04-16T01:24:00.011+10:00

Boogaloo // Bugaboo
skinny jeans // rugby thighs
hi-top trainers // personal trainers
muggers // chuggers
hipsters // nippers
Tracey Emin quilts // Cath Kidston quilts
vintage // antiques
Pearly kings and queens // pearls and twinset
Cockney geezers // Wide boys
Camden goths // Croydon yobs

* * * * *
Any contributions?