Pilgrimage to the King

You’ll never guess where I went on Saturday.

Actually, you never will guess, so I’ll just tell you: I went on a pilgrimage to the King.

Not the one at Windsor Castle. Things are a bit too turbulent in the Middle East for embarking on something like that. Also, King Charles doesn’t do it for me.

And not the one at Graceland. That King does do it for me, but I may never step foot in that country again.

My pilgrimage took me a little closer to home: Mullens Street, Balmain.

Celebrity chef Bernard King’s former home, which was going to auction at midday.

Going to Bernard’s place was not on my bingo card until I visited Morpeth a few weeks ago and bought his Summer/Autumn/Winter/Spring cookbook collection for the princely sum of $8 in an antique store.

A few days later, my friend Michelle sent me a link to an article about his house being on the market. Bernard was an early pioneer of TV cooking shows and he filmed many of them at his house. Plus his cookbook covers were photographed there. What are the odds of that?

I decided destiny was calling to me, so I drove across the Anzac Bridge to embrace it.

The current owner has lived in the house since purchasing it from King in 1991. After inspecting it, I’m guessing zero maintenance has been done over the past 35 years. There were some parts of the ceiling where you could see sunlight streaming through.

I’m not sure whether it sold on Saturday, but the price guide was recently adjusted to $2.4 million, $520,000 below Balmain’s median house price. The rambling property had some lovely original features including ornate fireplaces and a stained glass skylight in the living room, but I don’t think there was anything that could be salvaged other than the facade.

Still, it was exciting to walk into the kitchen and see Bernard’s cookbook in pride of place on a shelf. I snapped a quick (terrible) selfie and exited the property, telling the agent it needed a bit too much work for me.

I spent my money more wisely over the weekend by updating my bra collection. I went to The Foundation and got properly fitted. My bras have been sooooo uncomfortable since I chonked it on.

Turns out I am now a 14E!

14. E.

Far out. That’s a lot for someone who was a 12B at age 36.

There were so many pretty things in the shop, but I restrained myself and only purchased a black bra and a neutral one. Plus some bra strap cushions (I had no idea they were a thing) to stop my straps digging into my shoulders so much.

My vain hope for the future is that I will rejoin the gym, the kilos will fall off my boobs and I will fit into all the other bras jammed in my wardrobe.

The rest of the weekend passed in a relaxed whirl of walks, a swim, lunch with a friend, bangers and mash with DD and watching a few episodes of a Bec Wilson retirement preparation series that DD has subscribed to. Ah, the joys of middle age!

Hope you had a good one.

Now it’s off to work I go to belatedly mark International Women’s Day … turn away from the morning tea spread, Alana.

Song of the day: Paul Simon “Graceland”