The Wonder Before the Storm

Why is it, you have a perfectly delightful weekend and then when you get back everything turns to crap?

I'm not going to dwell on the not so good stuff, I will however show you a few of the sights. I was up in Sydney for the annual word nerd conference and got to spend a bit of time with friends a bit later on in the weekend. 

On the great side of things, staying at the Swisshotel, on the Saturday morning I got the outdoor pool to myself. (Up there for a conference, it's tax deductable - why not splurge just a little? Worth it for the 1000 thread count cotton sheets on the bed.)

A child-free pool on a chilly morning may be my own particular form of bliss, but it was wonderful.

A little later, I had to move hotels. Due to a booking error on behalf of the second hotel I was supposed to stay at, I had to move to another establishment. So off I went down to the Rocks at the foot of the Harbour Bridge.

I love this part of Sydney, made better on a sunny morning in mid-Spring with all the smoke haze absent from the city. It's a funny part of town. Look hard enough and you can see the convict past. I can't not walk around these streets without thinking about Thomas Keneally's "The Playmaker". Thugs, whores, thieves and soldiers, all displaced, all looking for a home - all ruled by the laws of a country thousands of miles away.

Then I thank the universe that I'm South Australian.

Anyway, I booked myself into my new hotel. This was the view from my room:

The Sebel Pier One was my consolation prize hotel. I have been thanking wotif.com for compensating me so well for the error (and I won't say a bad word about them anway - have never had a problem with them)

This is the view from the front of the hotel.

So then it was off to lunch with friends. A lovely lunch at a decent Japanese restaurant was had. It was great to catch up. Even better, the obligatory glass of plum wine was nursed over lunch.

For those who don't know about the joys of plum wine, or umeshu, it's a fortified liquer, sipped over ice. One glass can last you a meal, as you sip the ever changing liquid. The more the ice melts, the different the flavours - and then you get to eat the plum. I love the stuff. Worth a try if you're ever having a decent Japanese meal.

So that was Saturday. A relaxed evening with telly and room service. I was meeting up with a colleague the following morning.

But not after a walk across the big bridge in the morning.

It started out well around 8 am. Glorious morning.

Then I made my way up Cumberland Street to the foot of the bridge. The only thing was, there were lots of people about. It appeared that I had chosen the morning of the Seven Bridges walk to go mark my territory on the bridge. Oh well. Walking in the opposite direction to 10,000 cancer walkers was a bit special.

The view from the bridge even more so.

The whole walk was magic. Before returning to my hotel, I sourced a coffee and some macarons from a local cafe. Baroque in the Rocks does great macarons - nearly as good as La Belle Miette in Melbourne - a big call.

After all this, it was time to meet my colleague and make my way to the airport.

It's here that things turn to the not so good. It was apparent about an hour later that I'd picked up some gastric bug. I know it's been going around. It was either that or food poisoning.

As the afternoon progressed I was feeling seedier and seedier. With only a coffee and a couple of lemonades down me I boarded the plane bound for home.

One experience I never want to repeat again in vomiting on a plane. Travelling with the last of food poisoning was bad enough - the embarrassment of this was worse, although in my defense, I managed to not make a mess and this happened as we were landing. Still, not something I ever want to repeat. Ever.

Somehow I got myself home, showered, threw everything in the washing machine and put myself to bed - where I stayed for the next 48 hours.

A visit to the doctor on the Tuesday gave me the verdict. It wasn't gastro or food poisoning.

A freaking gall bladder episode! It runs in the family. Another thing to give thanks to Mum's side for. That and the head lumps. Joy.

Then again - I'm fair, fat and forty - what was I to expect?

In the scheme of things, a minor and mild episode - friends have told me horror stories about hours of excruciating pain to the point of blacking out - I've just been feeling wretched, really achy and uncomfortable for a few days .It needs investigating, and that will happen in a few weeks. We'll see what the ultrasounds says.

A few days on after living on a diet of dried biscuits, grilled fish and salad I'm seeing the new way of life, but I'm nearly back to normal.

Mum manages her gall bladder issues with diet - I'm hoping that the minor food bender I went on over the weekend will teach me a lesson and I'll be able to contain this as well.

We will see.

Still, not a good ending to what was a great weekend.

(Thanks to Instagram for making my iPhone photos look lovely too.)

p.s. The shot of the weekend - Under the Bridge.

At the end of the day

There is a part of me that wishes I could go back and give my twenty-year-old self a slap around the head.

Really.

My 45-year-old self has just had one of those epiphanies that I wish my twenty-year-old self could see and work towards sooner rather than later.

I really wish I could get to gormless, prickly, chaste, bolshie-but-dreadfully shy, self-esteemless me of twenty five years ago and show her what life is really about. If I could show her an hour our of my life, it would be the hour I spent in the gym tonight.

First of all, I don't think that 20-year-old me would ever step foot in a gym. Fitness was never on the agenda back then - ever. I'd do lots of walking, but that was about it. The thought of running five kilometres seems impossible to her. It was impossible to me some six years ago.It's so different now. Five half marathons later, running is a state of mind and a necessary endorphin rush. Keeping fit keeps colds, flu and depression at bay. She really could have used that information.

An admission that would have 20-year old me running in the other direction screaming. I started back on week one of the couch potato to five kilometre plan this week. I have to start running from scratch. This is okay. There is no judgment attached. It happened that I got injured. And put on weight, but I've maintained going to the gym three to five times a week. It will come back.Me the younger would have seen this as an admission of failure. I see it as an admission of perseverance and honesty.

20-year-old me was full of self-criticism and judgement.

I had Slap to myself tonight. Normally there is at least one other with me when we train. 45 minutes of being put through your paces. Tonight, Adro was caught at work, Andy was ill and Virgillia was out in the regions, so it was just me and Slap - and Rodriguez playing over the sound system. Boxing, lawnmowers (with a 10 kg weight - upped after I complained about 7 kg dumbells being too light) pushing the sled with 50 kgs on it, TRX band ... normal stuff.

We've got a system with Slap. He gives you something to do, you ask how many, he tells you, half the time in Spanish (he's from Croatia)

Then the nemesis exercise - 500 metres on the rower in under 2.20.

20-year-old me would think I'm mad.

Slap and I went out to the gym floor to attack the rower.

"I have to cane it. Mitch is over there."

"Yes, Mitch is watching you." replied Slap, smirking at me. "You like Mitch".

We'll get to Mitch in a minute. 20-year old me would like Mitch. I'd like Mitch at any age.

So I went for it. 250 meters in a minute. Caned - and blew myself out at my maximum heart rate. But I was on track.

All to try and look good in front of a boy.

20-year-old me wouldn't do this. Too shy to do something stupid like make a fool of myself on the rower.

45-year-old me loves the challenge - doesn't matter who's looking.

The last 250 meters was done at a steadier, less stupid pace - I would have made the 2.20, 500 metres. Just need to learn to take it steady.

It was great to get validated tonight. Slap said, "You and Jay, 53 and 45, you out exercise most if the people I see who are half your ages. It's brilliant."

That felt good.

The other wonderful thing about the gym tonight - Pedro is back. Pedro of the Ricky Martin hips, Spanish accent and best bum in Melbourne. He was taking BodyCombat tonight. Sooo good to have him back in the gym. He makes me smile.

I left the gym after an hour, 350 calories gone, sweating buckets looking tired but happy, the days mascara and eyeliner running down my cheeks. I looked like a lycra clad, sweaty Alice Cooper.  After going 45 minutes with my personal trainer I come out looking like this most of the time.

And who should I run into on the way to the supermarket?

Mitch.

I wish I could get my 20-year-old self to learn how to flirt. I can't flirt to save my life. If I had a bit of self-esteem and self-confidence in my twenties I might not be a single, dateless 45-year-old now - who still doesn't have much of a clue.

Mitch and I explained pleasantries. Was I off home? Yes, getting up and on a plane at Sparrows-Fart-O-Clock to get to a word nerd conference in Sydney. Was he off home to chill. Yep. Have a good one. You too.

Arm touch from him. Argh!

Mitch as the nicest set of back muscles I've seen in ages. He's cut. And cute, in a rugby player / tradie way. And he waves at me when he sees me in the gym. And vice versa. We sort of check each other out from across the gym in a quiet sort of way. Not that my body is anything to check out at the moment.

And here I am, a quarter of a century later. I've reverted to my shy, gormless, self-esteemless 20-year-old self who has no idea at all about men. Not that I've ever had any idea about men. I feel like my mother's old pussycat - I have an idea how to catch and play with things - no idea what do do when I've caught them.

Needless to say, and despite all this, I skipped all the way home.

Daft it is. Just daft.

P.S. For my 20-year-old self, I also have these words of wisdom. Best advice anybody can give the young.

High Tea at Heide

Today was a designated birthday day - or more to the point, it was Jonella's birthday on Friday and it was time to celebrate.

I've come to the conclusion that giving experiences for gifts is far more pleasurable than giving gifts as you get to share in the adventure, so I made the offer to Jonella and her partner Nikos to spend an afternoon having high tea the Heide. After going there for lunch for my birthday two years ago, I've always wanted to return for High Tea there - a couple at the next table were having high tea and it looked incredible. All I needed was the occasion - and Jonella's birthday just happened to be it.

When I made the booking a few weeks back I noted that it was for a birthday celebration. They also asked if I knew about High Tea at Cafe Vue to which I replied, "Like, don't eat before and don't expect to eat after for a day or so."

That was about the sum of it.

We arrived at two and had a walk around the gardens. Being around 30 degrees in the shade we took it pretty easily. Jonella wanted to visit the cows.

There are a number of tin cows around the place. It's just a matter of finding your favourite.

I wanted to go back to the kitchen garden, remembering how much I liked visiting the first time round.

We then made out way to Cafe Vue for our 2.30 sitting. We were greeted at the door and taken straight to our table. A few minutes later, we were presented with a glass of bubbles and the promise of food.

If you want a lovely, relaxed, decadent high tea, this place might just be it. It's not that well advertised, but for those in the know, for $55 a head you are treated like royalty. We found the service friendly and attentive without being over the top. The place was busy, but not overly so.

So what is high tea?

Best way to describe it is savouries, cakes and tasty morsels in deceptively small servings. I say deceptively small as all three of us at the end of the afternoon wanted to be rolled back to the car. Unfortunately there weren't Oompa Loompa's available to do this for us a la Violet  Beauregard in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Maybe Shannon Bennett can invest in some to aid guests who come for High Tea. They could have come to good use. 

The savouries came first:

Finger toasted sandwiches with ham hock croque monsieur, oozing with Gruyere. Tuna melt sandwiches, little cups of veggies set off with edible flowers, smoked salmon on blinis and a quinelle of chicken salad on crusty bread.

The ham hock won the day. It seems to do that whenever we have it. In summer, the sandwiches might not be toasted - but even in the warmth of the day, we weren't fussed. Such a great start to things.

We were spoiled. I have no idea why but more sandwiches were brought out after this wonderful selection. More ham hock croque monsieur.

I'd love one of these every day, every meal if they weren't stuffed full of all the things I can't have more than once a month. That and living on them would give me a coronary in three months, but there were the highlight of the savoury dishes.

Then, the next course. Scones. Light, fluffy, better than grandma scones with cream, jam and butter. 

We jumped in before I could take the before shot. These were the fruit scones, which were just as good as the plain ones. My grandmother would be jealous.

After the scones came the sweets.

There were organised. The chocolate things were up the top - a lamington mousse and a chocolate lollypop - both lovely. Down the bottom, intense raspberry macarons - which Nikos popped his macaron cherry on. His eyes rolled for about five minutes after. There was also s vanilla cake, a mango and pistachio cheese cake, a frangipane tart with a coffee creme filled Paris Brest handle... all just to die for.

Now I can eat, as can Nikos - but this time we were both stuffed to the gills. I'd had a cup of tea and some raisin toast after Pump class beforehand. I'm glad I heeded the warning not to each much beforehand. I couldn't have done this after a light lunch. 

Oh, and the other nice touch. They presented Jonella with some birthday macarons (although I had to ask the next table if I could photograph theirs.) The words were written in nutella.

The staff are very understanding at Cafe Vue - a doggy bag was arranged for Jonella to take home the cake she and Nikos couldn't finish. It seems that this is a regular occurence. 

As for me, I just wished I didn't have to go out for dinner in the hours following. What a First World Problem to have - being replete with wonderful food, having to suffer it all again.

Somehow we made it back to the car after what was a splendid two splendid hours.

And I'm on salads, grilled chicken and All Bran for the next two weeks.

Take your Mum for a special occasions. It's worth every cent.

Carpark Karma

This driving to work thing is becoming more normal to me. I don't like this, but appreciate it in the same.

For the first time in my Melbourne working career, I'm not working in the city centre, but out in a suburb some eight kilmetres away from home.

There other ways of getting to work. Once I get my nerve back there is the bicycle. I did a test run a few weeks back and ended up connecting with a wall. The bruises and grazes have almost healed. I'll try again on the weekend and see how I go so I can get the timings right.

Another option is the trains. It's either a 25 minute walk to one station, four stops up a train line, against the commuter trains, then a ten minute walk at the end. Or I can chance the tram at the end of the road, go to the same train station and go from there. Except if the tram is delayed it can be a 25 minute wait for the connecting train... all a bit complicated.

So I've been taking the car three or four times a week.

First thing, I have to be out of the house by 7.30 am. I get in the car, plug in the iPod and let Rodgriguez, Laura Marling, David Bowie or whoever else is on shuffle sing me to work.

The time frame is strategic, as the traffic after 7.45 am is appalling. As the route I take to avoid trams connects with five private schools, you get caught up in a seemingly endless stream of four wheel drives dropping Prudence, Rupert, Annabelle and Oscar at the gates of Xavier, Methodist Ladies College, Carey and Preshill (though Preshill parents are more likely to be driving a Prius). You can't see where you're going through the sea of blazers, black tinted windows and straw boaters.

Secondly, the way my current workplace is constructed, if you're not at the building by 7.30 am, you have to park at the paddock out the back. This is a huge car park that caters for the 90 percent of the company's working population. The access to the building from this car park is up a very steep hill which has the efficacy of a spin class.

It's fine. I'll be happier when I get the courage back to ride the bike, especially as the bike path is glorious, winding its way along the Yarra and Gardiner Creek.

The one thing that I have noticed since driving to work is the apparent wear and tear on the car. Being somebody who has always taken public transport or walked, the car has spent its days in the carport, not out in a paddock.

Another thing that I've not taken into consideration is Melbourne's daft weather, which has been even more daft in the last few weeks. We're not getting the heat waves that Sydney's been receiving, but we have been having howling winds and driving rain in between the odd nice day.

A few weeks ago, it happened.

I'm very careful how I open the door of my car. On this day, one of the really windy days, I opened my door, let go to grab my handbag from the seat next to me... and the door blew on to the car next to me.

Dammit.

I assessed what had happened - a very small mark on the car, barely visible, but there - no more than a centimetre in length. The car, a beaten in family sedan had a few marks on it, but in generally good nick.

So what do you do? I was late for a meeting. I felt bad, but I rushed off to the office and my meeting, vowing to photograph the mark and leave a note for the driver later in the morning.

It skipped my mind unfortunately - I didn't get a chance to leave the note, when I got back later in the day the sedan had gone. I put the incident down the small stuff happening and vowed to not let the door fly open again, taking special care on windy days.

Thing is, karma got me. Two days later, returning to my car in the same car park, an identical ding in the front passenger door appeared on my car. There wasn't anybody parked next to me.

I'll wear it and put it down to karma.

Seven Songs and Orange Underpants

I'm processing a doozy of a dream that I've just given at dream group.  I don't want talk about the dream at the minute. It's all too raw at the minute.

There is a well-stepped path to processing dreams.

First  - eat an ice cream.That was done on the way home - a white chocolate and strawberry Magnum - emergency comfort food. That got demolished as soon as I walked in the door.

Next  - find the appropriate coloured clothing to wear for the next while. Green is the colour. There is a lot of emotion to process - green helps.

Thirdly, find those orange underpants. One of the best bits of advice I've ever received was from my friend Alice. I'd just broken up with my last boyfriend, some seven years ago. I was moping. Alice dropped a bag on my desk, in which was a pair of orange cotton underpants - new, clean and my size. Her rationale was how could you not have fun when you were wearing orange undies. I break them out when I'm processing dreams. They really help matters too. They remind me to try and enjoy the journey.

And for tonight - find the music that goes with the mood. Which isn't morose at all. Nor am I depressed nor upset - just shaken. I told you it was a doozy of a dream.

So here we go. Seven songs to pacify a raging spirit.

It's going to be an interesting week.

So what do we need to work through?

Anger? (Brought to you by the Violent Femmes)

A bit more anger (Brought to you by the White Stripes)

A tune to go completely berko to (i.e. dance naked around the lounge room and hope the neighbours don't complain)

And a bit more anger to work through again - and Nick Cave gives it even more street cred.

And something that I know that hurts a bit. Okay - it hurts a lot as it is the current Pump release's bicep track.

Better throw something a bit more reflective in for good measure:

And lastly,put me to sleep for the night while my psyche tries to reconcile itself with its demons.

It's times like this it would be nice to have a cat. Or a boyfriend. Or a cat and a boyfriend.

I think I'll just put on an episode of the West Wing and have Josh Lyman's dulcet tones lull me to sleep.

The real work starts tomorrow.

A letter to the Prime Minister

I encourage all Australians to write to our Prime Minister.

The Government, in their wisdom, as set up a "Contact your Prime Minister" website for all questions.

For those who have questions, please, I impore you, go to http://www.pm.gov.au and ask him what you want to know.

Here is my submission - though I will not be holding my breath for an answer.

Also be aware that this was sent in with my actual name, address and phone number on the form. I write under a pseudonym and do not publish my contact details here, however, I'm not ashamed or afraid to put my real name to these matters. I never have been and never will be.

From Pandora Behr
Richmond, Victoria, 3121

To: Mr A Abbott
Canberra, ACT, 2600



Dear Sir,

A couple of things.

Firstly, I am ashamed to be an Australian at the moment. I have been since the 7th of September when you and your cronies took office. There are plenty of things that you could do help stop me feeling like I live in a backward, bigoted, selfish, uncaring, money-driven, science-denying, illiterate breeding, white Australia of the 1950's - but somehow, I don't think you will.

But here are some questions that you can get back to me on - and I would thank you to do so:

1. Why is there no Minister for Science? Why is sport seen to be more important than science in your cabinet?

2. When are you going to appoint a Minister for Women who actually gives a toss about women think and believe?  We do have thoughts and beliefs of our own, you know? The current situation is not acceptable - especially as Michaelia Cash is the helper for the Minister for Woman - as it says on her door. Which woman? Gina Rinehart? Julie Bishop? Mrs Mirrabella? Please let us know which woman you're talking about.

3. When are your representatives going to get in an editor so that the grammar and spelling used by your party doesn't make a disgrace of you? You have some "cereal offenders" out there - you're a Rhodes Scholar - spelling and grammar errors make you and your party look like cretins.

4. When you going to stop calling asylum seekers "illegal". International Law states clearly that it is not illegal to seek asylum.

5. While we're on the last point, when are you going to look at some sensible options in regards to asylum seekers - including publishing numbers of home many boat arrivals are coming via Christmas Island. The guy on Twitter is doing and admirable job, but surely Mr Morrison should be open and honest about these numbers. The buy back the boats policy was a crock - I'm sure Pickles Auctions are not set up to sell leaky Indonesian fishing boats.

6. When are you and your team going to pay back all of the rorted travel expenses that are now coming out in the mainstream press? Why has it taken this long for these indiscretions to come out?

7.  When is the Freedom of Information request from Margo Kingston in regards to who dobbed Mr Slipper in the Australian Federal Police going to be answered? this is a legitimate call. We'd really like to know who started the witch hunt, thank you.

8. When are you and your team going to firm up foreign ownership of the Australia Media so that they can no long have a monopoly. The current situation is not only ridiculous but frankly untenable.

9.  As you claim you are the "Infrastructure PM" when are the following going to be classed as infrastructure? The NBN? Suburban Train Lines? House Prices? Set ups for the ageing population?

10. When are you going to stop seeing the weather as an "Act of God" (okay, it may be) and look at the scientific evidence? The Climate Change evidence is agreed on by 97% of thousands of really smart people, who have been through the universities that you claim are not going to study things you don't want them to. When are you going to start DEMANDING that our companies start reducing carbon emissions and taking extreme care of our environment? The science is there. It's time to do more.

11. Are you going to stop Campbell Newman and Ms Rinehart in their desire to bugger up the Great Barrier Reef? It's in enough trouble - it doesn't need any more.

12. What else are you going to sell off to get the country back in the black? According to most economists, we were in great shape compared to the rest of the world. Why have you suddenly gone quiet on the economy?

13. When are you and your team going to apologise to Ms Gillard for the frankly appalling behaviour to which you, Mr Pyne and a number of others subjected her to over the years? Seriously, if one of your daughters who was getting that sort of treatment you would be after the perpetrators with a baseball bat before calling the police and demanding that they be put up on harassment charges.

14. When are you and your team going to start complying with the fact that the Church and the State are separate? This tenet goes back to Henry VIII. We like it like this - long may it remain.

15. Lastly, for the moment, when are we seriously going to look at overhauling our tax and voting laws? The tax system is stupidly over-complicated and really, compulsory voting - why can't we have a system that makes those that don't give a toss not have to vote? Because, seriously, if you don't care, or don't want to care, why vote? Wouldn't that be more democratic than being forced to turn up to a polling booth? It works in the US and the UK. If you want to say something, you vote. End of story.

Thank you for considering my questions.

Yours truly,

Pandora Behr

Go on, get to it. Be polite, rational and reasonable. Don't swear. Don't ask things like when is Andrew Bolt going to be lynched or when he's going to remove his lips from the genitals of Rupert Murdoch. Just start asking questions. Relevant, sensible, considered questions.

And post on your answers.

And encourage more to do the same.

Lost Items

One of the bad things about having a really good memory is that losing things really irritates the hell out of you. Living in a state of organised chaos, I can find you all sorts of things in my flat – I know where all of my tarot study notes are, not that I've looked at them in ages.. I can locate a book within a minute of looking for it – and I have a lot of books to sift through. I know what clothing is in the wash and what clothing is on the clothes horse. It’s the way I run. Good memories are made for disorganisation.

So, not being able to find something really rankles me.

Case in point – I've lost one of my weight lifting gloves. Just one. I’m going to pump at the moment and I look like Michael Jackson hauling weights. The right hand has my normal Harbinger material and leather glove. The other hand is naked. Where the left hand glove has gone, I have no idea. I’m looking for it. I hope it will turn up soon, I feel silly only wearing one glove in the gym – it makes me look like a prat. And callouses on one palm look quite suspect.

The other thing that has gone walkabout recently is my diary. Thankfully not my journal – this blog has that part function. No, I've lost my day book – a small, ring bound grey volume that holds my life on the page. It also has the moon phases in it, along with a number of pieces of paper that are of importance - namely a few movie vouchers, a list of oils to be taken to meditation, the odd summons to my monthly Elks meeting and my lastest hot water bill.

I've tracked back to when I last saw the book - which was Friday night. I went in to town after work to collect the mail. I don't remember seeing it after that.

Silly thing is, I know that most people now use their phone as a diary - a mix of email, computer programs and other electronic pieces to run their lives. My paper diary was the one place where I knew everything was stored. I could see what I was doing from week to week. I'm so used to checking with the little grey book before making plans. It has my Elks Dates, Book Group dates, birthdays, which weekends are meditation weekends, theatre dates... the list goes on.

I feel a bit lost without it.

On the one hand, looking for it has meant that the flat has been gone over and cleaned property. The couch can now have two people sitting on it - not one. The coffee table has been rearranged. I've even gone over my kitchen junk table to look for it. It's been wiped down and cleaned - it's the tidiest it's been since I've lived here.

Still - no diary.

I've called the places I've remembered being at since Friday night - no joy there. Mind you, can you see a 16-year-old cleaning a movie theatre between sessions finding a nondescript grey book  and taking it to Lost Property - no - me neither.

Have to admit, I feel at a loss without it. It's like my life has gone away.

So until I either buy a new Moon Diary (seems a bit pointless for the three months left in the year) I've filled in the bits I can remember. Things like taking Jonella to High Tea at Heide for her birthday. Also, the birthdays I can remember, the trip to New Zealand, a few other bits and pieces are not in the iPhone. 

But it's not the same.

I went online and bought a new pair of weight lifting gloves off eBay. They're a needed piece of equipment. If the left hand one turns up, well, I can find a use for fingerless gloves - use them for bike riding gloves. 

The diary - that loss is hitting me harder. Better ring my gas hot water provider and ask them to send the bill again... ho hum.

(p.s. The other glove turned up - in the Pandora's Box that is my back pack. It was in with about 15 hair ties, a mash of old band aids, the odd panadol, Indonesian Rupiah coins, lip balm and a favourite red lipstick that I also thought had gone walkabout. Also, unless the bag also functions as a tardis, no diary)