Eating your feelings – Easter style


I think it is by some divine intervention that Easter happens to fall during my ‘Eat your feelings’ stage of grief. The icing on the cake is of course being a mother to a two-year-old who is showered with chocolate eggs all weekend and for whom it would be unhealthy to consume a diet consisting purely of delicious solidified fats, artificial additives and unethically sourced sugars. But Mama says YUM!

Oh lord I’ve been eating. I told the Viking I wanted to eat a pack of biscuits and he looked at me strangely. Luckily, there were no biscuits, but there was a frozen cheesecake. Was.

I don’t want to talk too much about Alfie, we loved him, he loved us, we were lucky to have him and we had to say goodbye. But our lives go on without him. The house is certainly quieter, I’ve had to start picking up dropped food from the floor and nobody licks my ankles anymore, and we will always, always miss him. We’ve had a beautiful canvas printed of him so we can still sit in the lounge and look at him.

I’ve been fortunate to have been really busy lately, which is great. I had a rapid-fire trip to my old stomping ground of Wellington for meetings. I wasn’t in time to meet Kate, Wills and George. I was in time for a massive day-long downpour and good ol’ Welly sideways rain. Why I bothered to straighten my hair I’ll never know, I forget why I took one of those handbag sized umbrellas too – considering Harley Davidsons get blown over in the wind in Wellington a $12 brolly doesn’t stand much of a chance at all.

But back to eating my feelings. I think as long as I recognise why I’m huffing kettle fried chips like a glue-sniffing delinquent it’s not quite so bad, sure the calories are procreating like guinea pigs in a sorority house but I don’t think this will go on too much longer. And I’m surely not alone – a friend on Facebook posted photos of his Easter creations today, a trio of brownies in the following flavours: Creme Egg, White Chocolate M&M and Marshmallow. He is SO lucky he lives in London. But just in case, I found this recipe for Creme Egg Brownies. Enjoy. Share.

And if someone you know is feeling blue, send round some cheesy potatoes with a side of deep-fried mars bar to show you care, think to yourself – what would Elvis (fat jumpsuit Elvis, not young hot Elvis) want to eat? Double the portion and you are on the money!

Happy Easter!

We are so lucky

I keep surprising myself with sadness. It’s not my thing – to be sad, down, unhappy. And this weekend, while I’ve been lifting Bubba into the bath, or talking on the phone quite normally, I’ve suddenly started sobbing. Sobbing, real sobbing. None of that graceful tears sliding down the face bullshit, heaving, sucking a breath only to be able to bawl again. I know that Alfie is gone, it’s real now, and I know he had a wonderful life and we were so lucky to have him at all – but the knowledge that I won’t see him snatching the last glance possible of me as I walk to the car with his nose pressed to the window in the back room, or that I won’t ruffle his glorious 1980s spiral perm chest hair again makes me so sad I’m nauseous.

But this weekend, amidst the sadness and whirlpool of grief, I’ve counted some blessings – because what else can you do?

Here they are:

– I have a sister who I can bawl and bawl to and she says all the right things and then bawls with me

– I have a friend who rang to leave me a message that was 90% her crying into the phone. I couldn’t call her back and she said that’s okay.

– I have a two-year-old daughter who takes her broken Mama and Papa by the hand and leads us in an intricate and elaborate Simon Says style dance-off, accompanied by her sweet singing of unrecognisable lyrics.

– We went to a wildlife park today, to lift our spirits, and the Viking hand-fed an ostrich that was taller than him and it was absurd and he smiled like I haven’t seen him smile in days

– I have friends who have dropped off flowers, cards and hot cross buns, sent texts, emails and comments that have truly softened the last few days

– I have a husband who has his own broken heart, yet manages to hold me tight when holding myself is just too much. He’s fucking amazing and, through some freakish crossing of paths – he’s my husband.

I am so lucky.

*thank you everyone who has been so wonderfully understanding.

*i typed this with one hand while holding Bubba while she watches Bubble Guppies. I’ve just realised she has been picking her nose and wiping it on my cardy the whole time.


Goodbye Alfie

If you’re looking for a laugh, or a lift to your day, I’m sorry but I can’t provide that for you today.

Today I’m in a cloud of sadness and fog after we said goodbye to our beautiful boy Alfie yesterday.

I’ve worried about this time since we got Alfie. Since he chose us as his family and exhausted us with his love. He was a dog. “Just a dog,” people say. I don’t even know whether I should really feel this hollow from his passing, but I do.

We had him for three years and one week. And for all three of those years he was the brightest, happiest, sunniest and most loving animal I’ve ever encountered. Some would tease us for how much we coddled him, letting him sleep in our arms, kissing him on the nose and telling him we loved him every chance we got. Now that he’s gone, I’m so happy that we loved him out loud. Given the chance I’d double the kisses, the hugs, the pats, the affection and the love. But sadly, we don’t have that chance now.

Alfie got sick a week ago. He had a day of vomiting that we put down to his habit of thieving food from the bin. After a couple of days he still wasn’t eating so we took him to the vet. They diagnosed a stomach virus and gave us bright pink antibiotics to give him. We used bubba’s panadol syringe to dribble the dissolved tablets into his mouth. We picked him up onto our laps and let him fall asleep lying between us.

A few more days passed and there was no improvement. He went back to the vet who thought, this time, he could feel something in his stomach. He came home for a night before the X-Ray. He was wretched. He was an old dog all of a sudden. Stooped over, in pain, crying in the night. We held him tight. He was sick again in the night and the morning before the vets. Taking Bubba to daycare I said my goodbyes at the house. Kissing him on the nose and telling him he’d feel so much better by the end of the day.

The Viking said Alfie wouldn’t get out of the car at the vets. Our energiser bunny of a dog, who would run for miles to chase a ball, had to be carried into the vets.

I spoke to the vets in the early afternoon. There was something suspicious on the X-Ray. How did I feel about surgery? I said “please, do whatever you need to.” I assumed, like last time, they’d go in, find whatever it was, remove it and we’d have him home the next day. I had booked an appointment for a facial. I could hear my phone vibrating as the therapist massaged my face.

I checked my phone.

Three missed calls from home.

I rung the Viking. Fear. Disbelief. We had to make a choice.

“No, that’s not right. Take a deep breath, I’ll call them and it will all be fine.” I rang the vet myself. Inside our little pooch they’d found perforations and poisoned tissue, caused by a stick consumed a month ago. If they operated there was only a small chance of survival – and a survival where he wouldn’t be able to function properly, absorb food, be himself. We had to let him go.

The dog, who one week ago was chasing bubbles and running on the beach, jumping on visitors and licking our faces, would never wake up again. We went in to see him, after he’d gone. Sleeping peacefully and looking so like a puppy that it broke my heart. We told him again that we loved him. We kissed his nose. We buried our faces in his soft soft fur and stroked his ears. We said goodbye. In english, norsk, maori – it all meant the same thing.

And now we’re home, and trying to find the best way to tell a two-year-old that her best friend who has guarded her and loved her since before she was even born, is gone. We said he’s gone to heaven and he’s happy, that Mama and Papa are just sad because we miss him so much. She’s been blowing him kisses and saying she loves him. I’m so scared she’ll forget him.

At the moment we’re lost. People go through so much more than losing a pet, but for us, this is losing a quarter of our family.

We went outside this morning and the last of our monarch butterfly cocoons was hatching. We’ve lost some of them, some were weak and took hours until they flew, if at all. This one came out big, bright and strong. It flapped its wings with pride. The Viking put his finger down and it crawled straight onto it. We went out into the open air and it sat happily on his hand. After a minute it flew up, circling us and our house, dipping and diving. It flew off strong and happy.

I’m writing this post because I don’t really know what else to do. For me, writing heals. And we need to heal now. The shock is wearing off and the pain of reality is setting in. I can’t fathom that our future babies won’t grow up with Alfie at their side, that our dream house with the huge section won’t feature a golden spoodle sprinting through the paddocks. He was so incredibly loved, and equally as loving.

We will never forget him.

Rest in Peace my darling boy.

Alfie – February 2011 – April 2014 IMG_1377






My introvert addiction

I am addicted to shy people. Well, perhaps ‘addicted’ is a little strong, I don’t snort them up in public toilets or anything. I just love them. I always have. I’ve been thinking about it lately actually, about how the closest people to me are generally those least like me. I’m not sure what that says about myself but I do know that I feel most comfortable around people who are quiet, thoughtful, sometimes reserved and often shy.

My best friend describes herself as shy. The Viking describes himself as the polar opposite of me. The yin to my yang I guess. He is very, very reserved. When he’s on the whiskeys, less so, but generally he is a very calm, laid back kind of a guy. He’s not shy but he doesn’t do small talk and he takes a while to warm up to people. I, on the other hand, enjoy nothing more than a chat with a random stranger and ‘could talk the leg off a chair’ was a common theme in my school reports.

I remember chatting to a friend at university and telling her that I was intrigued by shy or quiet people because I just couldn’t understand how they could keep their opinions to themselves, and I felt like it was a privilege for me to find out what was going on in their brains. I’m fascinated by their self-control, I guess.

There have been a few of these ‘how to treat introvert’ infographics around lately, and I find them really interesting. The one below is so fascinating, it explains so many of my past dealings with my closest introvert mates, like the time I asked my friend to come along for a goodbye yum cha for a friend of mine.

“Who will be there?” she said.

“I don’t know, the guy and us, maybe a couple of others.” I said.

Of course we got there and my friend had hired out the entire restaurant and there were about 50 people bidding him a fond farewell over their porkrolls and morning wontons.

“Oh God,” said my friend, “Steph, I just don’t have the energy!” and I really didn’t get it. Energy? I thought loads of people would take the pressure off a shy person because there wouldn’t be the pressure to talk so much with so many others willing to hog the limelight. But after reading this infographic I understood.

What do you think? Are you an introvert? Or do you seek them out in a room like I do?

This infographic was created by Graphic Designer Schroeder Jones

introvert infographic

Floored by Princess Bride related news


I like to think that when it comes to shameless 80s movies I can hold my own. I can’t quote entire scenes from The Breakfast Club like my older sister but I have perfected many a ‘Dirty Dancing lift’ in the above-ground Para Pool, sure I played Johnny whilst my pint-sized cousin go to be Baby every single time.

How Patrick got his hands so perfectly positioned so as not to expose Baby's undies was an ongoing mystery to my cousins and I

How Patrick got his hands so perfectly positioned so as not to expose Baby’s undies was an ongoing mystery to my cousins and I

Dirty Dancing, Stand By Me, The Outsiders, The Karate Kid, The Neverending Story, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Oh there were many, many a dreary Sunday afternoon spent in my pjs, munching on Buzz Bars and slugging back cold Milo watching those classics. Good times.

But there is one film that holds a special place in my youth, sure it didn’t have the spectacular final dance scene of Dirty Dancing, there were no adorable ewoks and nobody got slimed, but it had everything else.

The Princess Bride.

Are you with me on this? That gorgeous, dashing leading man. “As you wiiiiiiiiiiiiish” being called as he rolled down the hill. The angelic beauty of Robin Wright (Penn). The comedic mastery of the cast, I mean there was a giant*! A real one! This was before CGI, or whatever it’s called. Green screens? Never! They actually stabbed each other with swords, now that is acting!

Well today, my source of credible news, ie my Facebook feed, pointed me to this article. It was about Sal from Homeland.


Got my bodywave, got my mo, got my sword - ready to roll

Got my bodywave, got my mo, got my sword – ready to roll

Hold the phone. Stop the clock. Shut the front door!

Of course I saw it as soon as I saw the photo, it’s no wonder Sal was my favourite Homelander, he was a friendly face from my childhood. He avenged the death of his father and had a curly mullet. What’s not to love?

With the death of his father finally avenged, Sal turned his attentions to protecting the world from terrorism. What a good bloke.

With the death of his father finally avenged, Sal turned his attentions to protecting the world from terrorism. What a good bloke.

I was astounded. What a career! Anyway, I felt compelled to inform the Viking of this amazing finding.

“You will never guess what I’ve found out!”

“Won’t I?”

“You know that movie…”

“You said I got to guess.”

“But you won’t guess.”

(This went on for some time).

“The guy from the Princess Bride who always says his name and wants to find his father’s killer is Sal from Homeland!”

“What’s the Princess Bride?”

And then I passed out on the floor. The man I love more than cat’s pyjamas and sliced bread and cherries on top has not lived a full life! I must have married on a whim because this, my friends, changes things.

This weekend I’ve decided to right the wrong in our house and have a family screening of The Princess Bride.

Have you seen Princess Bride? Did you want to marry Westley? Do you, in the privacy of your home, ask your partner to say “as you wish” – not that I’m planning to, or anything like that.

*The giant was played by WWF wrestler Andre the Giant. He was a hunka hunka burning love. My Dad’s favourite Andre the Giant story (to be fair I think he just has the one) is that AtG was cruising around South Taranaki during some sort of wrestling tour and stopped for a beer in a local pub. Apparently he bought a jug, which is the same as an American pitcher of beer, or about 5 normal glasses, or generally a shitload of booze. Anyway, he bought a jug and common standards are that one pours a jug into a glass and enjoys over a fair stretch of time. Andre the Giant downed the entire jug in one go. Like it was shotglass (according to my father). Oh Andre, I shudder to think how quickly you could have knocked over a kegstand in your college years.

When chicken on a stick goes terribly wrong

Juicy roasted kebabs on the BBQ

Last night the Viking and I enjoyed a lovely dinner of coconut rice, stir-fried veges and chicken shish kebabs.

End of story.

Not really. After dinner I was busying my little wifey self in the kitchen cleaning up dishes while the Viking was putting the rubbish out. I sang a little ditty as I rinsed off the plates, such was my level of relaxation. There were two shish kebabs sitting in the pan on the stove, I popped them onto a plate and took the frying pan to the sink.

Nothing to see here, right?

I hear the clatter of plate and swing around in time to see Alfie going for the second kebab. I grabbed him by the collar and pushed the lone kebab back further than his little go go gadget paws could reach. Then, as I looked into the smug face of my furbaby I realised, he’d just ingested an entire kebab, including the stick, with, at most, a single bite.

Then I got my freak on. Not in a  good, Missy Elliot way.

I ran outside to holler at the Viking. Alfie was at my heels, he doesn’t often see his Mama sprint and he was excited at the prospect.

The Viking, as is his way, was calm and rational. I was spinning in circles. I decided I had to call the after hours vet. He said the word ‘perforated’ one time too many for my liking so I put my bra back on and piled my little honey soy spoodle into the car while the Viking stayed home to watch the obliviously blissful, sleeping Bubba.

The vet suggested removing the stick via surgery, immediately. I just found it hard to process cutting open my little pup who seemed happy as Larry, in fact he seemed happier than Larry because Larry didn’t steal a shish kebab.

We decided on a compromise. I would take Alfie home and watch him for the night and bring him back first thing this morning.

He made it through the night. I only woke up about 14 times to check he was breathing. At 7am he licked my face and rolled over for a tummy rub.

I’ve just dropped him back into the Vet’s for observation and possible endo… endo…camera-down-the-throat-thingo later today. If nothing shows up surgery is still an option for this afternoon.

And, while all this is going on, my thieving little furbaby is lapping up the extra attention and still licking the marinade off his lips.

The things we do for our animals!

To make me feel better, the vet’s receptionist told me about some pictures she’d seen online of dogs who had eaten crazy things. I found some here and am now, officially even more freaked out.

Cross your fingers for my pooch please, and hide your shish kebabs.

After hearing the neighbour's car alarm go off all night Rover took matters into his own hands

After hearing the neighbour’s car alarm go off all night Rover took matters into his own hands

Body Shop Giveaway!

Up for grabs!

Up for grabs!

This post is brought to you by Sassmouth Mama and the sweet, sweet smells of The Body Shop At Home.

There were a lot of things I did wrong at university, superloose jeans, cherry red hair dye and flaming sambucas to name a few. But one thing I did right was to spend a decent whack of my student loan at the Body Shop. At any time I could be packing up to three mandarin flavoured lip glosses. I may have looked like an overweight Gwen Stefani but I smelt like Vanilla Bliss.

Well the nice people at the Body Shop asked me if I’d like to host a little Body Shop At Home party I jumped at the idea. It was a few days before we were due to leave Melbourne, so my house was a complete hovel – I opted to have a Body Shop At Someone Else’s Home party, which was a far safer option.

Karen the Body Shop lady showed up and was not at all put off by the fact that there were half a dozen 18 month old toddlers racing around, eating chips and dip using the ‘no hands’ method, tipping over the water bowls set aside for facials and squeezing samples on the floor. Asking Karen to create a sense of serenity in the midst of the chaos was a big ask but she pulled it off.

I did not eat the chips. Honestly.

I did not eat the chips. Honestly.

My friends and I took turns getting mini facials and juggling children. We drank wine. We called the Dads and said “come and take these bloody kids away.” We drank more wine. We relaxed.

Getting her glow on

Getting her glow on

And the smells of my university days came flooding back to me, no – not the sticky pub floor smells or the dodgy mystery item in the fridge smells, but the freshness of fruity scents that never go out of fashion. I remembered the time in 2nd year when I reached past a friend and he told me my arm smelt so good he wanted to eat it. I think I guffawed, blushed and then bought the Body Shop out of shea nut body butter.

Now I’m very excited to say that I have an AMAZING Body Shop gift pack to give away, valued at $200.

It includes:

* Hemp hand protector
* Peppermint cooling lotion
* Body scrub (range will vary)
* Body polish (range will vary)
* White musk hand and nail cream
* Milk Bath
* Body Butter (range will vary)
* Vitamin E cream cleanser
* Warming mineral mask
* Milk body lotions

You will be smelling like a field of wildflowers dipped in citrus juice before you know it! I’m jealous!

All you need to do to win is like Sassmouth Mama on Facebook (if you haven’t already) and comment below and tell me what your favourite smell is. It could be peppermint, it could be the whiff of freedom as the door shuts on your baby’s door at bedtime, it could be your boyfriend’s converse, enlighten me! The winner will be picked at random and notified via Facebook.

Boring bit: Entries close on Friday at midnight and I’ll make the draw on Saturday morning. Entries are open to Australian and New Zealand residents only. The winner will be chosen at random and the comments are really just to give Sassmouth Mama a laugh. Prize will be shipped directly to the winner’s postal address. Sassmouth Mama cannot take responsibility for any issues with delivery of prize.

Good luck!

Sassmouth Mama was rubbed down with aromatic salts and spritzed with absinthe lotion in exchange for this blog post. And she loved it. 

*Can’t see the ‘comments’ section? If you’re reading this post from the home-page the comments are hidden, just click on the title of the post and it will take you to the page where you can comment.

**Don’t have Facebook? That’s okay. Enter in the comments below and shoot me a quick email at with a copy of the comment, so I have a way to contact you if you win.



Finally, the lady opens the kimono


Mount Taranaki is the ultimate provincial icon, her silhouette is etched into everything from logos to tattoos to the hearts of every local. When I told a friend I was moving back she said “they say the mountain calls everyone home.” Which was a bit eerie at the time because I do feel like it’s true.

But our mountain is an elusive beast, much of the time she’s cloaked in clouds, seldom offering more than a glance of snow-peaked tip through the grey. Some people wonder if she exists at all, as she loves a good hide from the weekend roadtrippers. She’s all peek and no boo. She’s not exactly flirtatious, you need to court her for some time before she’ll show you her wares. I wish I could say the same was true for most of us ladies from the provinces, who’ve been sometimes known, (cough cough) for our friendly spirits (tarring myself with the same brush there, my friends).

Like many new visitors the Viking has been hanging out for a bit of mountain. (If you want to read a childish pun into that last sentence feel free, I know I giggled when I read it back.) But of course she has draped herself in thick grey rainclouds since we arrived. Even when the sun shone through yesterday she was nowhere to be seen.

“That mountain’s got until Tuesday to show itself” said the Viking.

“And then what happens?”

“I’ll start complaining.” (which was funny because he’d already jumped the gun by complaining from our arrival about the absence of snow-capped wonder).

“Maybe I’ll write a letter or something.” he added.

“To whom?”

“The Mayor.”

During our picturesque walk yesterday, where we passed by a gorgeous lake and drank in the beautiful spring aroma of those little white flowers I don’t know the name of (a little help?), and I commented that I think my heart-rate actually drops down a few beats just being close to the ocean, the Viking said that the only thing that would improve things would be the mountain.

Lake Rotomanu

Lake Rotomanu


And then, this morning, I was called forth from the boudoir, still encased in chenille and flannel pjs to behold the majesty apparent from our front yard….

In all her glory

In all her glory

And oh what a happy Viking I had on my hands! Maybe the sight of snow does for him what the sound and smell of the ocean does for me.

If Mount Taranaki looks familiar to you, and you’ve never made it to these parts, she made a cameo appearance in The Last Samurai as Mount Fuji a few years ago. It was a time when the province counted Tom Cruise as a local and started referring to itself as Tomanaki. A little bit shameless but the film did wonders for this place. Even Mount Taranaki came out to play when Hollywood was in town, although I’d do what I was told too if I had this running at me:


*The painting at the top is by Christopher Perkins, my parents have a print at their house.

What’s your home icon? Do you feel the gravitational pull of the sea or does a good cafe with a righteous flat white cut the mustard in your neighbourhood?

A few of my favourite things


Winter is well and truly here now, and as I hunker down, straddling the radiator and nestling my head on my slow cooker, I like to gather a few comforting items around me for the frosty season. Here are the treasures I’m rocking this winter:


I’m starting with a controversial one. Before this winter, my only experience with jeggings was via a good friend* who marks them as the most vile creation of mankind, fit only to attire the devil himself. What they are, in fact, are a cross between leggings and jeans. They look like skinny jeans, but they FEEL like leggings. And I tell you what, I’m all over them like nori on a sushi roll. One of my medium-term goals is to squeeze my buxom self into a pair of skinny jeans, I actually have said skinny jeans in my wardrobe, two pairs in fact, with tags still attached. One pair laughs out loud when it reaches three quarters of the way up my thighs and the other does up with considerable manipulation and leaves me looking like an overfilled double snowcone (on a hot day). So, until I have my desired buns of steel, I shall instead rock incredibly comfortable jeggings, with a longer top as the pretend fly and ‘lakky’ waistband are a dead giveaway. I got mine from Sussans but the ones in the pic are $49 from Target. Asos has a few too, including some kind of fab tie-dye maternity ones.


Behold the jegging!

Behold the jegging!

Paraffin manicures

Now, I have only ever had one of these, a couple of days before my wedding, but I tell you what – it was blissful. A lovely young lass slipped my hand into a bag of warm wax and voila – when I pulled my hand out it was miraculously about ten years younger. I nearly wrapped a nappy around that baby butt softness. I draped my silk-like hands over the face of my ‘tell it like it is’ aunty Pam who was amazed I’d never heard of paraffin wax manicures before. She said when she worked at the Eltham Cheese Factory all the girls would stick their hands in the cheese wrapping wax for a bit of a pick-me-up. So there’s the budget version – break into a cheese factory and push aside a wheel of edam.


Fancy baby food

Sometimes I feel like a bit of schlep when it comes to feeding my child. I spend approximately half my life making a smorgasboard of food for Bubba’s rejection so to have some nutritious, could easily pass as home-made if you have judgy visitors, meals in the fridge is a time-saver I’m very keen on. Well the celeb chef Luke Mangan very kindly sent Bubba the full range of his new toddler meals – Baby Bites (I’m not sure he personally called the courier but I can dream). Anyway, I tell you what, Bubba wolfed them down like nobody’s business. Every toddler deserves a Chicken paella every now and then don’t they? Really delicious (it’s only responsible to taste-test isn’t it?) and super easy. At the moment it’s only available in Australia from Thomas Dux and other speciality supermarkets.  More info.

baby w food

Kosmea facelift cream

Okay, it’s not called facelift cream – but it should be. It’s called Eighth Natural Wonder cream. A friend gave me a bottle of this magic stuff about a month before the wedding and I couldn’t have had better wedding-skin prep. Serums are all the rage now but this one is just fantastic. I ended up shouting myself the cleanser and daily exfoliant from their range too. I also have the ultimate radiance boost, good for me because my skin tends to have the moisture sucked out of it by heating and winter days. Give it a try if you like smooth skin but but botox scares the frozen eyebrows off you. More info. 

Kosmea Eighth Natural Wonder

Kosmea Eighth Natural Wonder


Okay, this is my new addiction. And yes, yes, yes, I know that you’re jealous of my rock n roll lifestyle and crazy, crazy party nights. But crochet is supercool now, I even have a book called ‘hip crochet.’ And pinterest doesn’t lie. There’s a Japanese style of crochet called Amugurumi that is currently well above my skill set and is about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. So far I’ve completed a baby blanket and one granny square. I’m kind of on fire.




And to add to the list – soy hot chocolate, flannel pjs, the Viking’s cinammon buns (not a nickname – he’s more of a french vanilla bun actually) and Samantha Wills jewellery.


What about you? What have you turned to for comfort on these cold winter days? Have you rocked a pair of jeggings yet?


*my friend who hates jeggings first discovered her disgust for them while living in England. She’d been tempted to the motherland from New Zealand by her cricket playing husband who’d been headhunted by a cricket team. They went off with lofty ideas of a delightful village and were instead welcomed into the unofficial teenage pregnancy capital of the world, where 30 year old grandmas chain-smoked at playgrounds, screeching on their bedazzled phones, flicking their fake nails and wearing their jeggings. On the plus side, the village pub was called The Cock which provided many creative options for hilarious photographs.

Shoe crimes

Last night I committed a shoe crime. It was in my own house so maybe that’s not so bad, but I feel like I’ve definitely crossed a line and I’m just not sure if I can turn back.

We were preparing our first barbeque of the season, but by the time we had the baby in bed and everything chopped, brushed lovingly with oil and simmering on the hot plates it was no longer the stonking hot evening it had started out as. Damn you sun for going down before dinner time.

I’d had my sneakers on during the day, in case I had an overwhelming urge to go to the gym – strangely, I did not. So I had removed said sneakers whilst crawling around on the floor demonstrating the technique to my nine-month-old moonwalking, sliding but not crawling child. Later, the Viking was ready for my culinary input, i.e. delivering the salt and pepper, so I ducked outside.  [Read more…]