Bike

‘It’s just like riding a bike’, people say, when they mean that skills, once acquired, are never really lost.

For some, though, riding a bike is NOT ‘just like riding a bike’. Specifically, me.

I rode a lot as a kid: even had the requisite hot pink girls’ bike (with streamers on the handlebars: oh my). I remember coming off my bike many a time, and getting straight back on, grazed shins and all.

This changed when I was eight, and came off my bike so spectacularly that I decided bikes just weren’t for me.

It all started when I was visiting my grandparents, and had been allowed to go riding with a couple of older girls from the neighborhood.

To an eight year old girl in the 90s, twelve year olds were the absolute height of sophistication, glamor and coolness. This was before celebrity culture had really grown claws, so I, and my similarly aged friends, idolised our older neighbors/cousins/sisters like young girls today idolise the Kardashians.

Except, we aspired to our neighbours/cousins/sister’s super sleek high pony tails and scrunch socks (please tell me you remember scrunch socks), rather than Kim, Khloe and Kourtney’s questionable life choices involving videotape and diet pills.

Anyroadup, twelve year old sophisticates didn’t wear helmets, on account of their super high ponytails. So, I wasn’t either, because safety isn’t as important as a high, shiny, swooshy ponytail and being part of the cool peloton.

And, if the twelve year old cool girls were freewheeling down a big hill, I was coming along for the ride - even though the breaks on the bike I’d borrowed didn’t feel like they were working properly.

I think you can guess what happened next: my breaks failed, I crashed into a coppers’ log fence, knocked myself out, gave the twelve year old girls the fright of their lives (I should say here that underneath the cool they were actually really sweet and helped me limp home), and scored a graze on my chin that looked uncannily like a beard.

Looking back on it now, I can see that the universe was trying to teach me a valuable lesson: that suppressing my better judgement for the sake of being cool only leads to disaster (I mean, scrunch socks? Really?).

What I took away from the accident, though, was that Bikes Are Not Fun and I Will Never Ride Again.

But, eighteen years later, under the kindest and most watchful eyes of Zsuzanah Verona, I had another go at riding a bike, helmet firmly on and breaks thoroughly tested. I’ve gotten better at listening to what the universe is trying to teach me as I’ve got older. And what I learned yesterday was that:
• with a bit of help, and some gentle reminders to look ahead rather than down at my feet, that riding a bike actually is…just like riding a bike;
• riding a bike is just about the best fun ever;
• I don’t need to be part of a cool peloton when I’ve got a BFF like Zsuzannah; and, lastly
• a low chignon is really more sophisticated and helmet friendly than a high ponytail.

Sydney, I’m Yours

a) Wide leg chiffon pants are not a good look on me;
b) Silk Herringbone blouses (from the sneakily hidden outlet store in Surry Hills) are;
c) Ruth Park street sign spotting fills me with excitement;
d) Iku lunches restore the soul;
e) Tear up one rainbow on Oxford St and a thousand others will grow in its place;
f) Anna Thomas designs the most beautiful women's wear imaginable;
g) Ibises’ beaks have evolved superior garbage-rifling, pond-scum-diving, and Peggy-frightening skillz;
h) Sydney heat is bad hair heat;
i) A coconut water and watching not one, but two, hideous weddings in the park at dusk makes point F OK;
j) The Hyde Park bubble man’s bubbles burst the exact moment I get my phone out to instagram them;
k) All day parking in the middle of Sydney is cheaper than all day parking in the middle of Canberra (believe);
l) Traffic jams and navigating Sydney streets are absolutely fine so long as I’ve got Zsuzannah Verona (Scotty to my Kirk);
m) It’s possible to eat rice pudding while driving if you really put your mind to it.

To paraphrase The Decemberists on Los Angeles:

Sydney, I’m yours.

Road Tripping

Feeling landlocked last week, I decided to hit the open road. Sometimes, some sweet highway miles, good tunes, the morning sun on paddocks, and lots, and lots, of coffee, are just what I need.

Some would say that road tripping is running away, but I say, there are some problems, writer’s block among them, that benefit from eating some dust. A road trip won’t get the writing done, for sure, but it will take me out of myself.

What I love best about road tripping - apart from the opportunity to sing loudly, without fear of reprisal, to Bon Jovi - is that Normal is bent just a little out of shape. Danishes, usually eschewed in favor of rye toast and vegemite, become suitable breakfast foods. I drive bare-faced with the windows down; I wear my hair in a bun and don’t worry about combing kinks out when I let it down. I wear my oldest, comfiest pair of flats. Loose tees and second-wear jeans are de rigueur, along with a thrown-in-the-car-as-an-afterthought cardie for windy truck stops. I take photos of silly things, things that normally aren’t snap worthy, but somehow, when I’m road tripping, are irresistibly Instagrammable.

And while that all sounds pretty hard to beat, it gets better when my destination is somewhere, and someone, lovely: last weekend I was road tripping to meet my friend Clementine Kemp, and her puppy, in Clem’s lovely little town.

Knowing a cup of tea, apple cake, walks along the main drag, glorious thrift shop finds, juicy gossip and inappropriate conversation await at my destination just makes those sweet highway miles all the sweeter.

May the Force be with you

It’s been my great honour to watch a dear friend, and former student, finish her honours thesis this week. Those of you who have been there, done that, will know that an achievement this monumental deserves a Star Wars analogy: this week, a Padawan has become a Jedi.

(If the above references went over your head, your homework for this weekend is to watch Star Wars in its entirety. Use the Force to get you through the tedious prequels, and enjoy Harrison Ford circa the 70s).

Obi-Wan-Kenobi style, I’ve taken it upon myself to give my friend unsolicited advice through her honours year – for which I hope to be forgiven eventually. The most important piece of advice I have given her, though, is this: she needs to buy a significant piece of jewellery, for herself, to celebrate her achievements.

Bizzare, I know, that this advice takes precedence over all the other pieces of end-of-thesis advice I could give to a newly minted Jedi. Surely, I should advise her to sleep. To catch up with mates she hasn’t seen in an age. To symbolically burn a copy of her manuscript. To run. To go to the beach. To laugh until she can’t breathe anymore (although I have complete faith that she’s done this last one).

The reason behind my advice, though, is that something as big as finishing an honours thesis (or a Masters, or a PhD) is that it’s a long, hard journey, ultimately completed alone. While there are people beside you, people advising you, people without whom you couldn’t do it, it ultimately comes down to you, and your words (in Star Wars terms? You and the Force).

Which is why, in my view, you need to mark an achievement like finishing a thesis, and mark it well. Most importantly, you need to mark it for yourself.

It’s not enough to accept the congratulations of colleagues, friends and family. It’s not enough to know that you’ve done an amazing thing. You need to distil that amazing thing you’ve done into a symbol, something that will always and forevermore remind you that, yes, you did it.

And why jewellery, specifically? Well, let’s take a moment to think about what ‘big’ (expensive, thought-through, valuable) jewellery means in the course of a woman’s life. Typically, the ‘big’ pieces she has are given to her by others: by her parents on her 21st; by her partner to signify their engagement, and, again, on an important anniversary or birth of a child; by her children on a milestone birthday; or inherited from a family member.

What you notice, here, is that all of the ‘big’ pieces come from without – they are gifts. Whenever she wears them, she thinks of the people who gave them to her, which is what makes those ‘big’ pieces special and meaningful.

And, while it’s great to have pieces that make you think of your nearest and dearest, there’s a time and a place for jewellery that makes you think of you, and all you’ve achieved.

The first Sex and the City film explored this concept (mixing pop culture references: bear with). Samantha attends a charity auction to buy, for herself, a very expensive, very large, and, let's be honest, very ugly, ring. An anonymous bidder goes up against Samantha in the auction, driving the price higher than Samantha can afford. Miserably, she admits defeat. Later, Smith Jarrod, Samantha’s partner, presents her with the ring: Smith was the anonymous bidder, and bought the ring as a gift for Samantha.

Whenever Samantha looks at the ring, though, she sees only Smith, whereas she wanted to see herself – her achievements – whenever she looked down at it.

Now, I can appreciate why people may think that it’s selfish, or frivolous, to celebrate an achievement by spending money on something like jewellery rather than, for instance, an experience like travel, or something that benefits others. Perhaps it’s not for everyone, this whole bling thing.

All I know, though, is that whenever I put on my garnet ring, the ring I bought myself in the weeks after handing in my honours thesis, I am reminded that, yes, I did it. It’s made all the sweeter by the fact that it’s something I wear: there are patches where the soft gold has yielded to the movements of my hand; that it’s something I will, one day, be able to give to another young woman, in an ironic twist on the whole buying-jewellery-for-oneself exercise.

So, it’s with this in mind that I suggest a jewellery purchase to my dear friend, and to others who have, like her, become Jedis this week. Because not only did you have the potential (midochlorian readings off the charts), you used it and achieved something amazing, something that you should mark personally, enduringly, symbolically.

And that’s it, I’m through with my advice, and I’m hanging up my light sabre. Except for one final thing I can’t help but throw in:

May the force be with you.

Always.

On Election Day Sausage Sizzles

After several weeks of hard campaigning from all major parties, it’s finally here: today is election day in the ACT.

Now, this isn’t a post where I run my political colours up the flagpole, hoping for a salute. Nor is this a serious discussion about politics in Australia at the moment. I’m a sociologist, not a political scientist, although the two disciplines are kissing cousins.

What I am going to write about is how ardently I love election days. Tune out now if democracy soap-boxing isn’t your thing: I’ll forgive you. Today, of all days, I’m feeling magnanimous.

I love election days not because I want to see the least-worst team get up, or because I have a non-sexual crush the dude who does the ABC’s election analysis (What can I say? I’m both impressed and fascinated by someone who can work a graph)

What I really love about election day is the sausage sizzles.

Election day sausage sizzles are not like Bunnings sausage sizzles that happen every Saturday, or the church-fete ones that usually have an accompanying cake stall (fairy cakes on polyester trays! Oh my!). Election day sausage sizzles are special, because, unlike a normal sausage sizzle, you won’t see the following:
• Pushing;
• Shoving;
• Grizzling from the sweaty person behind the hotplate;
• Moaning about the queue; or
• Angst about spot-holders.

Instead, what you will see, at an election day sausage sizzle, is:
• Patient waiting in line;
• Stepping aside for old folks and people with small babies;
• Cheerful BBQ cooks;
• Pleases and Thankyous;
• No talk whatsoever of politics, but, rather, pleasant conversation about the weather; and
• Tasty, tasty sausages, with onion, if you like it, and self-administered lashings of all the sauce you could want.

So what makes election day sausage sizzles different from the normal slap-some-processed-meat-on-a-hotplate?

I think it’s this: we all know that, by voting, we’ve done a tiny something that, along with the tiny somethings of everybody else, will amount to a huge something - to our government.

Although our government isn’t perfect, every time I flick to the World section of the paper, and read about Syria, or Zimbabwe, I am so grateful that our huge something, our democracy, is made up of all of our tiny somethings.

Of course, no-one talks about this in the queue for sausages at the local primary school. But we all know what we’ve just done, and we all know why we’ve done it. And it’s knowing that which, I believe, makes us behave at our best, and our most civil.

Or, perhaps it’s too much of an effort to be rude on a day when the sun is glorious and our noses are full of the sweet, sweet smell of frying onions on a hot BBQ.

Happy democracy everyone.

Cherry Lips

Songs get stuck in heads for particular reasons. These reasons may not be immediately apparent: I am still pondering why Love Shack by the B52’s is my head’s default stuck setting (suggested reasons are, of course, welcomed). But, there is always a reason.

This week’s sticky song – Loon Lake’s Cherry Lips – was stuck in my head for a particularly good reason.

It was a sign that I needed to wear red lips, after a two year hiatus.

And, on Tuesday night, as I joined a couple of lovely friends for Laksa at our local noodle house, I put my cherry on my lips. It felt exactly right.

The thing about a red lip is that it can’t be forced. If you try to force it, you’ll be wiping it off with a tissue in the car before you’ve driven two blocks. And we all know, ladies and gentlemen, that red lipstick brands like nothing else. Everyone will know you tried, and failed, at a red lip, by the tell tale pink stains around your mouth. For shame.

When the mood is right, though, nothing short of big, red, full and smiling-with-a-big-toothsome-grin will do. We could discuss at length, here, the socio-political-aesthetic assumptions about red lips, and, indeed, about the colour red – both potent symbols.

But we’re not going to discuss it, because, for me, a red lip has always been nothing more or less than a mood that comes over me, an impulse, indeed, an inspiration. It defies categorisation. A red lip just is.

You can consult, if you like, with Marie Claire, Cleo and Cosmo for application tips. At the end of the day, though, it’s make up, not rocket science or world peace. You just need to open the tube, and apply.

So, put your cherry on your lips, as Loon Lake would say, and get yourself to that dinner, or those drinks, that day at the office, or that just-because thing. And, to paraphrase another song that gets stuck in my head – this time Garbage’s Cherry Lips:

Go, baby, go go.

A Week Full of Good Things.

Dumplings on Monday at lunchtime. Reminiscing with old colleagues about teaching, realising what I miss and what I don’t (I miss the students. I miss being in the classroom. I don’t miss marking).

Gin and tonics on Tuesday. In my track pants. Living the dream.

Laksa on Wednesday night. Feeling proud of my dear friend as she tackles her honours year with a smile. Glad that I can rely on her to share my all-in enthusiasm for jumbo combination laksa, extra tofu. Finishing an enormous bowl of piping hot broth, noodles, meat and vegetables, and feeling, in the words of my friend, like our tummies are smiling.

Koko Black on Thursday. Realising that my brother and his lovely girlfriend make infinitely better brownies than Koko Black. There must be a special ingredient that Koko is missing. Lapsing into an iced chocolate coma. Picking up some Easter treats and wondering how a chocolate bunny can cost $50, and how at least two people bought them while we waited to pay.

Ravioli on Good Friday. Talking, exchanging news, laughing, drinking cider and wine while eight of us kneaded, rolled, mixed, filled, pressed, cooked, and, eventually, ate, something wonderful we’d made, together.

Plums and figs, most likely the last of this almost-never-happened summer, on Saturday. The plums bought at Coles (still delicious), the figs, fresh from my parent’s garden, birds kept away from the ripening fruit by a netting and wire Taj Mahal my father built around the tree. Having to take breaks from The Hunger Games trilogy (so compelling, so distressing) to do mindless, comforting things, like cleaning my bathroom and hanging out washing. Sharing cup after cup of tea and swapping budget recipes with my lovely friend, and her growing baby bump, in the afternoon. Putting the two halves of my Saturday together late in the evening, keenly feeling the outrage of our luck that, unlike so many, our budget recipes, and my father’s self sufficiency, are about economy and pleasure in growing things ourselves, not survival for ourselves and our families.

This morning, pumpkin, sweet potato, carrot and ginger soup simmers on my stove, and Easter-spiced sourdough fruit loaf bakes in my oven. I stand in my kitchen and typing this as I listen to Kanye and Jay Z and let the smells of good soup and good bread curl through my apartment.

Tomorrow, my big little brother, his girlfriend, and my littlest brother will come over for a belated Easter breakfast and egg hunt. We will eat the bread that’s rising rapidly in my oven as I type this, drink pots of tea and coffee, make ham and cheese croissants with a truly disgusting amount of Jarlesberg, and collect handfuls of cheap chocolate wrapped in colourful foil. We will pool our chocolaty spoils on my dining room table and divide the eggs equally between us, because it’s what we’ve always done. We will Skype our parents to hear about late snow, Scottish breakfasts, and Easter service in my mother’s childhood church. And we will exchange assurances that we are well, safe, and fed, and that our weeks have been filled with good things.

The Top Ten Things About Working In An Office…

10) You walk in, walk out, and leave your work exactly where it should be. Where, exactly, should your work be? I’m glad you asked. The answer is surprisingly simple. Work should be on your desk. (Not in your handbag to read and grade over dinner, not in your head to think about in the shower, not scribbled in your fieldwork notebook to type up at some ungodly hour of the morning. Work does not belong in these places. Work. Belongs. On. Your. Desk.)
9) There are office morning teas.
8) There are office afternoon teas.
7) There are office lunches.
6) There is office birthday cake.
5) You will have lovely coworkers who make sure you are looked after on your first day at work.
4) You will have lovely coworkers who change sections two weeks into your job (sadface) and let you have their old desk with incredible views of Black Mountain (so much happyface).
3) You will discover that you still have the magic when it comes to difficult key stakeholder phone calls. The perfect persuasive phone purr? A definite office asset.
2) Casual Friday.
1) You get to go for walks to and from the printer, pretending you are Joan from Mad Men.

My Place

I was intending on writing a follow up piece to last week’s theoretical deconstruction of DFO, but that’s going to have to wait until another day, as something terribly exciting has happened this weekend.

I’ve moved into my very own apartment. All by myself. (Ok, with the help of mamaK and papaK and some fantastic removalists for the heavy stuff, but it’s just me living there).

Long story short, I was intending to move later on in the year. Circumstances conspired to make me more than willing to make the financial commitment of paying double rent for 6 weeks to get into my own place sooner. Luckily, the fact that I speak fluent real estate meant that I had an offer made within 24 hours of viewing an apartment that I truly loved. (If you ever need to know the secrets to this strange dialect of sales speak, inbox me and we can liaise – that’s real estate speak for talk, FYI).

This weekend just passed was moving weekend, and those of you who know me well, or can deduce my interests from this blog, would appreciate that moving all my books, clothes and kitchenware down and then up three flights of stairs was no mean feat. But it’s done, and, with the exception of my bedroom and a few other bits and pieces, my new place is ready for me to spend the first night there later this week.

What’s really thrilling slash eerie slash awesome about this new apartment is that it has more space to call my own than I’ve ever had in my whole life. Both the family homes I grew up in, in Sydney and Canberra, were quite little for the amount of people we had living in them. I can remember being awed when I went to other people’s houses and they had spare rooms, rooms that existed entirely surplus to requirements, with pretty floral bedspreads and a mildew smell from disuse. Or rumpus rooms: a room entirely for kids to do kid stuff in. Wicked, but a totally foreign concept at my place, where every space had double or triple functions.

When I moved out of home in 2009 and into various share houses, the same applied – I had my room, but all other spaces were shared, which resulted in some pretty super hilarious fun times. But again, I found myself wondering what it would be like to sleep in a room that didn’t serve as a workspace, lounge room, dining room and laundry all at once.

This week, I’m going to find out what that’s like, because my new place has two bedrooms : a bedroom for me, and an actual spare room slash study slash extra place to store my clothes. In my spare room there’s a futon for when Merry Helliwell, Kitty Gilfeather, Clementine Kemp or Katriona Winston-Stanley come and stay for a visit. My grandfather’s writing desk sits in a corner, waiting for me to write that novel, the novel that’s nipping steadily at my heels with more than a little encouragement from Mimi Goss and Zsuzannah Verona.

My bedroom, now just a bedroom, is now a space freed up for dreaming about all these possibilities. And, of course, for storing my clothes in the obscenely large built in wardrobe.

Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe

I’ve had a rather embarrassing song stuck in my head for the last couple of days. It’s Barry White, and ‘Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe’.

Why is it always guilty musical pleasures that get stuck in your head, and not something legitimately cool? This, and other mysteries, I will have to ponder further and get back to you. For now, though, in an attempt to exorcise the disco classic from my brain, here’s some things I Can’t Get Enough of, Babe.

Layered Tights: It’s so close to warm weather here in Canberra, I’m loathe to buy new pantyhose, which means that I’m wearing tights that ought to have been retired to light duties three weeks ago. The nifty solution? Layering lace or mesh tights over a pair of opaques. The lace or mesh overlay obscures the worst of the holes, and the interplay of colourful tights peeking through black lace is a nifty way of dressing up an otherwise plain ‘teaching day’ outfit.

Bananas: Bananas, I’ve missed you. Luckily, you have finally come down to something I can (just) justify - $8.99 per kilo at my local grocers!

The Panics: Now, this is the kind of music I wish would stick in my head a little more than tacktastic disco. Their latest album is rocking my world particularly hard right now.

Crazy Cat Names: It’s a family tradition that cats get slightly whacky names. My brother’s cat’s full title is Jethro Francis Patrick Anthony Margret (he’s a special boy). If things go as well as I hope they will, I may find myself adopting a cat for myself in the next little while. Which means it’s time to work on whacky cat names. Current favorites are Ferdinand, Henrietta, Vincent, Dwight or Bettina. Or possibly all of them at once. Thoughts?


‘The Tudors’, Specifically the Duke of Suffolk and His Amazing Beard: Mimi Goss leant me her DVDs of all four seasons of The Tudors. It’s seriously addictive television. Particularly when Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, grows a beard in Season Four. Google pictures to understand why. I promise it’s worth it.

Leaps of Faith

Shopping for clothes online is a leap of faith. So much could go wrong – wrong colour, wrong size, just wrong . Yet so much could go right, too – beautiful clothes delivered to your door, colours and cuts not available in Australia, the ‘ahhhh’ moment when you unwrap an airmail parcel.

I’ve got it wrong, badly wrong, in the past, but when a leap of faith pays off like it did for me last week, all past online disappointments fade away.

Back in early July (JULY!!!!!!) after months of emailing each other links to dresses we liked, Zsuzannah Verona and I bit the bullet and agreed to order some dresses from a US company called Shabby Apple (this blog has no paid posts, folks, so as in the past when I’ve recommended something to you, it’s done without any financial inducement on my part. So it’s with my hand on my heart that I can strongly recommend plugging ‘Shabby Apple’ into Google and checking out their website for some seriously gorgeous dresses).

I waited, and hoped, and waited, and hoped. I sent some polite emails, and got a US postal service tracking number, so I could log my parcel’s journey, which, at times, felt painfully slow, especially as I wasn’t yet sure if my leap of faith would pay off. Would all this waiting be worthwhile, or would I wind up disappointed and dissatisfied after weeks (months!) of longing for something of which I’d had only the most intangible of glimpses.

After a two day hold up at my comically mismanaged local post office, the USPS box was in my hot little hand. So excited was I to see if my leap of faith had paid off, I opened the parcel while waiting at the traffic lights on my way into work.

Oh my, how the faithful are rewarded!

Zsuzannah and my dresses were fantastic. Amazing. Beautiful. True to the pictures and fit descriptions. Better than I could ever have imagined, and all the better for a leap of blind faith - and a six to eight week wait.

Adventures

Yesterday, Mimi Goss and I did something very brave. We went on a bushwalk, in the actual bush. For some of you, this may not seem like a challenging proposition. Indeed, I’m told people go bushwalking frequently, with overnight camping included, and return to tell the tale.

These people, though, can probably read maps. And probably have some vestigial sense of direction retained from hunter-gatherer days. I cannot read maps. I have no sense of direction. This is why bushwalking is such an adventure for me. I never know where I’ll end up. Literally.

Whenever I’ve bushwalked in the past, it’s been with school (awful, horrible scarring experiences to a one), or with the lovely Zsuzannah Verona when we holidayed in New Zealand together. Zsuzannah is one of those freakily gifted people who can take the creased and sweat-stained map from my frightened paws, turn it three times while I shriek hysterically about being lost, and magically establish the direction where we’re supposed to be headed, where the nearest toilets are, and how long it will take to arrive at them. She’s like Bear Grills without the freaky urine drinking. A big improvement.

My bushwalking companion, Mimi Goss, is one of those friends who has complete and total faith in me. It’s the loveliest thing when a friend as wonderful as Mimi believes in you, and backs your judgment 110%, on things like boys, career choices, and shoes. However, it’s a bit of a worry when Mimi places her faith in me when I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING. Case in point: Mimi made me her navigational co-pilot on the car trip to Namadgi National Park. Or so she thought. Due to my awesome map reading skills (in the truest sense of the word, as my capacity to completely misinterpret maps inspires awe) we found ourselves, an hour later, at Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve. In my confusion, I had thought Tidbinbilla and Namagdi National Park were one and the same. Note to Peggy: they aren’t. The nice thing about taking so long to get to where we were going, though, was that it gave me and Mimi ample time to coin a new phrase or two. ‘Opus of Douchery’ was Mimi’s coinage. A finer contribution to the English language has yet to be made.

When we clarified that we were not, in fact, in Namadgi National Park but at the Tidbinbilla Visitors’ Center, it became apparent that plans of taking the Yankee Hat walk (yes, I picked it because of the hilarious name) would have to change. The not-too-friendly woman at the visitors’ centre suggested a couple of other walks we could take. I think she was in awe of my map (mis)interpretation skills. One of the suggested walks was the Ashbrook Fire Trail. Described as ‘moderate’ and of two hours’ duration, Mimi and I felt that it was perfect. That is, until I was handed the map of how to get there…

After hearing about my incompetence with maps earlier in this piece, it may not surprise you that we drove past the start of the Ashbrook Fire Trail walk. Twice. In my defense, the map was rather sparse and the sign was obscured by trees, Tidbinbilla being a nature reserve and all. It was at this point that Mimi reflected she was equally responsible for our predicament as she was the one who had placed me in charge of the park map. I found myself nodding agreement.

From that point on, things became simpler. There was a path, we got on it, and followed it. I’ve decided that people who don’t like maps (like me!) like, or should like, paths. We stopped for a cup of tea, and some almonds and apples. We marveled at how few birds there were – a big plus as birds are my nemesis (nemesi?). We debated the merits of various branches of feminist theory and whether or not to get maccas for lunch on the way home as we huffed and puffed our way up some long, steady gradients.

The final navigational fail on my part was still to come, however. On the drive home, I suggested we take the Point Hut Crossing road, as it would take us out ‘right near Kambah’. For those locals who are familiar with Canberra geography (unlike myself, despite having lived here for thirteen years), you will know that Point Hut Crossing actually terminates in Gordon, about eight suburbs and twenty minutes away from Kambah. I think this was the point at which Mimi accepted that bushwalking with Peggy is about the journey, rather than the destination.

It was a fantastic bushwalk adventure, from muddled beginnings to exhausted ends. My bushwalking kit is sitting in my cupboard, prepared with rain ponchos (from Legoland and Breast Cancer Awareness), Band-Aids, Panadol, Bettadine, a picnic rug, a space blanket, and emergency chocolate, ready for the next big adventure. Except, next time, Mimi’s in charge of the map…

Work it Out

It’s official. I’m not unemployable!

Whilst I’ll be taking a couple of weeks to work out exactly what my options are and the direction I want to take, the results at the moment are that I have a concrete offer and should be hearing most likely some positive news about another offer next week.

Aside from feeling relieved, I’m incredibly excited. About starting a new job, yes. About having greater financial freedom, yes. About new experiences, new people, new opportunities, yes, yes, yes.

About the chance to develop the world’s most amazing corporate cute wardrobe – HELLZ TO THE YEAH, TO THE POWER OF TEN.

Like applying for jobs, I’ve begun my background preparation well in advance when it comes to rising to the top of the Department of Amazing Corporate Cute Wardrobe. After recent closet upheavals I’ve blogged about previously, I’ve audited the existing garments and identified gaps to be filled. (Incidentally, this is how my supervisor suggested I start my PhD – by auditing the existing literature and identifying a gap. See, I am putting my academic skillz to good use in a workplace context already!) I’ve also consulted widely with experts in the field – Kitty Gilfeather, Mimi Goss, Zsusannah Verona and Clementine Kemp – and conducted observational research whilst waiting to pick MamaK up from her department. It’s from this extensive research base that I have developed a strong and clear strategic direction for the work wardrobe project, broken down into key priorities and areas for action.

The priorities, in order of importance:

Dresses in summer weight suiting
Pencil skirts
Cardigans – especially summer weight cropped, but also replacement of worn out winter woolies
Summer work shoes with a mid heel

(Again, prioritization – a highly transferable skill set)

Before I even knew I had a job, I’d sent MamaK and PapaK off to Malaysia with my favorite interview dress to be copied in summer weight wool suiting. They returned with five lovely dresses, which, after a few additional tweaks at the tailors, will be perfect for summer work wear. I’m confident that these dresses will transfer to winter work wear easily, with the addition of cardigans, tights and boots. Dresses in summer weight suiting – actioned.

As I’ve mentioned before, I base my wardrobe around dresses, and don’t anticipate that changing once I commence my grown up job. As variety is the spice of life, though, I felt that at least one pencil skirt, to combine with various tops and cardigans, would be a useful alternative for consideration. Flexibility is, after all, a valuable quality. A trip to Material Pleasures, my favorite second hand clothing outlet, turned up the perfect gray wool pencil skirt with a twist – the dinkiest pleat detail at the back! Only problem was, it was too small at the hips and too large at the waist. A few alterations later, and it’s ready to go. Pencil skirt – actioned.

Cardigans are proving to be more elusive. The particular style I like to wear with smart dresses, that is, cropped with short to mid sleeves, are sadly elusive. I have my grey-with-beading interview cardigan, and a recently acquired plain black Laura Ashley, but anticipate greater need of this key resource for covering upper arms and keeping warm in air conditioned offices. Cardigans have therefore been identified as an emerging priority in the key area of wardrobe planning.

Last but not least, summer work shoes with a mid heel round out my list of priorities. My favorite summer sandals that I blogged about at the beginning of this year could do at a pinch, but they are showing signs of wear. I have plenty of cute pumps, but most are suitable for cooler weather – closed toe, t-bar straps, in black or brightly coloured. I purchased a fantastic pair of red high heeled boots on the weekend, but they will be too sticky for January/February, when I start work. Taking action to rectify this situation, the key strategic direction I aim to take in this area is a nude or tan coloured, open toe, mid heel pump, sans strap, to achieve my goals of professionalism and leg elongation.

But with the rad wardrobe and academic skillz portfolio I’ve worked out over the years, I’m sure I’ll be all over summer work shoes and cropped cardigans like white on rice.

Cups Runneth Over.

I feel bad filing this post under the ‘recipe’ tag, because it isn’t. But, after evangelizing about the merits of oven roasted ‘shrooms, and happily discovering a high quality supplier of particularly awesome ‘shrooms at my local shops, I feel compelled to share my recipe, or, borrowing a Nigellaism, my ‘enthusiastic suggestion’ for preparing mushrooms.

(As an aside, I’ve recently been reading Nigella’s ‘How to Eat’ and ‘How to Be A Domestic Goddess’ not for the recipes, but for the writing. I love her stories, and I love the warmth that emanates from her prose. Give me Nigella over some of the more lauded novelists of our generation any day of the week!).

To begin your ‘shrooming, preheat your oven to 200 degrees. You don’t really need to preheat, and, as I often make these as a super fast lunch or dinner, I often don’t have time to, but it makes good sense to get your oven heating whilst you undertake the two minutes of preparation required.
Place your mushrooms, cup side up, on a baking-paper lined tray. I would allow about 5 palm-sized mushrooms per person, but then I tend to err on the side of gluttony so you may want to revise downwards. You should also consider size when selecting your ‘shrooms at the grocery store – you want mushrooms that have enough of a cup to catch the roasting juices, so buttons and the more exotic varieties are probably out. I usually stick to medium-large field mushrooms, which seem to be the tastiest.

Remove the stem from each of your mushrooms, being sure to keep the cup intact. Now it’s time to get creative. The basic rule here is that you need salt, pepper, and a little bit of fat – butter or olive oil – to give you that rich, delicious juice. However, if you are feeling fancy and have a good supply of fresh herbs to raid, pick a couple of the following and add them to the cups along with you basic seasoning: garlic, thyme, rosemary, sage, paprika, chilli, oregano, anchovies, capers.

Put the tray of ‘shrooms in the oven, and leave them for ten minutes. I find that cooking time varies wildly with these, depending on the size and freshness of your ‘shrooms, the amount of time your oven had been preheating, and the planets rotating through your sun sign (kidding). Basically, though, what you want to see, when you open the oven door, is a wrinkly brown mushroom with a pool of dark, richly scented juice in the cup. The visual, I’ll admit, is not appealing, but it’s honest. Your ‘shrooms will, and ought to, look manky at this stage.

At this point, you can proceed to the eating, but, if you are feeling really really fancy, or you’re just showing off, add some cheese (feta, mozzarella, and parmesan are favorites) and give your ‘shrroms another 2-3 minutes so your cheese begins to bubble.

Serve with a tossed together salad, or some wilted greens, and polenta or bread to soak up the juices. So now you know – you’re only ever 20 minutes, tops, away from complete culinary satisfaction. And if that isn’t a comfort in these troubled times, I don’t know what is.

Too Hard, Too Soft, Just Right: A Sparkling Interview Outfit

As I might have mentioned a couple of times here lately, there have been some job interviews happening. I’m not going to jinx anything by naming names here, suffice to say that if we were in a Harry Potter novel, I’d be the witch beavering away at finishing her OWLS, hoping to join one of the Ministry of Magic’s departments at the beginning of next year.

Having not had any sort of job interview in 4 years, I’d lost my bearings regarding appropriate interview wear. Whilst I like what I wear and do a good job being professional in my current context, Professor Professional simply won’t cut it for an interview at the Ministry.

If I were a boy, (cough, young man, cough cough), the decision would have been made for me – suit, clean and ironed shirt, tie, haircut. Maybe cufflinks, but probably not.

I am not a boy, or a young man - I am a woman. And so interview attire, like so many other things in life, becomes considerably more complicated.

I did think about going the LadySuit route, but was turned off by the price tag, and the lack of suitably fitting top and bottom parings within even the upper echelons of my budget. Another consideration is that I tend to be a nervous fidgeter. The combination of Jacket, Blouse, Skirt, Tights and Shoes would present one’s fingers with too many irresistible fidgety temptations. I just knew I’d spend the better part of the day running to and from the bathrooms checking that all the components were sitting right.

And even if they were sitting right, am I the LadySuit type? I think there’s something a little too hard about all that matching suiting fabric, firmly tucked in and buttoned up. Those of us who have done our fashion history homework know modern suiting is mainly influenced by military garb, and I am not sure that I am the ship-shape-and-bristol-fashion type.

Another option was the skirt, blouse and cardigan combination. Theoretically, I thought this was a brilliant idea, a kind of softly-softly response the LadySuit. Trying on various permutations of this look during my fashion montage a couple of weeks ago, however, gave me a new insight into the problems faced by many a soviet nation: theory is good in theory, not so much in practice.

Like goldilocks, I was placed in a situation where two extremes were presented to me, neither appealing – the LadySuit too hard, the skirt, blouse and cardigan too soft. What, I wondered, would be Just Right?
I thought about the two and a bit years that I have been writing this blog, reflecting on what clothes and style mean to me. What do I always return to, without fail? What garments do I feel most at ease, and most myself, in?

The answer was simple. The Dress.

Like Australian politicians reverting to knee-jerk reactionism (but I digress, this is not a political blog…) dresses are what I rely on when everything else it too hard or complicated. From my Miss Honeys, to my Ms Buttroses, my favorite summer frocks, to my jersey farmers market throw-ons, dresses are what I wear the most. Why would I abandon my signature look for this exciting new enterprise?

The field was successful and swiftly narrowed to one particular dress – a Mimi Goss cast off, black, sleeveless, modest yet figure defining, with a charming folded-fabric detail at the collar. A cardigan, for warmth and to cover the upper arms (which apparently are ‘unprofessional’ – who knew?) would complete the look. After a moment of hesitation, I decided on a cropped, three quarter sleeve, charcoal grey number with subtle but sparkly beading at the collar.

I wondered – is it appropriate to be just a teensy bit sparkly in a job interview? But then I realized that’s the whole point of a job interview - to sparkle. And I was Just Right.

Author’s note: At the time of writing, my favorite interview dress is half way around the world, with MamaK and PapaK, to serve as a template for several duplicates they are generously having made. Before my interview dress and I are reunited, I have two more interviews – so I guess it’s back to the drawing board for me!

Top Ten

It’s been yet another busy week here for Ms Entwhistle – I know, I know, we’re all busy, so there’s nothing new or exciting in my busy-ness. But, some wonderful things have been happening this week, so I thought I’d share some glimpses and snippets of my week with you, in the hopes that you are faring similarly well.

#10 – Sumatran Organic Fair-Trade (also slightly sanctimonious) Coffee. I ran out a couple of weeks ago, and couldn’t get myself to Jindebah Coffee until late this week just passed – but this magnificent coffee is so worth the wait and the journey to the deep south.



#9 – Marking First Year Essays. For a couple of reasons, I’ve ended up teaching a lot more than I intended this semester, hence a large part of my business. This means I get to mark 75 of each assessment task, and there are four assessment tasks in the course that I teach. I’m not doing the math because it’s going to scare me, but if you want to do it, go right ahead. This week I marked the first piece of assessment, and, as always, I’m thrilled by the effort that my little firsties have put into their work. Yes, marking is a headache, literally and metaphorically, but it also makes me smile.

#8 – Macaron Day. On Saturday, MamaK, Tessy Halberton and I had a girls’ afternoon making macarons. Whilst they are our first attempt, and, like the first year essays mentioned above, have a long way to go before they are perfect, they still taste rather magnificent.



#7 – The End Of Fieldwork. Yes, folks, it’s over. Specifically, it ended at 3am at an unnamed fieldwork location, and I was supremely glad. Particularly as The Dreamboat, acting the role of BIG HE MAN PROTECTOR, willingly stayed up all night, and surrendered the wee small hours of his twenty sixth birthday to doing something no one in their right mind would do. Which brings me to wonderful thing six…

#6 – The Dreamboat’s Birthday. Dreamboat turned 26 on Friday, and, although we were both whacked from a hard night’s observing, it was still a lovely day. Happy birthday darling, I’m glad you liked your present, even if I dropped it and it doesn’t quite work properly anymore – incidentally, does anyone know of a barometer repairer?

#5 – Autumn Barbecues. For the Dreamboat’s birthday lunch, we packed an impromptu BBQ and headed out to Cotter Bend reserve. It’s one of my favorite places in the whole world, especially at this time of year. I would have taken my camera to snap some shots to share with you all, but I thought better of it, as I want you all to go yourselves – the golden leaves and musky-earthy smell of the lichen is worth the windy road.

#4 – Lemons (and one lime) In My Kitchen. Don’t they look cheerful? They remind me of sunshine every time I see them.



#3 – Sunday Yum Cha. I promise I will never leave it ten years between drinks with Yum Cha, because it’s so much fun. Especially when you go with a group of ten people. Especially when you can chat about fabulous bargain fashion with friends you hadn’t caught up with in a while. Especially when there’s a giant Lazy Susan to twirl food on. Especially when you discover that friend whitebait is like fish and chips combined in the one foodstuff. Especially when you try tripe and are pleasantly surprised.

#2 – Fabulous Vintage Dresses. I scored two this week – one from the fifties and one from the seventies. There are so many fantastic vintage clothes sellers popping up around the place, there isn’t an excuse not to get amongst it.




#1 – Frogs. But the most wonderful thing of all this week? Victoria and Albert, our new green tree frogs. Yes, they are named after the royals. Yes, they did keep Dreamboat and I awake with what we think were mating calls (which, strangely enough, sounded like a bird-squawk). Yes, I did wake up in a terrible panic and had to check they were still breathing (I was worried they’d frozen to death).



Oh, but aren’t they just darling?

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas…

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas at chez Peggy. And I couldn’t be happier.

I think the only people who get more excited about Christmas than I are, in order, department store CEO’s, children under five, and mixed fruit manufactures.

If you, like the Dreamboat and several other people I could mention but won’t, don’t particularly get your knickers in a twist about the fact that it’s NOW ONLY NINETEEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS, I promise I won’t be striking you off my Christmas card list. I can see the logic in not being too keen on all the enforced jollity, relating to relatives you’d rather not be related to, and carpark traumas at every major shopping outlet in the ‘berra.

But then, when you really boil it down, the way we celebrate Christmas is about things that I fundamentally love: family, food and drink, shopping for gifts, and decorating. Topped off with a speech from a real live queen, as opposed to a drag one.

Yes, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year.

So, in this time of hustle and bustle, here are some musings from me on the things that I fundamentally love about Christmas, complete with pictures.



Family tops the list of things that make Christmas special for me. Going shopping with Papa-K for Mama-K’s Christmas presents and watching him agonise over what she would like best. Mama-K’s cooking – which, every year, she attempts to cut back on but actually ends up doing more of, because she can’t resist adding some new recipes to the Christmas classics.



Big Little brother and his lovely girlfriend’s early Christmas surprises, both of which are gracing my tree very handsomely. Little Little brother’s preferences for certain unorthodox Christmas gifts – he once bought me a blind spot mirror and a can of mushy peas. True story.

And then there’s the food. So much food. Food in amounts that at other times of the year would be considered obscene, but, for some strange reason, seems perfectly moderate at Christmas time. There are so many foods I could write about – stuffing, almond pears, trifle, prawns, oysters, rumballs…but I’ll pick my favourite Christmas food for sharing with you here. Christmas isn’t Christmas without shortbread.



It’s so simple, but somehow so satisfying, to see a little fleet of vintage shortbread tins (my packaging of choice this year) filled and ready to be gifted away.




Batches and batches of shortbread are made at Christmas time, to the point where I’m almost too sick of it to eat any – almost. One year I worked out I’d made nineteen batches…this year I think I’ll try and keep it to a more moderate fifteen. Although, with the help of a couple of mama-k’s particularly deadly Santa’s Little Helpers, the traditional family Christmas cocktail, I may become slightly more ambitious in my shortbread making. The dangers of the demon drink…

On to other addictions, Christmas is a time for shopping. Shopping with gay abandon. Shopping is something that I adore, but, as mentioned before on this blog, it’s something I have to be rather disciplined about, with the budgetary constraints common to all students. However, Christmas is a time to release all those pent up shopping urges that have been simmering away all year.



And the best bit is, no-one will think any less of you for shopping a lot at Christmas, because you’re not shopping for yourself, you’re shopping for gifts.



I may have to put a little boast in here: I’ve actually already done all of my shopping, except for perishables and a couple of small afterthougthy things. Some people would say that this is a symptom of being very organised: yes, that’s true. Mainly, though, starting shopping in October is a symptom of how much I enjoy it – by starting sooner, I can luxuriate in the pleasures of shopping for that little bit longer. Oh, and for those of you who hate shopping and can’t face the mall or the high street from Mid-November onwards? Go online. There are some fabulous sites – Nordic Fusion, Heart and Heim, and, of course, Etsy – where I have no doubt you’ll be able to locate that perfect gift without having to locate a carpark.

So, the family have been assembled, the menu decided, the presents shopped for and wrapped – now it’s time to decorate. I have a horrible feeling that one day, when I’m really old, I’ll live in a nice quiet cul de sac – AND DECK MY HOUSE OUT IN SO MANY FAIRY LIGHTS I CAUSE DAILY BLACKOUTS OF THE ENTIRE SUBURB. Just kidding...for the moment.



Christmas decorating is a whole lot of fun, and why restrict yourself to just a tree? With a little bit of invention, you can include (tasteful) touches of Christmas all around you. The apartment I live in, being so small, means that wherever you are, you can see the Christmas tree – but that still hasn’t stopped me from decorating the entrance way, the microwave, the bookshelf, and the window ledge above the sink. I wonder what Virginia Boots will say when she gets back from Melbourne?



In all seriousness, I will add a note of caution with Christmas decorating. Avoid further seasonal hassles by placing your decs in disused spaces around your home – tops of microwaves, bookshelves and window ledges are great for this reason. Mama-K once had the genius idea of hanging a series of red baubles from the door lintel. Ever single time I walked through the door, I copped a dong to the head. Not great, when coupled with the after-effects of a Santa’s Little Helper.

I think it’s going to be impossible to stop me from writing more about Christmas between now and the big day, but for now I’ll leave you with these above thoughts, and hope that you are enjoying your pre-christmassing as much as I am, and that you’re all looking Christmassy Fabulous.