It Can Still Gloam Inside

Last night after work I went to Coles to buy the makings of dinner.

I was hoping to go through the self-serve checkouts. Despite being very indignant about their invention to begin with (having spent many years as a checkout chick myself), I now much prefer them, especially after work, when I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Instead I was drafted to the register of an actual person, an older woman, easily in her late 60s.

She studied the things I was buying, easily concluding I was making spaghetti bolognaise. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, please with herself for recognising my intended meal, and by what came next. ‘This looks like my recipe!’.

I felt terrible, because money is tight right now, and I’d purposely selected the cheapest way to cook it. I’d forgone things like bay leaves and wine and a good parmesan for the very basics. I felt terrible because she was far too old to be standing for long shifts and what happened in her life that she still needed the income?

She passed me the bags and I stared at her nails, well maintained, painted a light pearl pink and I wished her a good night and meant it and already she was focussing on the next person over my shoulder.

Turn & Face the Strain

In 2005 I wrote a thesis about the ways in which feminist authors used science fiction as a means to test theories of community that weren’t based on patriarchy, or which had overcome patriarchy.

It was awarded the highest mark available, my supervisor praised the final product and then I slipped away from academia, into six or seven years of routine boredom, depression and, at times, horror.

I have never reached my potential, except maybe here, online, for my own amusement and to build and stay safe in communities where less consequence exists when it comes to failure. No-one will punish me for failing to update this space for months at a time, for falling back on pictures and hurried sentences, for re-hashing old stories with new spin.

In 2005, I pushed myself. I quit smoking and took up French theorists. I challenged, correctly or not, the assumptions of feminism made by those much more experienced than myself and I believed I had a right to do so. I occupied a space by choice and felt I belonged there.

At some point after I started believing the lie I told myself and everyone else that so long as I kept my mind occupied, mostly with books, it didn’t matter if wasn’t pushing myself anymore.

Doing that led to new routines, routines that could be defended for short periods of time.

I can’t do that anymore.

Could She Be … The Most Naughtiest Girl In The World?

Yesterday we took Delilah to Sydney Park to meet up with some friends and their respective dogs. Here we have from left to right, Tats and his boy Rupert, Jonathon and his boy Robbie and B with The Naughtiest Dog in the World, Delilah. Despite how it looks, B has not also become a father.


Over the weekend, Delilah ate half the back cover of my copy of ‘The Book of Basketball’, which to be fair is one of the most casually sexist books I’ve ever read and I felt like tearing the cover off myself.

The following morning she chewed up a pen and exploded ink everywhere and walked around looking like the police had taken her paw prints for their files (they should, she’s trouble).

At the park, she faked being a delightful puppy for as long as she could, but there’s one thing she is never able to resist, and that’s mud. We looked away for two seconds and turned around to find this:


Oh Delilah.

Here she is being carried across a grated bridge, which she is too scared to walk across. Look how quickly her bravado disappeared:


We stopped for coffee at the Sydney Park café, which is always an experience as dogs mill around mostly unattended while their owners are distracted, impatiently waiting for a caffeine fix.

My attention was drawn to a short woman, cheerfully puffing away on a cigarette and chatting to every dog or owner who walked by. Her dog was a giant Rottweiler named Satan, who she incessantly called whenever he left her side for a moment.

The pair eventually came walking past us and she stopped to give Delilah kisses and discuss her cuteness. Delilah and Satan circled one another and for a split second I was distracted and looked away, when all of a sudden there was squealing and cries of ‘Delilah!’ and I turned back, expecting to see Satan running off with Delilah clenched in his giant jaws.

Instead, there was poor Satan standing there while Delilah vigorously humped his face which she had mounted and clamped onto.

“Look at her! Dominating Satan, the big, scary Rottie!” Satan’s owner laughed.

That’s out little girl, and we wouldn’t trade her for any other dog (unless she eats any more pens).

Gonna Party Like It’s The Weekend!

B and I have been battling the plague for a few weeks now, plus B had bronchitis, plus I waited 12 weeks to see a physio because I thought the pain in my hip would go away by itself and instead it hurt so much I couldn’t sleep so our house has been a bit tense, in the most loving way possible.

I think everyone is looking forward to the weekend: us so we can sleep, Delilah so she can sit around Barry’s shoulders like a stole all day and Wuz so Delilah is out of the house and she can eat her own food without the threat of puppy attack.

I must say, I am happy with how Wuz has handled Delilah’s arrival. She does not like her new sister, she would prefer she did not exist, but if anything it’s made her more chummy with me in particular, like, “Can you even believe this jerk? She has to be trained to know where to pee! Remember when I was a baby? I knew right from the beginning!”. I let her reminisce, smiling to myself as I remember the years where I couldn’t move without Wuz pouncing on me, the time when she jumped off a two-story balcony when she was chasing birds, the time when she fell in the toilet.

Short memory, Wuz.

This weekend Delilah starts puppy preschool. Hopefully lessons include: don’t eat garbage, don’t roll in wee, stop chasing pugs.

The rest of the weekend I am going to spend curled up in the lounge room with a spread sheet and a list of places we want to see in Japan and I’m going to start planning our itinerary for December and January and on Saturday night we are going to crack open a well-deserved bottle of red and book accommodation in Tokyo for Christmas and New Years.












Bring. It. On.