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It has become somewhat fashionable of late to out oneself as a bit of a reader. A self-confessed bookworm. A well-read head, as it were. The trend, of course, was started by this site’s resident well red-head, complete with that
I have always liked what Harold Pinter used to say about coughing in the theatre. Never one to mince his words, he called it an act of unconscious aggression. Colourful and curmudgeonly, perhaps, but a valid point. If coughing is
When I was thirteen years old, I shaved off my eyebrows. I will spare you the not-entirely-believable details of how I came to be standing in front of my parents’ bathroom mirror with my father’s razor and a can of
I watched Seinfeld again recently, every episode of every season in chronological order. And while much of the series remains relevant today, not to mention blindingly funny, it nevertheless struck me as dated. It wasn’t that the style of comedy
There we were, four glamorous young people, talking about things that glamorous young people talk about. By and by, our conversation turned to the recession, musing over the soul-crushing impact that mostly older people had told us the crisis would
There was, in the beach shack we used to stay in when I was little, a smartly framed cross-stitch picture of a man asleep in a boat. A fishing line dangled from the boat into the water, disappearing somewhere amongst
‘Tis the season, it seems, for artificial snow. It comes but once a year, this season, a kitschy month in which a fluffy white simulacrum of snow blankets Australia’s department stores while shoppers file through in their thousands, sweating like