R’as Al GhulĀ 

Sometimes I wake up with words or phrases whacking themselves around my head. I’m not sure whether this is because I like words or whether this is because I’m a nutcase. This morning’s word was R’as Al Ghul. This is important for no reason. 

I’ve found justifying this post difficult: my recent antics mostly involve sugar-psyched gallivants and necessity-knitted woollens for this Melbourne winter: my new creations include a red bobble hat and half a sock. This perusal of contented, layer-swaddled days recently lead me to a prize revelation when leaving  restaurant review with a belly full of mushroom brunch. I was feeling contentedly digestive when I saw a fat pigeon with one toe and realised that it was my spirit animal. I’m sure we’re all pleased. 

Last month I found myself turning 24. I was prepared, I had a 7-day strong cake plan and an intent to garner as much celebratory rigour as possible. It worked out well for me, especially as it coincided with my starting work as a chef which nicely justifies the consumption of whole teaspoons of butter-icing. Finding myself back in a commercial kitchen with dough hooks and pans abound has been a perfect joy. If you want to witness this ingredient-based Elysium, pop down to Smith & Deli of a weekday: I’ll be the one jauntily bobbing up and down with spoons gurning like a happy goon. The baked goods include Peanut Butter and Chocolate Pretzel Cookies or a Hazelnut and Pesto Scroll Bun with a Lemony Tahini Glaze. Upon seeing the latter, the floor manager exclaimed, ‘Wow, you’re fancy as fuck aren’t you!’. I blushed my pride and mumbled goof as any good English woman knows how. 

Elsewhere, I have adventured around the Philippines and Singapore with my friend and all-round powerbabe, Disha. In our three weeks o’frolics we became certified open water divers, street food seekers, commendable poker players,  and improvisers of wet t-shirt based air cons to survive the night time lows of 35 degrees. I finished reading The Handmaid’s Tale. Holy Womb, the best of books. Incidentally, the heat in Asia is such that it melts book binding glue and the pages flap out; never was there such an accompanying visual metaphor to a novel of distopyoan collapse. Upcoming adventures include a trip to Phillip Island for a FOUR HOUR WHALE WATCHING BOAT TRIP and a two week camping trip in Tasmania with my future wife, Caitlove who’s flying over to be a gift to me at Christmas! We’re going to climb mountains and carefully drink ciders in the kelp forests in the sea. 

Lastly, letters. Oh, you glorious lot of pen and envelope keepers: they are all so marvellously witty and gentle and brilliant. I have them up all over my room, tucked into my notebooks and sometimes nestled neatly in my pockets. I love and miss you all as much as there is fluff in/ on Trump’s skull vacuum. I shall endeavour to be less of a flying shambles in future and reply to you all dutifully and have more to say on a blog post other than I’m happy and bake biscuits professionally now. 

Also, you all need to watch The Castle.