Yes, I’m on crutches. Mainly people are saying “What, again?” which is completely justified. At this point I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m just doing it for attention.
Nat Locke
A news story about a young woman who became trapped between rocks for seven hours trying to retrieve her phone from a crevice got me thinking about this question. And I have a pretty disgusting story of my own.
As someone who drives to work in the wee hours, it comes as a shock if I ever have to contend with peak hour traffic. People do this twice a day, EVERY DAY? I don’t know how they still have the will to live.
For years I have lived across from a block that recently sold for an eye-watering amount. The delightful new owners’ building plans show a beautiful house that fits in with the street. So what’s the problem?
You see, one does not simply have curly hair. No. One is on a curl journey. And it turns out the journey comes at first-class prices.
As we celebrate another AFL Grand Final, I’m thinking back to my past Big Dance experiences. They’ve been something else, just ask the guy who tried to light my Eagles scarf on fire.
I came across a junior footy wind-up with a waterslide and a donut van, something I could never have imagined when I was a kid. What will they be like in 20 years time? Cirque du Soleil? Petting zoo capybaras?
Remember when a cordless phone, a VCR, a fruit roll up or an LCM bar were the ultimate indicators of wealth? Something tells me kids might be a lot harder to impress these days.
Reasonable people might ask the question “Can’t we just use common sense around this? Why does it have to be legislated?” and to them, I say, that’s two questions. But you make a great point.
Every father I spoke to reckons they’re practically brimming with sage guidance, but only a few of them could recollect the advice. Don’t worry, I’ve rounded up some of my favourites, good and terrible.
It’s no longer comfortable sitting on hard surfaces, my heels are silky smooth and my lost hair has grown back and it’s ridiculously curly.
There’s his unabridged disdain for a particular Golden Retriever, for starters. Then there was the time he cocked his leg on a bare back at the beach …
I have absolutely embraced the convenience of online banking and love the fact that I can move money around with my fingertips. But, my dear little millennials and gen Zs, it wasn’t always that way.
We’re at the halfway mark of the action in Paris and I’ve hit that point where I’m seriously considering which event I need to take up in order to compete at the next games.
With all the action kicking off in Paris this week, I am absolutely here for it. But my deep and abiding love is rooted in the athletics carnivals of my primary school era. I got right into them.
I rawdogged all the way through my childhood. I stared blankly out of a window for the long bus ride every day of primary school. If there was a new piece of roadside litter ... I would notice it.
I’ve scoffed at the WhatsApp messages purporting to be from my needy child who requires money. I’ve been resistant to the charms of temptresses named Svetlana. I figured I’d never fall for such shenanigans …
One step out of my Hoi An hotel and I started to look like a Labradoodle. By the time I had spent a couple of hours outside, I had gone full Poodle.
Sometimes in life, you say yes to things and the later realise you have put yourself into quite the predicament. That’s how I found myself doing stand-up at Regal Theatre last weekend, opening for Joel Creasey.
There is a push to raise the age for social media access from 13 to 16. I can completely understand why — when I think of myself at 13, it is honestly quite shocking how hilariously naive I was.
The benefits of risky play for kids are huge yet my generation — who lived a blissfully unsupervised childhood — hovers to ensure their children aren’t hurt. Why has the pendulum swung so far the other way?
I’ve figured out how to use procrastination to my advantage: use the time and energy you’re expending avoiding something and redirect it. In order to avoid a task this week, I finally fixed my curtains.
If ever there was a story with the above tagline, it is the tale of the portal between New York and Dublin, where an artist set up a live stream inside a sculpture. It was wholesome at first, then not.
Even though, as I keep telling myself, I am now a fully-grown woman and in control of what I eat, the thought of cold weather triggers a kind of childhood PTSD — Post Traumatic Stew Disorder.
