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

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). 

Anatomy of the perfect weekend

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'.

Ikea and me

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).

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

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.

Happiness is...

Four brand new CD's and a cheap dress from Topshop on their way in the post. Ahhh, I love the internet. Seriously, how did people manage without it? Oh, I remember. I lived down the road from that glorious temple of discount music, JB Hi-Fi. And before that, I rode my bike to Target. And before that, I made do with casettes my dad brought home from work (which I strongly suspect were rejected by his colleagues for being too dorky).

I don't know why it is more exciting to receive a parcel in the mail than to go out shopping for the same item. I think it is the element of surprise - is this going to be my new dress, or just some paper samples from the printer? - as well as the fact that ripping off the card packaging reminds me of Christmas.

Whatever it is, I always find receiving a parcel in the mail weirdly thrilling.

Retail therapy - the happiness that only shoes can bring

I almost forgot, I bought these Camper shoes for myself as a 30th birthday consolation prize present - aren't they sweet?

And so comfy. Well, they would be if they were slightly, fractionally, microscopically bigger. I actually caught myself thinking the other day how much easier my life would be if I had no toes. Imagine! I could buy my shoes from regular shops insteady of Freaky Girl and Big Foot Mama.

So that's all fine and dandy, but the only "problem" is, I bought these so early (I needed to wear them to the work Christmas do, y'see), that by the time my birthday rolled around, they no longer felt like a birthday present.

Therefore, I am thinking about also buying this handbag for my own self. Because, like so many of my want-it-now, saving-is-for-losers generation, I am worth it, dammit! And, I really need a new handbag. My old one is so grubby (a bag made of cloth material? In London? What was I thinking?!), I might as well be hauling my stuff around in a sack full of mud. Made out of old hair and dust. I really would be doing my immune system a favour by replacing it with a new, hygienic leather one. I should be the US president: I can justify anything.