The ahhh-mazing views out of E’s old Mosman apartment.

Single-handedly destroying my mothers clean kitchen.

Happy Birthday V! xx

Weird arse (and gross) pod-stick tea at the International terminal.

D and K walking the streets of Melbz.

Treats from Pareeeeee!

My absolute favourite Zumbo macaron to date, the salted peanut caramel.

More Zumbo treats. The large mandarin and rose macaron is God.

Hermes Medor studs = weapon of choice.


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You park your car by feel, but you have no actual feelings.

The ‘thwack’ of the aluminum and steel reverberate up her spine, little shudders along each vertebrae. He laughed it off, after all the car is his pride and joy. No harm shall come to it. “I’ve taken to parking by feel”, he said matter-of-factly. She’d noticed. She could still feel a slight shaking from the impact. But explicit trust (and knowledge that the car was the most important girl in his life) made her certain that ‘parking by feel’ was the way things should be done.

Doing everything by feel had become a way of life during his brief interlude into her world. Going to the movies, by feel. Eating Japanese, by feel. Getting around fifty million awkward conversation points at a wedding, by feel. It was nice whilst it lasted. She liked the attention, the constant hum of something exciting stirring between two seemingly opposite bodies. She had presumed that he felt the same, there was little to point to anything different. There was so much happening by feel. And if he would park the precious car by feel, then certainly she could manage her relationship by feel too.

But there was something missing, there was no feelings. Despite the constant feel of things, of people, of places, of moments, there was no feelings to take them any farther. She had been duped by the false sense of what feel actually is. Feel is nothing more than a lack of attention to movement. He only ever demonstrated a lack of attention to his movements. She had spent so much time being impressed by feel, it shattered her when she realised that she had mistaken them for feelings – which is really all she’d ever hoped for.

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What are you most likely to take to a BBQ?

Condiments. I am a condiments freak. I would even make them myself, basil and garlic pesto, really garlicy hommus, tangy mayonnaise. I bought that little zhooosh machine they were using on Masterchef and now I blend everything. So yeah, I’d be condiment girl.

You’ve had the worst day of your life. How do you cope?

By dancing in my undies. It’s tried and tested.

Describe your future hens night?

I’m leaving this up to my best friend V (for when it happens in approx. one billion years). Though, it would be wise for her to know some pointers. I don’t want strippers. I don’t want to wear one of those dumb sash things that says ‘Bride2B!!!’ and I don’t want to end up in a gutter. Oh, and I want to wear the following dress so we’ll have to budget in that 3000-odd pound price tag.

What kind of cook are you?

A terrible one. There is no shortage of prior reference points for this. Like re-toasting toast after I’d put cinnamon sugar on it.

When you think about love, you tend to be thinking about?

Puppies, mini pigs, Miu Miu shoes with lots of glitter and jewels, my Mum, the huge wall of old family photos stuck in the lounge room, snuggles under massive eiderdown doonas, the warm and squishy inside of my ex-boyfriends Ugg boots.

What’s the first thing you seek out in a city you’ve never visited?

The toilet because I am notorious for not going before I leave home. I presume it was a bad habit my parents could never get me out of.

Can you use Google?

Can I use Google?! We invented the phrase “Youtube the poop out of that”. It could just as easily be applied to Google I’m sure…

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I mega bad want to go adventuring through Cape York. I don’t like pit toilets, no showers and essentially being confined to vehicles to long periods of time, but I would very much like to swim in that lake/lagoon thing.

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James Manning has got it sorted.

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She had a desk covered with all her works in progress. University papers, admissions for internships and a creative collage boards. It was a mess of words, flashes of a colourful print stopped it from becoming an undistinguishable smear of, nothing. Not one piece could serve a purpose to her now, just like changing seasons she was developing a sense of what coming to her. She began to glue them together. Angular shards of paper tacked down on top of one another until they reached the outer lengths of the table.

Picking up the thickest of black textas she traced the outline of her hands right across her sheets. Big, black, curving lines. One, two, three, four, five. And one by one she outlined these hands until the only clear spaces were the palms. And in the smallest of writing, a gold pen in hand, she wrote on those palms her mission statement. Her new one.

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Without fail, I will always find myself in the worlds most awkward position. Like right behind (or in-front) a bride & groom arriving at their wedding reception. Fail.

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