I’ve had two great weekends, two weekends in a row where I’ve suddenly felt a whole lot better about things. Maybe it’s because the sun has finally shone and I’ve basked in it, or because the cute guy from my yoga class is the waiter at a new cafe I went to, or because I’ve walked up Mt Vic both times. Or maybe it’s just because I’ve hung out with my friends. I’ve done both at the same time even, been out of the house, with my friends.

So yeah, the amount of work on my desk dictates that I probably shouldn’t have spent three hours by the beach last Sunday after brunch and not studied, or spent nearly two hours mulling over a single long black at another new cafe this arvo, or meandered through the farmer’s market on the way back from my walk.

I really wish I didn’t care about my grades, even though I never intend on using my legal knowledge for a moment after I graduate (I actually laughed in my friend’s face the other day when she asked when I was going to sit for the Bar) but I’m not one of those people who just don’t do work (I think it’s an immigrant thing). But my Maori Land assignment is pretty sub-par and, right now, I don’t care because later on, will I remember the grade I got? Probably not (unless I fail, then I’ll probably remember) but will I remember sitting on the waterfront with the sun on my face, the smell of the coffee, the feeling that it’s all going to be just fine? I hope so.


Father’s Day

I just realised that I missed Father’s Day, well actually, we missed Father’s Day because I always be sure to include my long-suffering brother in any parent-related blame apportionment. We must have been on holiday when it happened and it wasn’t until I saw an old Dick Smith flyer than I realised. Also, it’s not big deal because we never really do anything for Father’s Day, except maybe have schnitzel (and in all likelihood we had that on the day by accident). My Dad never wants anything, he doesn’t like having money spent on him and unlike the usual four-letter words that people hate (cook, wash, iron, tidy) my Dad just hates fuss.

My father is as quiet as I am loud, as neutral as I am extreme and as patient as I am short. We have had many silent dinners, car trips and sessions of watching crime dramas (our personal faves). I am (here goes that magic word) lucky that my Dad lets me take the piss out him regularly and I have been know (at the age of 21) to call him up if I’m awake between 5am and 8am and feel like a chat (I, predictably, do most of the chatting).

A wise womaniser by the name of John Mayer once said,

Fathers be good to your daughters, daughters will love like you do

And he, in all his infinite wisdom is right. My French flatmate and I created the psychological condition (that I’m sure is well-documented in far fancier words) of “father issues” whereby so many of the girls we know who are in unhealthy or unstable relationships have poor or non-existent relationships with their dads. Your dad is the first man in your life, the only one is is supposed to love you regardless and the one who will teach you life lessons that you may never learn from anyone else (I firmly believe that mine is still trying to teach me to be quiet, but we’re getting there).

You may have never thought about it, but your old dad will have imprinted on you an impression of the world (and the men in it) that will probably be permanent. Few people get the opportunity to do that.


I’m waiting for the day when I’ll feel like I’m sorted,

When my hair will fall the right way and my lipstick won’t smudge.

I’m waiting for that perfect cup of tea.

For the day when I will walk the streets of Paris in high-heels and my feet won’t hurt,

when my footsteps will be loud but my head will be quiet.

For the coolest boy for when it’s cold or I’m cold.

I’m waiting for my friends to believe my high opinions of them,

To see them grow beyond what they think they can reach.

I’m waiting for the day when the money won’t matter because the matter will be that good.

I’m waiting to have a list of desires,

not obligations


not preparations.

I’m still waiting.

Strutting Away With It

Yesterday, after we’d both spent the day lounging in the sun at various cafés, my flatmate regailed me with a story, the central feature of which was a pair of shorts. Not just any shorts, you know those cheeky-bum shorts? The ones that are cut so high that everyone can see the bit where your butt decides the join the rest of your leg? The stuff of teenage boys’ dreams? Yeah, those ones. But they were being worn by a rather chubby girl. My inner feminist said “good on her, she should wear what she likes”, but the image conscious, judgmental me said, “ugh, those should only be worn by models, or people who look like models.”

I do that all the time. I excuse people purely because they are attractive. Usually I would bemoan the low standards that those shorts are setting in terms of the attire we call clothing these days, but in a magazine? Fine. The cuter the guy, the more times he can be a douche-bag before I give him the flick. I don’t judge girls who rock bizarre piercings if they have the face for it. Put my friends in a group and they all look like something out of a J Crew catalogue. Tattoos are absolutely works of art as long as the person has style and good looks.

It’s no hidden fact that attractive people are more successful in their careers, are more easily respected, liked and admired. But what if I’m missing out on people who are interesting because I’m making that split-second decision and deciding they’re not attractive?

What if people are missing out on me because they don’t think I’m attractive???

Friend of the Blog #4 Adele

I sometimes imagine that one day I’ll be well known enough to be interviewed in one of those newspaper weekend magazine columns where they ask you silly questions like “The book I can’t put down is…” “My last meal would be ….” etc. They sometimes ask something like “The concert I wish I’d seen is ….” and if I were ever to get asked that, I know exactly what I’d say. Ideally I would say something like “Kings of Leon in their garage before they got famous” or “Sinatra’s last hurrah” or something, but after having watched Adele – Live at the Royal Albert Hall on the plane home from Europe I have repeatedly wished really really hard that I was there.

Since Adele came onto my radar I’ve been doing my best renditions of her in the shower, in the kitchen, in the car, in my own head, so I am already a fan. But, what a show! Not just the singing, the stage, the theatre or the lighting design. But, the Adele that came across so cool and personable on The Graham Norton Show, who interviews like someone you could totally be friends with, was just like that on stage. She swore, she bemoaned not having a glass of wine in her hands, she cried a bit and even took her shoes off. She asked the lighting desk to put the house lights up so she could see everyone. She was just bloody cool. Not pretentiousness, no swanning about, no ‘trying to be witty’ banter, she just sang incredibly interspersed with funny yarns.

She is the sort of role model we could do with more of these days. Get rid of disgusting Gaga, trashy Pink and the skeptically talented Jessie J and let Adele’s reign continue.



Raging at Rage

I don’t usually get genuinely annoyed about things of international importance, I feel that they’re too far outside my sphere of influence to warrant expending energy being angry. I get upset about racism, frustrated by homophobia and confused at violence but rarely, genuinely angry.

However, if you’ve been watching the news you will know about all the protesting surrounding the creation of a film mocking the Prophet Muhammed, made in the USA. The Muslim world is in uproar, as they have a right to be, just the way that the homosexual community is over the mere fact that there is controversy around gay marriage. They definitely should feel insulted, just the way that African Americans feel every time they are the recipients of less than equal treatment. There’s nothing wrong with staging protests, the way that young Russians did over the incarceration of Pussy Riot. But to see on the news that there are young women in Kasmir asking for the film’s creators to be burned, that there are bloody riots breaking out in Lebanon, that the leaders of Muslims are encouraging violence and uprising, that just makes me really mad. How on earth are we supposed to move closer to a world of acceptance, tolerance and unity when each shot that is fired sparks a bonfire? This is about an insult. Yes it’s hurtful and it’s sad that tolerance is still so far away, and in an ideal world noone would have to encounter such disrespect, but I really cannot believe that people who are supposed to be leaders are going to encourage more hurt and pain as a means of retaliation. I’m not saying that people shouldn’t fight for their beliefs, but this is fighting against someone’s opinion, Muslim beliefs aren’t in danger by this film, it will not extinguish them so I think that expressing denigration and inciting violence are being confused here. Excuse me for sounding like a hippy but, give peace a chance.

Passing Bye

This is Seated Nude by Picasso (1909-10, oil on canvas, Tate Modern, London) and I’m sure you’ve just given it a quick glance and are hoping I’ll move onto something else shortly. This is my favourite Picasso (that I’ve seen) and it hangs on a side wall in one of the back rooms of the Tate Modern’s third floor. As I stood in front of it, taking it all in (again) I became suddenly agitated by the people walking bye. So many people just walked straight on past, some gave it a considered look, others a glance and I just wanted to scream at them all “LOOK AT THIS. JUST STOP AND LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!” But of course you can’t do that in a public art gallery unless you’re one of those performance art installations. Isn’t it amazing how people can just not notice something that to you is so beautiful. There is so much art and inspiration available to us, of course it’s impossible to take it all in, and thank goodness we all don’t think the same, otherwise the world would be a very boring place. But I did find it so hard to believe that people didn’t want to stop and get lost in this painting, as I was.

I suppose that every day we will bypass things that have meaning for other people. That’s a rather spacey thought, isn’t it?

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