Tonight's dinner

 I've got a slight strain around my ribs, which is making exercising difficult. Added to this, a long day in front of the computer, I'm not up for much at the end of the day. And yes, I should haul my arse down the gym, but I'll be doing that tomorrow when I see Twelve, and yeah. 

I justified staying in with cooking myself a healthy dinner. 

It's days like this I wish I had a barbeque. Regardless, I pan-fried up some chicken thighs with a bit of garlic. Easy. Healthy. 

Jay is abroad at the moment, and she gave me the fresh vegetables in her fridge. There were three punnets of cherry tomatoes. As I'm not that keen on raw tomatoes, unless I'm in Greece, where the they come ugly, and succulent and very red and taste like apples. But any tomato can be improved by halving them, dousing them in olive oil, herbs, a bit of salt and putting them in a very slow oven for a couple of hours. 

She also gave me some cos lettuce. Not something I buy, but that was good for a change. 

And for a creamy factor, I had some goats cheese in the fridge. 

Pile it all into a bowl, the chicken thighs, the lettuce, dried tomatoes, goat's cheese and some balsamic glaze, and I had dinner. 

With some apricots, also donated by Jay, for dessert. 

I am feeling virtuous. 

The other chicken thighs are in the freezer, in a bag with some minced garlic, ginger and kepak manis (Sweetened thick soy sauce) ready to be thawed out next week. 

As I'm out tomorrow night and off to Sydney on Friday, I've cut down the food waste. Nothing was thrown in the microwave. I didn't get Uber Eats. 

And I've got some time to do some stretching while watching MAFS. Thankfully the second man-bun seems like a good sort, while the other groom appears to be emotionally stunted. Who knew?

Today's song:

Journal Cards: Where would you most like to live?

 I'm not feeling the urge to write at the moment, and I refuse to write two blog posts in a row about MAFS (oh my God, ManBun...the teeth... the tuna...) so I've pulled a journalling card. 

Today's question: Where would you most like to live? (And why aren't you living there already?)

I've had a problem with my internal geography for over thirty years. 

I should be living in Europe. 

It's always been like this. I feel more at home over there. I smile more. I'm more me. It's where I feel at home. Always has been. Always will be. 

I remember setting foot in London for the first time in 1991. It was an instant recognition of home. And yes, I landed well, firstly into an apartment on Richmond Bridge, and then, for the next four years, it was a mess of share flats in the zone two area. Then I was in West Hampstead for four years, and I was home. 

Britain has always felt like home, despite the fact that my family came to Australia in the 1850s and has never left. And sure, when I'm away from here I miss the big skies and the magpie squawks and all the quirks we have as Australians. 

But I still feel more at home over there. Being over there a few months ago set this in stone. The tube map is still ingrained in my brain. I love mooching around old things - older things than those recorded over here. It's like it's a cellular memory. I got a really uneasy feeling looking at the Tower of London. I can't be the only person who feels like this. 

But I don't live there because I don't have the passport that will let me stay, and I never found somebody to marry so that I didn't have to come back here. 

Then, this year, I fell in love with Paris. It's a challenge of a place because of the language barrier, but it felt right. That I speak more than a smattering of French is helpful. That I love the culture is another good thing. That I feel safe walking the streets at night - that's a bit of a revelation. I'm being prompted to find a portable job, find a house or cat sitting job and move over for a few months. I know I would love it. 

But I don't know what I would do about my cat. I love him terribly and leaving him somewhere makes me nervous. 

And the inconvenient passport makes things far more difficult. It's fine staying for three to six months - but after that. 

Most of the places I wouldn't mind trying to live are hard to get to without a European passport. Barcelona, Madrid, Lisbon, Rome, Mykonos...

Oh yes, I do rather like island life. Maybe I should think about moving to Tasmania. I like it down there. 

This is a big question.

Today's song:

Things I learned from tonight's MAFS

 Married at First Sight is back, and I feel like my cat after he's munched on his spider plant. 

I'm happy.

This is my guilty pleasure show, and being a hopeless romantic, you wish them the best, but you know that the mercilessly curated show will not offer you that. Okay, one boring couple might get there in the end. The rest are going to be a terminal shit show. 

Which is why you watch it. 

Tonight's episode brought us the new crew. There was the older bloke, older being 62. There was the Byron Bay Hipster. There was man bun. Never date a man with hair that's longer than yours. It's a good rule to live by. You'll never get to see the inside of a bathroom.

There's also the older woman, who at first glance seems pretty chill, the obligatory gay couple, oh, and another man bun.  

And tonight's couples. One, the one with the lass who lost her partner to an accident, matched with a once overweight mummies boy - they might have a chance if Mum doesn't get in the way. Her family seems lovely. 

The other couple, she's Colombian, he's a world traveler who broke up with his long-term partner six months ago, have absolutely no chance. Two hot-heads with egos to match. 

Oh, and the kicker, and the biggest lesson learned. Never let anybody with a mullet give your best-man speech. If they are sporting that awful haircut they have no taste, and because of this, your speeches are going to be awful.

Serves them right I say. 

Personally, I reckon they should rename Married at First Sight something like Bogans Behaving Badly. 

It is my one television guilty pleasure. And it's not Love Island or My Kitchen Rules (Masterchef doesn't count as the people are nice and supportive and treat each other with respect.)

It's sport. Let the games begin. 

Today's song: 

You have to be shitting me

 The Experience: The Kawaii Unko Museum

The Location: 360 Bourke Street, Melbourne

The Outlay: $31 for Adults, $18 for kids under 15

Tickets available until the February 24. The museum is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. 

I went out of curiosity - that, and I have a friend who works for Who Gives a Crap, the ethical toilet paper people. But mainly, I was curious, so I bought a ticket and went along. 

Because, seriously, who but the Japanese would create a museum which celebrates literal crap? Really. Who would base a museum on an emoji? Why would you do this? I'm still not sure. And yes, the "museum" celebrates poo and tries to destigmatise it, but it still begs the question. Why?

So, I paid $31 to be surrounded by screaming children, asked to simulate taking a shit on a real toilet, be surrounded by screaming kids only to leave with a plastic poo on a stick and a roll of dunny paper. 

Yeah. 

The tickets are timed, an arriving on the half hour, I was told I'd have to wait about ten minutes. I've no issue with that. What was making me a little more nervous was the screams which were coming from inside the museum. What were they doing in there? Torturing four-year-olds on spikes? No, it turns out. 

On entering, we found out that this museum is dedicated to かわいいうんち - kawaii unko - or cute poop. My first question, was why are you doing this? I'm still not sure of the answer. 

The group with me was a mix of young kids aged between four and eight, their minders, and some Asian girls. We dutifully watched the video, and then moved to the next room, which had a line of toilets. 

In this room, we were invited to sit on the loos, simulate doing number twos, from which a plastic turd, in various colours, came out of the loo. We were invited to put the multi-coloured poos on sticks and cart them around the place. Such fun, eh. 

The next room was introduced by loud screams. The kids had found the poop pit. Also known and a ball pit filled with plastic poops. Also known as a good way to pick up anything and everything including gastro and COVID. Give that bit a miss. The rest of these rooms gave photo opportunities, an instagrammer's big mucky wet dream. There was the room of flying poop. And the Wall of Poop (Like the wall of love in Paris). And the High Tea Poop room. And the Poop store. Okay. We get it. 

The next room had excrement inspired video games, which, as an adult, you couldn't get to for the kids. 

Then there was the scream room - not sure what they did in there. 

And by this time, I had had enough of the sensory overload, mostly due to screaming children and I asked one of the attendants how I could get out of there. 

Through the big toilet seat. 

Of course. 

At the end, you were presented with a roll of Who Gives a Crap toilet paper, and you were told you could keep your shit on a stick. 

All of this took me half an hour. 

Is this worth the $31 entry? I don't know. I was curious, I'm not regretting going to the experience, but it certainly wasn't my cup of tea. Screaming kids aren't my thing at any times. I might have enjoyed this more if my watch wasn't alerting me of the noise level every few minutes. And if I brought a friend. And had a few hits of pot before I went in. 

As a concept, it's cool. And again, I'm not across the kawaii movement which appears to have broken through its Asian boundaries.

Is this worth going to? Maybe if you've got young kids, are up for something different or follow some of these Japanese trends. 

All this did for me was make me long for a bubble tea and a bit of silence. And yes, I know bubble tea originated from Taiwan. 

My curiosity has been quenched, but I'm still thinking I would have been better saving the money and going to the Trienniale for the afternoon. 

Today's song:

Sunday Stealing: February

 It's been a good day. Brunch with a friend, followed by a trip around the LUME, and interactive space, this time devoted to Aboriginal Art, which was most excellent, then a quick bite to eat and home. A very nice Saturday of a long weekend. And now I will get these out of the way. 

Questions, as always, have been set by Bev at Sunday Stealing. 

1. What are your plans for February?

February is looking a bit busy. I've got a few things on, including: 

• A trip to Sydney to see Ludovico Einaudi, an Italian composer and pianist, at the Sydney Opera House. 
• While in Sydney, I'll try and get to the Kandinsky exhibition. 
• I'm seeing the musical Rent later in the month. 
• There's a week in Darwin for work.
• That will do. 

2. Did you ever have or go to sleepovers as a kid?

Not really. I wasn't popular in school and didn't have that many friends. We also lived out in the back blocks, so it was hard to get in and out. 

3. Which books would you pick for a book binge?

If I was to have a full-on book binge, other than reading the Harry Potter series again, because it's been a few years, I think I'd like to revisit the Robertson Davies Cornish Trilogy or Louis de Berniere's books which start with Captain Corelli's Mandolin, then goes to Birds Without Wings, the Daniel Pitt Trilogy and the Partisan's Daughter. They are all excellent. 

4. What features do you love most about your home?

I love the location of my rented flat. It's very close to everything. I love that it's in a quiet part of town, that there are floorboards which are easy to keep clean and a big couch. 

5. How often do you try something new?

As often as possible. 

6. What type of sushi is your favorite?

Oh, give me anything with prawns in it. Spicy prawns, prawn and avocado, Katsu prawn. Love prawns in sushi rolls. 

7. Do you prefer to relax or go on adventures during vacation?

A bit of both, but then again, I see myself having adventures in city settings. Sometimes you need a toes up holiday. 

8. Which colors look best on you?

Red. I love red anyway, but red looks good on me. I can wear bright colours well. 

9. Do you like brunch?

Of course I like brunch. I live in Melbourne. Brunch is a staple for the weekends here. So many cafes, so little time. 

10. Do you get stage fright?

Not really. I'm strangely okay talking to people from a stage. Yes, I get nervous, but it doesn't stop me doing it. 

11. Which podcasts do you like at the moment?

I'm not really into podcasts, but I always have an audiobook on my phone. I'm currently listening to Henry James' Washington Square. 

Podcasts I've listened to in the past include My Dad Wrote a Porno, Malcolm Gladwell's Revisionist History and I drank up Teacher's Pet - a true crime podcast which resulted in a man going to prison - an awful story, very well told.  

12. One thing that immediately makes your day better

Coffee. And friendly dogs who let me give them a pat. Even better if they are puppies. 

13. Which family members are you closest to?

My family are not particularly close, although loving. We love all over Australia. I talk to my Mum once a week, my sister and step-sister less often. I'm also in contact with quite a few of my cousins. 

14. Something you practice often

Writing - if you count this blog as writing. 

And exercising. I do this a few times a day. 

15. Are you a light sleeper or a deep sleeper?

I'm a middling sleeper. Definitely not too light, as I will sleep through some thunderstorms, but I'm not that heavy a sleeper either. 

Today's song:

Theatre Review: Seventeen

The Play: Seventeen by Matthew Whittet

The Company: Melbourne Theatre Company

The Theatre: The Southbank Theatre

Until 17 February

Stars: 4

Youth is wasted on the young according to George Bernard Shaw, and he's right. Seventeen is a horrible age. Not a kid, not an adult, messing up all over the place, with the world at your feet, trying to understand what the hell is going on. 

Seventeen puts a new slant on this, by casting a mob of boomer actors as seventeen-year-olds. Naff? Uncomfortable? Weird? Surprisingly not. 

The action of the play takes place on the last day of school where a group of close-knit friends decide to spend their evening celebrating at a local playground - as you did back in the day. Best friends Mike (Richard Piper) and Tom (Robert Menzies) are up for a big night seeing the latter is about to move to Adelaide with his folks. Jess (Pamela Rabe) and Emilia (Genevieve Picot) are having their own worries. Jess's family situation is somewhat precarious and Emilia, ever the good girl is pondering her next steps. Add to the mix Mike's cheeky little sister, Lizzie (Fiona Choi) and a slightly mysterious interloper, Ronnie (George Shevtsov) and you have a group of kids, staying up late, drinking, pashing, making mischief and generally, being teenagers.

By the end of it secrets have been spilt, friendships fractured and regrouped, lives changed, loves won and lost. All in the space of a night. Just as it happened when you were seventeen. 

I loved the premise of this play. Matthew Whittet's script is phenomenal, catching all of the nuances of being a kid. It rang very true, as this group looked at their lives, their hopes and fears. I particularly loved Lizzie, Mike's precocious kid sister, who was equal parts sass and caring. 

The other thing I loved about having older actors playing younger roles was you got the quality of these actors, some of Australia's finest, being kids. Not just acting as kids but embodying the energies of these adolescents in their prime. Yes, there was a bit of trepidation, knowing that one false move might break a hip. Watching some of the actors coming down the slippery dip brought me a sense of fear. And yes, as our bodies age we move differently. Having a group of 60- and 70-year-olds putting their bodies through the trials of a jungle gym proved interesting. 

Matt Edgerton's debut run as a director at the MTC bears fruit. He keeps the action on point, the laughs, of which there are many, running steadily while allowing the pathos of the teenagers' predicaments to shine through. 

In all, I really enjoyed this first play of the MTC's 2024 season. If this is any indication of the quality to come, it's going to be a good year of theatre. 

Today's song: 

Comfort in Numbers

 There must be a collective noun for middle aged women. A gaggle? A giggle? A coterie? A network? A society? A union?

Regardless, we met up last night. The fun, funny, amazing, inspiring, nutty, sympathetic women I toured around France with met up at on member's lovely suburban home. 

It was fabulous. 

We all brought some food, meaning there was enough to feed a small army for a week. Fruit platters. Salads. Enough cheese to clog our arteries while sending us into an orgasmic coma. Of course there was wine, in particular rose, which we drank with abandon in Sommieres. One of our members had her pot vape.

"Want a puff," she held out her remarkably technical vape towards me.

"I would love to, but not tonight. I'm driving. And I have precious cargo," I replied, pointing at to one of our throng, deep in conversation at the end of the verandah. I'd given her a lift over, I was also dropping her home as she lives up the road. 

"Ah, fair enough."

"Another time. When you're not frazzled and I'm not driving."

"You're on."

I'm sure her stuff is good. But not when I'm driving. Big no no.

We hadn't seen each other since we parted company at Gare de Lyon station in Paris at the end of the tour where we spread across the world like dandelion seeds. I've seen a couple of the group over the last few months at catch ups and sound meditations, and most randomly, at my local train station on the way to work. That really made my day. 

Walking into our host's house, I felt my shoulders dropping as I sighed audibly. 

"Tired, Pand?"

"Big week. Let me transition into group mode. A glass of water and some time in the garden will fix it. "

This group travelled with me for ten days. They know I need some time to regroup from being in a car with one other to a place where eleven other women were standing, talking, eating and drinking. 

"Can I meet Freddy?" I asked my host. 

Freddy is her seventeen-year-old three-legged dog. Of course, I had to meet Freddy. I'd heard so much about him in France. Freddy had put himself to bed. It's possible he wasn't registering the noise. He's a sweetie.

And we talked, and laughed and ate and drank in the way that only middle-aged women can do. 

The reason we came together as Jess, our tour leader who lives in France, is over in Australia for a few weeks. It was wonderful to see her. 

"So, Pand, when are you moving to Paris?"

Oh, I wish.

"You know you belong over there. Your face lights up when you speak French." She was being earnest. 

"I know."

"And you become more animated, and you seem really happy."

"I know." 

"But not this year."

"I'm contracted out until the end of the year anyway."

"You should come next year. Paris will be nuts this year with the Olympics. But next year, you should find yourself a portable job. Get a house or pet sitting job and come over for three months and live a bit. Get fluent. You're not too far away from it. Go and be where you thrive."

It's a nice thought. A good thought. Something to strive for. Something I feel I would love on a cellular level. 

I love these people. I love that they are my tribe. 

And after more eating and talking and singing the classics with my friends, I went home, replete. 

Onwards to more adventures I say. This was one of the best nights I've had since leaving Europe. 

These women taught be that there is a comfort in numbers only found when you travel together. 

Today's song: