The other day a friend of mine tagged me in a post on Facebook, and I opened it to see a picture of pens with “I hate people” on them.

This friend knows me well, and “I hate people” can be shorthand for “I’m an introvert who doesn’t want to have to deal with people most of the time” or “incompetence reigns! I cannot deal with any more stupidity today!”.

Naturally, I had a look at the online shop and found that this website makes a whole series of honest (and somewhat profane) pens, mugs and badges.

Of course my personal favourite was the “I hate people” range, but I also found a huge amount of joy in the “this meeting is shit” range.

Like, a lot of joy.

I’m not sure I would be game to actually take that pen or mug into a meeting, but really, how many times have you sat in a meeting and thought something along those lines?

The appeal of these items is clearly the brutal honesty in the phrases. Blunt, offensive maybe, but they’re honest. In most of society it is impolite, indelicate, and inappropriate to state “This meeting is shit”, even when it’s the truth.

But some days we just want to walk into that unnecessary meeting, sit through it, and then sip from our “this meeting is shit” mug, while eyeballing the boss.

One day.

You can find the pens here:

Sand For The First Time

For the first time
In her life
In her toes
Wind in her hair
Along the waters edge

It feels different
When it’s dry
To when it’s wet
Oh no
With a rushing sound
The water has left it’s spot
And run up the sand
Onto her feet

She doesn’t know
What it is
What it means
Why it did that
So of course it’s terrifying
Run away

When we don’t understand
Can’t make sense of
We are all her

We don’t know
Why it happened
Or what it is
Or what it means
So of course it’s terrifying

It’s a long beach
Some sand
Is dry
Some sand
Is wet
The water leaves it’s spot
And runs up to her feet
And it’s cold
And she doesn’t know

My Good Friend Agatha Christie

I love Agatha Christie. If you don’t know who Agatha Christie is, she is only the most brilliant mystery and crime writer of all time.

Well, in my opinion anyway. But not just my opinion. She is also the best-selling novelist of all time, selling in the billions of books globally, in 103 languages. Her play The Mousetrap has played continuously in London for 55 years.

If you have heard of the sleuths Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple, then you know Agatha Christie. Poirot, with his funny little moustache, egg head and little grey cells, and Miss Marple, the wise little old lady with the twinkle in her eye who knows a lot about human nature.

I first read an Agatha Christie mystery when I was 13, at the suggestion of a friend. Since then I have read nearly all of her 70 plus books, and own a large rag-tag collection of most of these, predominantly sourced from op shops, second hand bookshops and eBay.

Once I purchased some from a second-hand bookshop set up in an old church at Portsea. I’d climbed a little ladder to reach the Agatha Christie section, and picked out a few I didn’t own. After paying $5 for one, I found a $5 note tucked into the back cover. The mystery!

So what do I love about reading Agatha Christie’s books? Every time I am left guessing until the very end. She so cleverly hides the truth, and then reveals it, winding her way back through all the clues that we missed or misinterpreted. It is a brain game, and I love the way she creates her intricate puzzle and then pieces it back together for you. It’s almost cheeky, the way she shows enough of her hand to lead you up the garden path, but not enough to lead you to the truth. She’s brilliant.

This is a long way of saying that I am so ridiculously thrilled to see that later this year one of the most famous of Agatha’s works is again being translated into film.

Murder on the Orient Express is a classic. It is due out in November this year, and the names in it are big too: Daisy Ridley, Johnny Depp, Judi Dench, Kenneth Branagh, Penelope Cruz, Michelle Pfieffer, Josh Gad, and the list goes on. If you like a good old fashioned who dunnit, this is the one for you.

There are still 3 months to go, but I will be counting down! I have already conned the husband into promising to come with me, so come along too! It looks to be a good one.

Picture from Torquay, UK, hometown of Agatha Christie, which I visited in 2007


Marriage is
You eating my cake off the floor
Because I dropped it
And cried
And you saying it still tasted nice

Marriage is
Going out on a date
Without the baby
For the first time
Holding hands because we finally can
And feeling like a teenager again

Marriage is
You taking the baby
When you’re tired
Because I’ve had enough
And you want me to be happy
So many times

Marriage is
Learning to accept
That we cook the spaghetti bolognaise
But that doesn’t make your way

Marriage is
Knowing that clean shaven and fresh faced
21 year old boy
And this scruffily bearded
30 year old man
And loving them both
So so much

Marriage is
Days out
Days in

Doing the same thing
Many times
Seeing your face
And feeling so happy


Our visible self
There is
A trying
Not to pretend
A trying
To show the
As well as the

But it’s a difficult mix
To manage

What does every person
I know
To know
What is sacred
What is best kept
What is best shared

This online
All of those places
Blurs lines
Because we feel private
In our own home
With no one here
But really
There are hundreds of people

Would you stand in front of
An auditorium
And still say
What you say?
Would you hold a microphone
And look out
Over a crowd
Of everyone you know
And still say
What you say?

What does every person
I know
To know
What is sacred
What is best kept
What is best shared

The Flat Pack Relationship Test

The ultimate relationship test: putting together flat pack furniture.

Everyone should be forced to do it. Preferably an item that takes upwards of two hours to complete. Small room, large piece of furniture a must. Baby crying: optional.

Yesterday the husband and I successfully built a three door 7 foot wardrobe from a flat pack. With a baby who was a bit upset. With a drill that kept needing recharging. And with the worst set of instructions I have ever seen.

We like to think we are relatively competent people, but there was a lot of interpretation and extrapolation required with the minimal instructions. Also there were no written instructions, it was all pictures with ambiguous arrows. Cue Anna turning the instructions round and round in circles.

A snapshot of our conversations over the two hours it took to construct the wardrobe:

“Babe please go and get the baby, I can’t do this while I am listening to her crying”

“We’ve lost half the screws for the doors” “Are they under the 90kg wardrobe??!”

“Kid in the hallway!… maybe just step over her?” “…I am carrying three heavy wooden planks!”

“Where is the Allen key?” “In the laundry somewhere on top of the pile of clothes?”

“Lift!!!” “I can’t! There isn’t enough room here for my bum”

“Where’s the kid?” “I don’t know!”

“…did that break?” “…. yep”.

At the end of the day we had one completed wardrobe, two exhausted adults, one sleeping child, two delicious salmon and veggie dinners, and an assortment of left over screws.

Drink of choice; beer for the husband, baileys for me.

But we survived, with our marriage still intact at the end of it, so test result: pass.

Burn the Bridge

I’m a bit of a pyro. I love fire. Love burning things.

There is something incredibly therapeutic about burning something that you want to get rid of. I love shredding things, but burning is next level. Emotional. I had fondue the other night and even that little candle set my heart alight with joy.

The husband really wants to get a fire pit for the backyard and I am in full favour of this idea. Imagine having my own little fire; yes to burn stuff, but also fires can be nice to sit by, and toast marshmallows.

But really it’s just about burning stuff.

The saying goes “don’t burn your bridges” and it’s meaning is clear; don’t irreparably damage something that you might need later.

But what about the bridges that should be burnt?

What about the pathways we shouldn’t go back down, the negative thoughts or relationships that lead us to our own destruction, the things that need forgetting?

Shouldn’t we burn those bridges down and dance around the flames?

The scars of the past will not dictate the future.
Burn the bridge.

Everything that was written and said to you, stabs in the back, your own misadventures.
Burn the bridge.

Dance around the flames.
Toast a marshmallow, or two.

“When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.” – Dylan Thomas