One of the greatest things about getting older is you really don’t give two hoots about things that don’t really matter.
I’m writing this on my phone as I’m getting a pedicure in preparation for the writer’s retreat that starts tomorrow afternoon. Why am I getting a pedicure? My feet are a bit crusty. Why don’t I go walk barefoot along the beach to smooth of my feet while I'm on retreat? I have writing to do. Will anybody see my feet? No, but I will.
I’ve had a couple of conversations today with people going to the retreat. There seems to be a lot going on in the universe. This is a time for all of us to unwind, relax, be pampered, and take some time for ourselves.
One friend is bringing her daughter for the first time. She mentioned that she was looking forward to having her hang out with all these cool people.
My response was to say “But I’m not cool!”
She came back to me quickly. “Pandora, you are the coolest.”
Nah.
I mean, what is cool? How do you define if somebody is cool?
There are a lot of other adjectives which describe me quite well. I know that I’m kind. I know that I’m fairly intelligent. I’m very resilient. And yes, I identify as a witch, as much as I identify as being a woman, heterosexual, fat, menopausal, left-leaning, outspoken, a writer, skinny-ankled, a black cat's mother, physically strong and a thumb sucker.
But cool? Nah.
I mean, what is the definition of cool? There are so many, I looked on the internet and this one struck a cool:
A word we use to describe anything we find intriguing or unique – something or someone that catches our eye and tests the depths of self-expression and imagination that we commonly confine ourselves to. Regardless of time, to be described as “cool” is a compliment that will never go out of style.
I still don't think that's me.
Maybe it's to do with the lack of self-esteem I had for most of my life. Although it's a lot healthier now, I still can't get over people might thing I have something to offer. I'm very good at hiding myself away.
And sure, I pull off bovver boots, black jeans, a Ramones t-shirt and red lippy, tousle my hair and go visit the Francis Bacons in the art gallery - but that doesn't make me cool either.
Is it that I don't really give two cahoots about much?
Is it because I am quirky? (or neurodiverse/mad/weird - find your own description)
Is it my friends being nice?
I dunno.
My younger self would have adored this validation. Now I'm not so sure.
Baby Pandora, aged around 21. Wannabe baby goth. Adelaide girl. Here she is thinking she's the fattest, ugliest thing on the planet. She doesn't know what she's going to become. Maybe she is cool after all.)
Adore Beauty is one of my staple websites for beauty items. I love them. They're a local company, their service is excellent, as is their range of products. They use nice couriers who actually ring the doorbell and wait for you to come downstairs. They're great.
But, yesterday, the buzzer went at eight in the morning. I threw on a dressing gown and ran downstairs to collect my parcel.
The box was beaten up. Not ideal, but it felt like the bottles of shampoo, conditioner and curl creme would be in the box.
The parcel was taken upstairs and opened. This didn't take much as there was a gaping hole in the box.
I checked the inventory, taking the products out of the paper insulation wrapping.
Shampoo - tick.
Conditioner - tick.
Curl Creme - tick.
BUT NO FUCKING TIM TAM! (or samples, which they are also good and throwing in the box).
I went through the paper again, feeling my way around the crumpled pages. Zip. Nada.
The courier nicked my Tim Tam.
I feel very hard done by.
And though I received everything I ordered, and in one piece, I still feel like I've been let down.
That Tim Tam is everything. It's part of the reason you buy from Adore Beauty. Not only are they reliable, fast, an Australian company with decent prices, they give you a biscuit. It's good, old-fashioned customer service.
AND THE FUCKING COURIER NICKED MINE AND I AM GROPABLE.
The blog all started because I wanted to document what it was to run a marathon. I never ran the marathon (but I've competed in five half marathons - that does count for something).
And I know this blog is mostly crap, But for me, it’s interesting to look back and see what was going on in my life over the last 15 years.
Over the last five years, I’ve managed to write something every day. Again you wonder why, but it’s a part of my process. I know that I’m a better writer for keeping this up. And yes, sometimes I don’t feel like it, but you do it, because I’m a writer, and a writer writes.
As for the song of the day, well, it wouldn’t be my blog post if I didn’t have a song. Half of the time it’s what’s playing in my head when I’m writing, because I always have a song in my head when I write a post Sometimes the song comes from the blog’s theme.Most of the time, it’s a song that I like.
Like today’s song. I’ve always been a big Talking Heads fan, but I remember this song with a lot of love, as this was playing in the car when my colleague picked us up for dinner at his place in Darwin. He’s not here any more, but his music taste was legendary. He’s even got me onto Amyl and the Sniffers. But I will always listen to this and think of us rolling down the Stuart Highway, with the windows rolled down, not knowing that we were going to watch some of the best thunderstorms ever from a distance. Little did we know our friend wouldn’t be with us for much longer.
SBS World Movies (and SBS On Demand) are probably the best quality terrestrial television around, and you can't tell me otherwise.
You want to watch something unexpected? SBS World Movies.
You want to see something that you missed in the cinema? SBS World Movies. I've been watching John Malkovich in a movie called Mr Blake At Your Service. He's speaking in grammatically fit, but highly accented French. I hope I don't sound too much like that.
I love that you can watch television with subtitles.
I love that you get a handle on the fact that there are other countries in the world that produce film and television. And it's often it's astounding televison.
I love that I can get a fix of British film and telly at my fingertips. Rogue Heroes anybody?
I love that a lot of it's unexpected.
And the documentaries are fantastic.
And currently What We Do in the Shadows and A Room with a View and Kill Bill Parts One and Two are all available at the moment.
And okay, there are some adds, but nothing like what you get on the normal terrestrial telly.
It's retreat weekend, and I've offered to facilitate a ritual on the first night of the retreat. There are some preparations to be made.
The timing is excellent. It's a new moon earlier that day, and there will be no moon visible in the evening.
The new moon is a great time to start planting and manifesting things. It's a time to celebrate the darkness for its healing properties and welcome in a skerrick of light that will grow and morph into something bigger and better. It's a time to sit in your own strength and enjoy the power within. A time to connect with the earth. A time of potential.
What does this mean for me? I need to get my witch shit together.
And where does one get witch shit? At a witch shit shop? Nah, the Chinese Shit Shop, otherwise known as the $2 Shoppe at the local shopping centre.
I already have my broom, large white candle (fire), salt (earth), and I'll get a glass of water where we're going. That means I have to pick up some incense. That forms the air part of the ritual.
A friend is bringing her portable cauldron.
Oh, and I'll get a box of white candles - no idea how many people will be coming to this ritual. The last time I did something similar, there was close on 30 people there.
Yes, I'm getting excited about this. Not only because I'll be on retreat, but I love getting my witch on. I've identified as a witch for decades - I just don't publicise it that much. People look at you funny. In another era I'd be a midwife, or a nurse, or a herbalist. With my reticence to put things around my neck, it's pretty obvious I've been hung or strangled in a former life.
Now, I'm just a free-range witch. Generally, we're left to our own devices now.
Fun fact, until a few years ago, it was illegal in Victoria to tell fortunes and practice witchcraft. They were taken off the statutes in 2005. YES, 2005!
I NEED this t-shirt.
The ritual will be something easy. No need to over-egg it.
After setting up the circle and giving gratitude to the universe (Note this - as we're at the equivalent of a benevolent, atheist kibbutz, this is the way it has to be. No God or Goddess. Nothing religious. But the Universe is okay - and I'm good with this. After, maybe throw in some rosemary into the cauldron to summon the best of the universe. There's a big rosemary bush near the chapel. It won't mind giving up a bit of greenery and burning rosemary smells amazing.
I might ask the participants to be barefoot if they are inclined so there is more of a connection with the earth. This will be done outside, because naked flames inside can only lead to trouble.
And then the group can ponder what they want to manifest in the next few months. They can take a sprinkle of salt and water from the centre of the circle, sprinkle it on the ground, then take a candle and fill the wishes with light.
Once the last person has done this, the circle can be closed.
Does this sound like a plan?
I might need refining.
But this is the loose plan.
I'm excited. I love getting my witch on. And how do I know how to do this? I'm a witch. You know.
Think of us on Friday night. It looks something like this:
I went to this partly out of curiosity and partly to get away from the heat. Going to the cinema on hot days is something I do often. The film is also the darling of the film festivals, being nominated all over the place, including the Screen Actors Guild and BAFTA awards. Of course I'm going to be curious.
It also brings at 57-year-old Pamela Anderson back to the big screen. More on her later.
What I found was a hidden gem of a film.
The Last Showgirl looks at the other side of Las Vegas. The bits you see in the daytime, when the lights are no longer shining, and the audiences and car parks are empty, and the bins are waiting for the day crew to come in and empty them. We meet Shelly (Anderson), an aging show girl in the Le Razzle Dazzle revue, preparing for another show. She's obviously the oldest in troupe, and her fellow dancers Jodie (Keirnan Shipka) and Mary-Anne (Brenda Song) see her as the den mother of the troupe. Being a show girl is all she knows.
You get to see other parts of Shelly's life. Her friend Annette (Jamie Leigh Curtis) has retired from being a showgirl and is now a drinks waitress at one of the hotels. Shelly also has a strained relationship with her daughter Hannah (Billie Lourd) who holds a number of resentments about her upbringing. And then there's her relationship with Eddie (Dave Bautista) the show's producer. The two have known each other for decades.
Shelly has led this hand to mouth existence on the Las Vegas strip for thirty years, and now, early in the film, she is told the show, after 30 years, is closing, and she is sent into a tailspin.
Gia Coppola's film is a melancholic look at what can go on in Vegas, where youth is celebrated and the older workers have to make do any way they can. Jamie Leigh Curtis's Annette is a poignant look at aging in a youth culture. Kate Gersten's screenplay is bang on.
For me, I'm in two minds about the camerawork on the film, which has that wobbly hand-held effect, particularly as the girls are running from the dressing room to the stage. Although it provides the film with a claustrophobic feel, it only heightens the precariousness of the character's lives.
This is Pamela Anderson's film. She is fantastic as the slightly delusional, melancholic dancer, an anachronism of her own making. At the end of the film, you leave wondering just what will happen to her. You want to know this - and you want to wish her well, even though you wonder at her resilience.
The people of Las Vegas, the show girls, performers, the casino pit crews, the escorts, the cocktail waitresses - they have to be resilient. This is the films message.
The Last Showgirl is on limited release around the cinemas. It will be on streaming soon. It's definitely worth a look.
I love walking into a play blind and coming out amazed. Going into the theatre this evening all I knew was that Never Have I Ever ran for two hours and twenty minutes and there was a cast of four.
I walked out very, very happy.
This is awesome. Funny, smart, annoying in a great way, thought-provoking and current.
I've taken this from the The Guardian's review, which gives the dot points of the set up;
Australian-born, UK-based comedian and podcaster turned playwright Deborah Frances-White sets her gathering in a restaurant, or at least the husk of one. Married couple Jacq (Katie Robertson) and Kas (Sunny S Walia) are bankrupt restaurateurs, their dream business having failed despite their best efforts. Before the creditors come and take the lot, they decide to have a final meal with mates Adaego (Chika Ikogwe) and her husband, Tobin (Simon Gleeson). Tobin provided Jacq and Kas with the seed money for the restaurant. This is their last meal.
And from the MTC website. "Fuelled by simmering tensions and top shelf booze, things boil over when a drinking game uncovers the real dynamics driving their relationships: power, resentment, envy and fear. And that’s just the entrée.
Beneath the in-jokes and flirting, self-care and teasing is a seething stew of money, sex, race and class. Stirred through with a wicked sense of humour, Never Have I Ever is delicious proof that the most personal form of politics is also the most explosive.
This really was fantastic entertainment. It had the audience enraptured from the opening scenes to the final minutes. Tasnim Hossain's direction keeps the action moving at a great pace, whilst allowing for the story to develop.
Deborah Frances-White is an Australian living in London and has found a good mix of entitlement, expectation, race, money, expectation and sexuality. It seems a lot. It is, but it's shown in a very fun way.
A completely female driven creative team is also welcomed.
I do agree with The Guardian's view that this is a little white-washed but isn't some stereotyping good for making things flow. On meeting Tobin, I wanted to hit him - but his 'plight' is portrayed in an interesting way, that being the declining power of the rich white dude. Adaego's desire to be more, Jacq's desire to shake her working-class roots and Sunny's wanting to be seen more than just the brown guy are all stereotypes.
Yet you throw and explosive game of Never Have I Ever into the mix and fireworks prevail.
If all of the plays in this year's MTC subscription are of this calibre, we'll do well.
Although not perfect, this was a very entertaining and thought-provoking night out.
I've just been chatting with one of my posse. Love the posse. A group of women from the writer's retreats that I go to twice a year who have become almost sisters to me. We laugh, moan, bitch and support each other on pretty much a daily basis - and they help to keep my head about water.
So KiKi and I were having a chat, trying to put the world to rights, and I was having a moan about a few things - you know, the existential hole that we seem to be falling into, that I have to take the cat to the vet soon, Men, you know. And that I have a blog post to write.
And we came up with this.
Never have I ever. Never have you ever done what?
And why haven't you?
And under what circumstances would you?
And what do you think you'd feel like if you did it?
The thing is, I have many never have I ever things. Off the top of my head I've never done IV street drugs (nup, no way, get fucked, fuck off), jumped out of a plane (too heavy at the moment) owned my own dog (not in the place to, besides, cats are easier) had a Brazilian wax (why would I want to look 12-years-old down there), been to Madagascar (Money and inclination or fallen in love (scarier than jumping out of a plane).
And I do things like donate blood, speak in public, push myself physically (got two PBs at the gym last night) and go to the theatre by myself (because I'm a sad sack who loves theatre).
And yes, I would get up on stage and dance to Baby Got Back with the Seattle Philharmonic, because even though I have a small bum, it would be fun.
Something, that would put me out of my comfort zone, but I could see myself doing is being a life model. But I never have. And I probably never will. I mean, who would want to draw me.
I've got a friend who has done a lot of life modelling in her time. She's an utter extrovert and an exhibitionist and was into burlesque and all sorts of other things. Nudity to her was second nature. She's also short and curvy, and said that those drawing her loved to have her as a model as she had interesting bits and bobs to draw.
For me, nudity is second nature in my own home, but I'm always going to shove on a robe when I answer the door. Unlike my friend on occasion.
But I've never had the opportunity to be a life model. I don't know where you would go to be a life model.
And I'm not sure who would want to draw me. I have a body that's like an ice cream cone, big on top, round in the middle, no hips or arse and long legs. It's like God put a wombat with a racehorse and you got me.
But would I do it? Yes. Despite not liking my middle bit at all, I don't have an issue with public nudity under some conditions - and this is one of them. I think I'm getting a little bit excited about the writer's retreat next weekend, where we have the ritual Bathing of the Lunatics - a 7.30 skinny dip in the Southern Ocean. As long as it wasn't too hot or cold and the students were real students, I'd be game. It's not something I'd do in front of my workmates. They've seen me in bathers. That will do.
And what would I feel like when doing this? Probably bloody marvelous. Nudity is a great leveler. And middle-aged women are already invisible enough. We should get ourselves out there more.
Sorry if you haven't enjoyed the optics on this one.
Regardless, never have I ever been a life model - but this doesn't mean to say I won't be in the future.
Keeping up with the Marvel Universe is like keeping up with your single Aunt Trisha's love life after Valentine's Day. If you haven't been paying attention, you're going to be asking a lot of questions, even if you don't know if you should or not.
And part of me feels like this about Captain American: Brave New World. Do I need to care about this? Maybe. It's good for entertainment value. And I went with my Punjabi kid brother, with whom I bonded with over a mutual love of Marvel Movies.
So, what is this about? The new Captain America, Sam Wilson (Anthony Mackie) is having a hard time breaking into the mainstream, made worse by the new President, Thaddeus Ross (Harrison Ford) who doesn't think the world should have anything to do with superheroes. Very quickly, he works out he does need them, and Captain America soon becomes a pawn in some geopolitical games. With his trusty sidekick, Joaquin (Danny Ramirez) they try their best to get to the bottom of what is going on. Samuel Sterns (Tim Blake Nelson) is the quintessential baddie who is keeps putting a multitude of spanners in the works.
I'm not going into too much detail here with the plot. If you're not into Marvel Movies, it's going to go through to the keeper anyway.
There's good and not so good with this film. Raj and I agreed on this.
On the good side of things:
Anthony Mackie is great as the new Captain America. He's got the right amount of comic timing and seriousness.
His sidekick Joaquin is great too - and he plays things for laughs a lot, which is good.
You know that all is not well in the America when you have a President popping pills. Harrison Ford brings the right amount of gravitas and paranoia to the role. You find out near the end exactly what it is he's hiding.
And the action, as always in great.
And the CGI and special effects were well cool.
Julius Onah, in his first job as a Director of a Marvel film does a more than adequate job on the film.
My reservations come with the knowledge that in this the first of the fourth iteration of Marvel films, this is setting things up for the next round of movies. They're already saying the following movies and series will be coming out this year.
Another thing about this film was that there were so many Easter Eggs in there. Raj pointed out the island they went to near the end of the film what the place where The Eternals. There were other things involved that if you're not a Marvel fan, you're going to miss. It's the Easter Eggs which make these movies even better.
Is this as good as some as its predecessors? No, but it's not as bad as say Ant Man and The Wasp: Quantumania or XMen: Dark Phoenix.
It was enough to keep me interested but not enthralled. I don't know how you'd go if you'd never seen a Marvel movie before this. (If you haven't, get a Disney subscription and work your way through them.) I know it's also setting things up for more of the movies to come.
If you want to win over a teenage boy, you could take them along and they won't hate you.
For me, I want to go back and start the Marvel journey again, back when I didn't know about Infinity Stones and Wakanda and The Hulk was green.
One last thing, in this film, there are scenes where Washington D.C. and The White House were badly damaged through the actions of the President. Life imitating art, much?
Three times in three weeks. It’s getting worse. After a number of years where I’ve unfollowed people on social media, I’ve found myself unfollowing three people in the week.
For those out of the loop, unfollowing somebody on social media means that you’re still connected to the person, but you don’t receive their posts. It’s not as blunt as unfriending somebody, and there are times you will want or need to do this, but it’s a gentler way to save your own sanity.
My other tactic for approaching friends with views which are polar opposite to my own, is to ask them to explain why they think as they do. Try to engage them in a constructive conversation about their views. Try and find out why they are thinking these thoughts.
A case in point, a very old a dear friend posted something about how they thought JD Vance was wonderful and what he was saying in Europe was a great thing. In the last week, they’ve also posted some pro-Trump material. Again, disturbing, but as they are in Australia, they can’t do much about it.
Now, being pretty well read in history, I’m fully aware that the Nazi’s pretty much destroyed Germany – and killed millions at the same time. Killed for a failed ideology that pitted neighbour against neighbour. Look around the papers. Notice anything similar.
I don’t think my friend was thinking of this. Then again, I don’t think my friend is really thinking when he reposts stuff from Andrew Tate. (I call them out on this too). We’ve also had some pretty intense discussions about abortion rights over the years.
Rather than calling them a dickhead and a loser, I approached them gently and kindly.
I asked them what drew them to this conclusion. The other thing I did was state that I can see the need for some disruption in the political system, but is this the change you’re really after, where power and funds go into the oligarchs instead of into the hands of the people. If I were them, I’d be very careful what they wished for.
Thankfully, my friend took this with the intention it was meant and thanked me, nicely, for my viewpoint.
I still unfollowed them. They’ve been in my life for years. I do like them as a person. I just can’t stand their unformed and reactionary political views.
I'll continue to get my right-wing opinions from Channel Nine. At least their centre-right drivel is a bit more palatable than anything Newscorpse puts out.
Do I want anything more for this person. Umm, no. Happy to catch up as friends. And that is okay. But that's it
We met in a bookshop and went for a coffee and chatted for two hours.
Tick.
On paper, there is a lot going for him. He's neat and tidy. Tick. Very intelligent. Tick. Has some niche interests. Well so do I. Tick. Appears to have some friends. Tick. Has a similar political outlook to my own. Tick. (I could never go out with anybody more than a small L Liberal - and they are becoming few and far between, and even then, that might come to blows, as friends don't let friends vote Liberal.)
So, it went well? It did.
But... I know, you're waiting for the but.
He's being clingy, and it's a complete turn off.
I spent the afternoon with my book group, thankful for something to do.
I was greeted with a text first thing in the morning. Would I like to go for a walk in the morning.
Ah, no. It's Sunday. I have stuff on.
Would I be up for a chat later.
Umm, no, I have a lot on today - I told him about the barbeque we were having for book group - and how I was making a cheesecake. No thanks.
I got a text while I was over at book group.
And whether it's insecurity, or love bombing or heaven knows what, it's all a bit much.
I've been clear about my boundaries. If I'm busy, I'm busy. Please don't contact me during working hours. (He's between jobs at the moment, and I expect boredom may a reason he's been in contact so much). Then again, if I say I'm going to be free after 8 p.m, I'm a bit unnerved when he calls at 8.03 p.m.
Sorry, he's just a bit too keen.
And I'm looking at myself. I've been on my own all of my life. I do make time for people. I live a busy life. And I need a LOT of time to myself. Classic introvert and a writer.
So, when somebody tries to encroach on my time, I get a bit miffed.
As for what I'm going to do about this. First up, I'll be reiterating my boundaries. I know he's going to suggest we meet up again in the week - and it's going to be a hard no. With training, my Punjabi kid brother's birthday, a play, a blood donation, a mason's meeting and I want a night to myself.
And if he keeps bombing me with texts and calls?
Cut him off and block him.
I've already decided I don't want anything more than friendship. Maybe I should pull the band aid off sooner rather than later.
I'm proud of myself for coming to this decision quickly, and without angst.
You gotta do you, and this one doesn't quite fit right.
I was hunting around for an old cup to use in the microwave to melt down some butter for a cheesecake crust.
I found this.
Aha. A pristine coffee mug from the defunct bank that spectacularly went out of business in 2008, back when the markets went into a tailspin.
I'm not sure where I got this piece of fantastic corporate merch from. It was possibly stolen from the kitchen from the first floor of 6 Bishopsgate Circus in the late 90's. I used to be quite good at stealing coffee mugs.
Yes, I worked at Lehman Brothers for five years in the 90s as a corporate actions clerk in the Stock Lending department. I made some great friends there. I fell in love there. I drank a lot of beer and smoked a lot of cigarettes. This is back in the day when I had a 'Norf Lundun'/Australian hybrid accent and still wore heels to work, even though I walked about like a bad drag queen in them.
I still know of people who are working on the Lehman cleanup crew, although is under another name and everybody is still disillusioned.
Looking it up on the web, I could sell it on for up to $50, but it holds a bit of sentimental value. I think I'll push it to the back of the cupboard again.
But how is it, 25 years after I worked in that cesspit with the sexist, boorish blokes that this coffee mug is still sitting at the back of the cupboard.
And I wonder, if I poke around enough, if I will find a Merrill Lynch coffee mug - as I worked there, in Australia, for a few years. Another defunct, corrupt American institution.
So shoot me. I'm a corporate maggot.
Who likes to keep the occasional piece of corporate merch.
And before you ask, no, this is what I call a go see. My expectations are low and my boundaries strong, the person in question seems nice. We've been chatting on the phone for a few days. He ticks quite a few boxes - you know - likes books, is this side of the Warrigal Road, age appropriate. Scorpio. Can string a sentence together.
Dating in your middle-age comes down to this sort of thing. It's no longer a criteria of the other person being hot and smelling good. (But clean and smelling good is a non-negotiable).
He was asking me what sort of burning questions I have for him. Of course I have a lot of questions. But can I learn about things slowly? I ask questions for a living. Let me learn things organically.
And for somebody I'm just meeting, how do you tell them that you've been single all your life, never had a partner, don't have kids - and then they inevitably ask you why this is so.
Can't first dates just keep to music and movie tastes and the best concerts / film / plays you've seen or the best places you've travelled to or that you found out today that you can still count backwards from ten in Greek.
Oh, on their profile they put down that they're after a short-term relationship. I'm not sure what that means. I'm not after anything quick. I know I'm better off getting to know somebody before anything happens. I also know that I'm hard to get to know - I've got lots of practice hiding myself away, only letting people in when I'm ready.
Regardless, with any luck I'll have a nice wander around a bookshop with a seemingly nice fellow and a cup of coffee and if I have a pleasant time, then I'm doing alright.
Hands up, I do love Bridget Jones. I've read the books. I've seen all the movies, from the lovely Bridget Jones' Diary (2001), the diabolically sad Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (2004) to the redeeming Bridget Jones's Baby (2016). And having read the book years ago, I wasn't going to be surprised by the plot of Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy. Helen Fielding, who wrote the book was also responsible for the screenplay. Good move.
What has surprised me is how many tissues I needed.
So, here's the crux of the matter. Our heroine, Bridget Jones (Renee Zellweger) is a widowed mother of Billy (Casper Knopf) and Mabel (Mila Jankovic). Mark was killed four years before and Bridget is finally getting out of her funk. At the start of the movie she's ready to go back to work and get out there, albeit gently.
There are two potential suitors. The first being Roxster (Leo Woodall) a much younger park ranger / mature aged student who you wouldn't say no to under any circumstances. Roxster is fun and savvy and sexy and just what Bridget needs to get out of her funk.
When her friend Miranda (Sarah Solemani) puts her up on Tinder, she and Roxster connect in a big way.
There is also the probably much better suited, age-appropriate Science teacher, Mr Wallacher (Chewitel Ejiofor), somebody who's a bit quirky and a grown up who has also taken Bridget's eye.
As I said - I read the book when it came out - there's no surprises.
For me, there's a lot to like about this film. I love the continuation of the character. Bridget is a fully realised grown up - a Mum, and unfortunately a widow. This is handled well. And she, and the rest of the cast, have lines on their faces. Thank heavens for English actors and their desire to age gracefully.
I love that the characters that you've seen through the other movies are back, from Shazza (Sally Phillips), Miranda, Tom (James Callis) Jude (Shirley Henderson) and Magda (Claire Phillips). And it wouldn't be a Bridget Jones movie without Hugh Grant as Daniel Cleaver. He never learns.
Colin Firth also makes an appearance as the ghost of Mark Darcy - which is where a lot of the tears came from.
But there's also the silly hilarity which you expect from these films too. Michael Morris's direction keeps things moving, and it navigates the emotions that comes from grief and acceptance with ease.
It also has a killer soundtrack.
And sure, there are moments when the film borders on being twee, and I really, really, really want to have words with the person who did the hair design (Tom's hair - For fuck's sake!).
But this is a very good last film in the series. Bridget Jones, we wish you very well. You are my Everywoman and I will love you for eternity. Just like Mark Darcy.
Dev Memoir Card: What is something you were once embarrassed about, but now take pride in.
Here we go.
I have no shame about this.
I am 56-years-old and I still suck my thumb - and cart around a security ribbon.
And this is more than okay.
The story goes that I didn't suck my thumb until I was about ten-months-old, when my parents went to the snow and left me with my Aunt and Uncle on their farm in Keith with my five cousins.
Please know that I'm still in contact with all of these cousins and nothing happened other than one of them took me to school for show and tell. The family still talk about this.
But legend goes that while my folks were away, I snaffled the lining of my uncle's hat and started rubbing my nose with it and sucking my thumb. And I've never really stopped.
And sure, I only do it at home, and I more need the ribbon, rather than the thumb in the mouth, as having the ribbon is a bit like a set of rosaries or worry beads. Having something in my hand keeps me settled. I can feel my blood pressure dropping when I pick up the ribbon.
I've since learned that it's a form of stimming. (Reminder to myself to contact that shrink again to get that neurodiversity diagnosis.)
Carting around a ribbon and sucking my thumb when I'm stressed is not the worst thing in the world. I don't do it when I'm out, or at work, but it instantly calms me down.
It's cheaper and easier than Prozac to administer.
It keeps the anxiety at bay.
And if I'm really honest, I'm very proud of the fact that I've been managing this low-grade anxiety from when I was ten months old and have managed to keep it at a reasonable level, without drugs (but with some help from some pretty good therapists over the years.
Back in my day, a facemask was a home-grown affair. You'd mash up something - oats, avocado, banana, egg white, honey... you name it, it goes on your face. You put the goop on your face and sit around watching the telly for about half an hour. While you were doing this, somebody would invariably come to the door, and you have to approach them looking like the creature from the black lagoon.
It was a messy, smelly affair. Did it hurt your skin? Probably not. Did it help your skin? Probably not.
The nearest I've got to this recently, the old-time experience, is at a place I get a facial around once a year. It's a lovely salon in Camberwell. Been going there for years. But one of the things Emme does is a full on, mixed-up mask - often with setting clay which makes you feel a bit like you're getting buried alive. It has smelled like hay and chaff in the past.
In these new times, when people don't have things like oatmeal or honey at home, and mashing avocado on your face is too expensive and a waste of piece of fruit and who can find eggs in the supermarket - you need to find another way of 'pampering' yourself.
Bring in the tissue mask.
You can buy them at the supermarket.
They are infused with all of this stuff that didn't exist 40 years ago - hyaluronic acid, retinol, collagen, fruit extracts.
You bung this on your face, wait 20 minutes and allegedly it turns you from a pumpkin into a princess.
Of course, somebody will come to the door. Or want to talk to you online with the camera on. Or the cat gets scared.
And once you get the mask off, does it do any good?
I'm still not sure, but it's a regular ritual I like to do.
The story of Pandora and her box of tricks has been around for thousands of years. According to Hesiod (Ancient writer dude), Pandora's husband left her in possession a vessel containing all of the evils of the world. After a while curiosity go the better of Pandora and she let the lid off the jar and these evils escaped, leaving hope and opportunity swilling around the bottom. And subsequently the world went to shit.
This does not mean that hope and opportunity is a bad thing. But, in the words of an episode of Ted Lasso, it's the hope that kills you.
We were talking about this after meditation the other day.
My friend Gloria was relating how she had been verbally assaulted at her local, inner-city pub. She and her partner, Gaynor had gone out for a quiet dinner. As they were leaving, a man at the table next to hers began to call her every name under the sun. The barrage of abuse went on for minutes. The man's wife tried to intervene, saying that "they weren't disrespectful people." Gloria and Gaynor left the pub, the man's abuse continued until they were out of the street and away from the building.
We talked about what she could have done. Gone straight to management? This was an unprovoked verbal assault - but there were no visible management around at the time. '
Shout back? No - that could be dangerous.
Try and deflect with humour? I said maybe swiping over his shirt, calling "Lesbian germs, no returns." Might shut him up. It made Gloria laugh.
I believe that she's been back in contact with the pub to talk to management. Hopefully the cameras can pick something up.
Yet, here's the thing. I'm hearing with more regularity, of queer friends being berated in the street. And I do not like this in the slightest.
Although not queer, I've been othered. Once you've been othered, you get it. And it sends your tolerance to homophobia, racism, ageism, ableism - you name it, down to nothing.
You don't pick on my friends, you arseholes, and expect to go down without a fight.
But it's disconcerting. Melbourne is a melting pot of all types. We generally get on well. Okay, maybe the eshays can go jump in the Yarra, but they won't be missed.
Melbourne is a cosmopolitan city. It's also accepting of people of all races, sexualities, genders, or so we're led to believe.
We're an enclave.
It's very disconcerting when your friends, who have lived in their inner-city area minding their own business to be barraged with homophobic slurs.
Is it the emboldening of Trump and that dreadful potato-headed arsehole Dutton doing his dog whistling? Is something more sinister afoot.
Or is it that Pandora's Box has been opened, and the evils of the world are upon us and it's up to us to use the hope and opportunity to bring things back to an even, less combative, more accepting, loving and balanced keel?
My mate EJ is doing a charity swim over the month of February. He's down to do 32 kilometres over the month of February. This equates to a bit over a kilometre a day, but EJ being a bit of an over-achiever has, as of today, done 18 of the 32 kilometres. I should add that EJ is in his mid-sixties and swimming has been his exercise of choice for years.
Last week, looking for something different to do on the weekend asked if he'd like some company while he did his laps. I could always paddle away in the slow lane while he charged on. Besides, he's seen me in my bathers before and didn't call Greenpeace, so there's no shocks.
I've also been wanted to do something different with different people on the weekend. This seemed like a good opportunity for this.
Another thing you might not know - I love swimming. When I lived in London I used to live opposite the Swiss Cottage pool and used to do a kilometre three times a week for a while. I love the feeling of swimming. particularly freestyle. I can't do butterfly, backstroke freaks me out a bit but is okay over short distances and my breaststroke is particularly dreadful. I had my last swimming lesson when I was five-years-old. Thankfully I've picked up some pointers over the years and my freestyle is passable.
We met up at the Box Hill pool. We got into the slow lane. EJ has all his accouterments. Expensive goggles, and flippers and a snorkel, so he doesn't have to move his head about.
For me - I've just got a swim cap and a cheap pair of goggles from KMart. They do the job.
But I surprised myself today.
I've not swum proper laps in many years. I swim as often as I can in Darwin, but that's in a hotel pool. This is pukka swimming for exercise.
The muscle memory kicked in after a couple of laps. My freestyle didn't let me down. Choosing to do two laps of breaststroke, then getting into the freestyle when I got tired, I managed to do 44 lengths in 55 minutes. For my first serious swim back, I'm stoked with this.
EJ of course, got his 80 lengths done in just over an hour - but he's been swimming a few times a week for years.
I'm just a bit chuffed with myself that that I managed to swim over a kilometre and do it without messing myself any damage. I'm going to be sore tomorrow, but the gym work I do should put me in good stead.
After, we drove out to the Dandenongs for a light lunch and a quick walk in the hills to marvel at the trees. And then home.
In all, a lovely day.
I think I might try swimming distances more often. It's good for the soul.
There are regular shortages of Menopause Hormone Therapy patches in Australia.
Today, I lucked out.
And there was much rejoicing!
For the last six months or so, I’ve been playing estrogen roulette.
“Eh?” you ask.
Estrogen roulette. Chemist surfing. Behaving like a bleary-eyed redneck dependent of Oxycontin from the back blocks of Tennessee. Making phone calls, dropping into outlying chemists, praying, hoping, begging that your HRT/MRT* patches are in stock.
More often than not, you won’t find them. Out of stock. On back order. Expect them in after July. Go talk to your doctor about other methods. Yes, you need a prescription for it. No, I can’t do a straight substitution. Go back, spend another $100 talking to your doctor about the other dwindling alternatives.
You’re aware that you’re behaving like a junkie. And like any drug dependent person, you’re fully aware of what happens when you run out of your supply. In my case, without the oestrogen patches, I’m one big sweating, incontinent, grumpy hot flush ready to jump down anybody’s throat given half the chance.
Sod that for a game of soldiers.
I’ve spoken to my doctor about all of this. I’ve talked to her a couple of times over the last few years. I have an emergency prescription for the estrogen gel, however, after giving it a try this month, although it does work, it sends my blood pressure up. You also have to use it every day, rubbing this scentless goop into your limbs. As one of the neuro-spicy, I’m not overly fond of the sensations of using the gel. It’s my last resort. Slapping on a patch twice a week and not having to endure the hypertension and the feeling that you’re going to stroke out is a much better experience.
The gel is also $10 a month more expensive than the patches, although it appears to be always available.
There’s also a ‘generic’ brand of patches that have been available over the last few months; however, I’ve noticed when using these that I get a lot of breakthrough hot flushes, and my bladder control is compromised a little more. Also, they don’t stick as well as my normal brand. Saying that, it’s been a good thing to bring back Kegels into my daily life. They’ve helped a lot. But I’d still prefer the surety that my normal patches provide.
Also, being summer, with hot days, I don’t need my temperature going up and down like a yoyo. My air-conditioning bill is bad enough.
Today, the hormone gods were on my side. My chemist had just received a shipment of my favoured patches. Would I like two-months’ supply?
Would a woman prefer to encounter a bear in the woods? Too bloody right.
I’m set for the next two months.
Many other women will not be. I asked if the chemist had the next strength down (75 micrograms) as I have a prescription for these, hoping that I can start to wean myself off the higher dose. These weren’t in stock. I pity women who have these as their normal patch strength.
It’s my belief that if men had to endure menopausal symptoms, they would have found a solution decades ago, but as this, until recently, has been one of the least researched area of women’s conditions, we’re only just finding more options for treatment. Most women who reach their forties and fifties will have some symptoms. Some women experience far more debilitating than others. In centuries past they used to throw women into mental institutions with hysteria as their menopause cure all.
Depending on your doctor, you still might be diagnosed with some mental condition and put on anti-depressants**.
Finally, there are doctors, general practitioners, who specialise in treating perimenopausal and menopausal women. Doctors who listen, investigate, talk, diagnose, test and assist.
Women are talking about this. If you’re in Australia, the Facebook group Perimenopause and Menopause Australia is an excellent resource, with information about HRT/MRT and options for doctors who specialise in the treatment of menopause symptoms.
Regardless, I am happy. I have two months to enjoy being relatively cool and calm with less of a chance of pissing my pants.
They call this living the dream.
*HRT - Hormone Replacement Therapy. MHT - Menopause Hormone Therapy. They’re the same thing, the latter being the more relevant name for it all.
** Some women have medical conditions which preclude them from using MHT. In some cases, anti-depressants can assist with menopausal symptoms with great success.
File this one under pretty to look at. Widow Cliquot is only 90 minutes long, and you'd think that a movie about the history and making of champagne can't be a bad thing, but this film left me a bit ambivalent. It's interesting enough, it's set in France around the time of the Napoleonic wars. The history is very interesting, but that's about where it ends.
The movie provides the story of Barbe-Nicole Cliquot (Haley Bennett), the heir to the Cliquot Champagne house and vineyard. In the movie her husband Francois (Tom Sturridge) is mentally ill and eventually dies - although in the film, the chronology is all over the place, yet still followable. The film follows Barbe-Nicole's fight to save her vines and product, eventually perfecting one of the best-known champagne brands in the world.
And yes, it's pretty to look at. It's film in the Champagne region of France, of course it's going to be a pretty film.
But here's my problems with the film - which are small, but there. Firstly, this is a French story - why is this being told by the English. It's a great English cast, but I reckon the French would have done it better. Just saying.
Secondly, not that much happens in this. It is interesting, but it only just keeps your interest. Any longer and I could see a nap taking place.
Thirdly, I have a bit of an issue with both Haley Bennett and Tom Sturridge. Bennett I find wooden. This is a quiet part for her, which suits her better than other roles she's taken on (the diabolical Music and Lyrics being one of those roles.) I just find she lacks charisma.
And Tom Sturridge looks a bit too much like one of my exes - so he always gets up my nose.
As a Friday night diversion film, this is fine. My expectations for this weren't that high. It was an interesting story. It was pretty to look at. It's made me want to learn more about the history of champagne.
But it was just okay. Some good things and bad things. There are a lot better movies out there at the moment. This one is pretty innocuous when it all comes down to it.
The work laptop was turned off at 7 p.m. tonight. It doesn't happen very often, but after a day of back-to-back meetings and constant interruptions, and having started something early in the day, I wanted to finish the buggers. This bit of work has only been worked on for the last year, this would be the final hurdle. And at the moment, finishing anything is a good thing.
Also, for a change of pace, I'm not travelling for a while. I'm sure there will be more trips up to Darwin, but for the moment I'm grounded in Melbourne. This is good. The cat likes me again. I get to see films that I'd otherwise miss. I get to see friends. I get to do Melbourne things, such as meet a friend for a swim on Sunday. Strangely looking forward to proving to myself that I can still swim a kilometre. 40 laps of a 25 meter pool - I can do that, albeit slowly.
Tonight, after the last email was sent, the last document banked and the last JIRA ticket updated (JIRA you ask - just another form of corporate torture - but like the ducking stool or the scold's bridle, you learn to work with the pain.) I made myself go for a walk. I hadn't been out of the front door all day.
And it was just like Darwin.
27 degrees. 80 percent humidity. It was like walking through custard. But the 40 minute walk, down to the river, over to the shopping centre and back again was just what was needed. The only big difference was there wasn't the discernable smell of smoke which lingers over Darwin most of the year.
Maybe this is Melbourne's way of saying welcome home. We love you here.
There is something about the power of red lipstick that makes life so much better.
In London all those years ago, I had a friend, Yasmeen, in her twenties, of French/Moroccan extraction, complete with the chiseled bob, olive skin and a twinkle in her eye. Her signature look was complemented with a slash of deep, red lipstick. It suited her and her outgoing nature. Yasmeen was an icon. I could never emulate her simple coolness. She just was.
Kick forward some 25 years and here I am, a red lipstick aficionado. Just looking in my banana bag there are three red lipsticks.
The first is an Ethique in the shade of Dahlia. Being an ethical brand, it comes in a cardboard tube. It’s an orange-brown-red. Lovely and casual and easy to wear. Being a cheaper lipstick, it feels a bit claggy when it goes on. Despite everything, it’s in regular use.
The next one is from Clinique. It’s a deep matte brick red. It goes on well and I’ve had it for years.
The last tube of lipstick was bought yesterday. Do I need another red lipstick? No. Did I covet this from the first time I saw it? Yes.
Damn MAC and their emails. I’ve been trying to get rid of these emails that come in that come into my inbox that cause me to buy stuff. I’m getting better. But I saw this red. Something called MACXimal Matte lipstick in a colour called Luck Be a Lipstick. It was in this really groovy container, almost polariod.
Rather than buy this on spec, I decided to wander down to Myer to try before I bought. I also had a Myer voucher to use – and buying from there would save me the postage.
So, through the streets that were still buzzing with the heat of the last few days, enjoying the cool breeze running through the streets. After the heatwave it was a joy to walk around and not feel oppressed.
I got to Myer. I walked inside to the MAC counter. I found a lovely non-judgmental lady. Believe me when I say that finding a friendly make up counter lady can be hit and miss. Most are very nice. Some are like your grade 9 bully who will ignore you until you beg for service and then they look at you're like you’re gum under their shoe.
Regardless, I showed the picture of the lipstick to the nice lady. She had it in stock. She offered to clean off the tester and let me have a look at it on. Excellent service, Myer.
And it was love at first sight when I put it on. The $20 Myer voucher made it a half price lippy. Bargain.
The perfect matte deep blue red. It goes on like a dream. It stays on a long time. And marks up coffee cups with great aplomb.
I’m wore it today – and it’s getting comments. Nice comments.
It does make me feel strong and powerful. I know it’s a bad girl red, but it makes me feel good.
The only bad thing is that this lippy is a limited addition. Do I go back and get another one so I'm not caught short?
Strange how something in an eight centimetre package can make you feel so good about yourself.
I know deep down that graffiti is a bad thing, Most of the time.
But I gotta say, Pam the Bird, a tagger who's around Melbourne, and recently arrested, is in a league of their own.
There's a lot to love about Pam the Bird.
She shows up in the most unexpected of places. On prominent public buildings.
On very visible buildings.
In places where you don't expect graffiti.
And seeing that Pam the Bird is not your normal scribble or a cock and balls, and for the sheer audacity of where she turns up.
She makes me smile.
And sure, sticking her on the Flinders Street Station clock probably wasn't the smartest of ideas being a listed building and all, but you have to give it to Pam. She's entertaining.
And I love to wonder just how they get her onto the places you find her.
The graffiti artists / criminals have allegedly been arrested.
Despite their desecration of some public spaces, I would like to say thanks to them for the entertainment.
Well, gargle my nut sack - It's the MAFS dinner party episode.
Tonight, the behaviour wasn't too bad - except for one amoeba-man and his audacious gaslighting.
And why do these cretins do this? Is it penis size? Did mummy not love them enough when they were young? Were they told that they had to be the king of the castle, no matter what? Do they need to feel like the bigger person, even though they will never be that?
Like mate, you're a chubby nearly 40-something, with bad tattoos and a nose stud. You probably still live at your Mum's place. She probably still does your washing for you.
When are you going to realise that if you continue to treat women the way you do, you're going to get nowhere.
It's these men and this underlying anger which is bubbling under the surface. You can grapple with the domestic violence stats when you see these guys. How has society made them?
But it is quite strange that most of these blokes are gingery, a little on the doughy side, with trim beards and a blank stare.
I have no idea how they pick them.
And yes, it's rubbish television, but MAFS is fast becoming sport. I'm getting very good at being judgmental - but this is what the producers and editors of the show want us to see.
