The memory of Sydney being scorched by drought seems almost surreal these days. When we moved to New York in 2008, Sydney was dry as a bone. The Sprogs had never know the childhood pleasure of hi-jinks with a garden hose. Now Sydney's seems permanently soggy and I sometimes wonder if the rain will ever stop. (Though we've had... Continue Reading →

It's my shameful secret but I'm so cross about losing my beloved radio station that I've decided to come out of the closet. And I'm shouting: WHAT THE FARK HAVE YOU DONE TO 95.3FM, YOU FARKING TOOLS? OFF WITH YOUR HEADS! Husband is sick of me ranting to him about it, so he suggested I ear-bash you instead. He was never a... Continue Reading →

It's been almost a year since House went home. I've been wondering - yet again - what to do with the rest of my life. And I've decided what I really want to do is write. Which is fortunate since I spend so much time blogging. But, while blogging has been bliss, it's not financially rewarding. So I'm thinking I might write a book (no... Continue Reading →

The transformation is complete. I am a cliche. Not just any cliche. A North Shore housewife cliche. The revelation came yesterday when Husband asked me to do a chore for him. I said I was far too busy. As I outlined why I was far too busy, my voice faltered slightly. Because while my transformation is... Continue Reading →

This week over at Village Voices I have a good old rant about celebrity babies, Nicole Ritchie, magazine sell-outs and Revenge (the TV kind, not the sort I wish on my enemies). Go on, check it out. Pretty please with sugar on top ... I need the traffic, or they might sack me. (No they... Continue Reading →

Actually, it was more of an "anorexic in the pump class" situation - unfortunate choice of metaphor in the heading - and I was completely transfixed. Yesterday, just before my gym class, a huddle of mums formed to express (whispered) concern about the possibly pregnant, possibly anorexic woman in attendance. I suggested she might just have one of those starving Biafran-style bellies,... Continue Reading →

I am so full of crap. Women aren't my bread and butter. Bread and butter implies simplicity. There's nothing simple about women. I'm 44 and still baffled by them. I've learned to move among them and act like one of the tribe, but the intricacies of female relationships confound me. And they require a lot of maintenance. I'm... Continue Reading →

I've spent most of the week blissfully disinterested in the Liz Hurley vs Simone Warne hoo-hah. But Ros Reines' column in The Sunday Telegraph, taking pot-shots at wicked Liz, made me cross. Divorces are a big, fat pain. They're not fun for anyone. They're not fun for the couple splitting, they're not fun for the kids involved, and they're a... Continue Reading →

I was lurking about on notanothermumblog last week reading her latest post, Girls Rule! (http://notanothermumblog.wordpress.com/2012/05/17/girls-rule/), when I found myself typing the comment words: "Women are my bread and butter.  Men are my chilli crab." Notanothermumblog had been musing on her preference for the company of women over men, clarifying that it wasn't about "sapphic pleasures".  I begged to differ. About... Continue Reading →