This is a sharp departure from my usual posts. No drawings. No jokes.
It’s a tribute to one of my favourite writers – Australian author Gillian Mears – who died this week, aged 51.
I was chucking together some lunch today, when I noticed something dodgy about a mushroom I was about to chop up. Frankly, it felt a bit fluffy.
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I bought a packet of mints the other day. It was an impulsive at-the-counter acquisition, because they came in a really nice tin. 
I was in a handicraft store run by a not-for-profit community organisation, so naturally, the mints were quite expensive – 
But, as the sales girl explained, they were Fair Trade mints. Continue reading
Early in his life, before he grew to loathe other dogs, our mutt had all the makings of a benign dictator-in-waiting.
He made liberal claims to territory, marking anything that crested the lofty height of three inches as his own.
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When I was in kindergarten, I used to knit in the school playground. This lasted about a week, until the teacher on duty told me knitting needles were dangerous and I was not to bring them to school anymore. I was baffled; despite what the name implies, my needles were flimsy plastic ones and utterly blunt. I complied, nonetheless, and I never did finish that scarf.
Since Doctor Who is celebrating his 50th anniversary this weekend, I’m paying tribute to my two favourite doctors.
However, I don’t mean my most loved incarnations of The Doctor. I’m talking about Doctor Who (in his various guises) and someone you would recognise another doctor entirely…
Namely, Dr Seuss.
I really am quite fond of spiders. This morning when I stepped into the shower and noticed a daddy long legs lurching spastically up a silken guy wire, I wanted nothing more than to rescue him.
He was scrambling to escape the sudden steaming monsoon with his life and legs intact, but huge drops kept ricocheting from my skin, jarring him from his thread.
Now that Christmas is in sight, I am once again readying myself for The Conversation.
It won’t be the first time I’ve had to do it, but it never gets any easier.
Each year they ask me about it, but no-one actually wants to hear the answer. As soon as the first sentence leaves my mouth, they swell with outrage, they call me a Grinch, they tell me I’m No Fun At All.
Image from http://www.zazzle.com.au
Mind you, these aren’t my kids we’re talking about – these are my friends and acquaintances. Typically they’re people with younger children, and they’re weighing up the best time and way to break the news about Santa in their household.
They ask: “When did you tell your kids?”, “What did you say?”, “How did they react?”
But I’m no help whatsoever, because I’ve never been in that situation.
Damnit! I should never have written that story about 3D glasses. Now Cyclops, the god of corneas, has vehemently expressed his displeasure.
You see, I used to wear glasses of the Extremely Correctional kind. But three years ago I had laser surgery, and bingo! My naked eyes could suddenly make out individual leaves on trees that were way over there.
So when I went to a 3D movie the other week, I slid the cinema glasses onto my nose easily and contentedly watched the movie in sharp resolution.
The simplicity of it reminded me of all the times I used to struggle with half-an-octopus worth of glasses arms at the cinema.
So that’s what I wrote about.
A couple of years ago, I had to wear a branded t-shirt for a work event and my choice was limited to an extra-small or an extra-large.
Since I’m neither of these sizes, I tried them both on. I planned to choose the shirt that looked least terrible and, more importantly, the one that was easiest to move in – since it would be a busy, running-around kind of day.
That turned out to be the extra-small one.
How the light gets in 