Belle does a bad thing...

Gentle reader, as I have previously mentioned – I am, and always have been, very much a good girl. Aside from the occasional incident when I’ve “lost my balance” on the ferry, and ended up grabbing a man’s buttocks instead of a hand rail (oops), I have largely led an innocent – if not a sheltered - life.

The photo above serves only to demonstrate that, whereas another person may see that sign and think of a double entendre, for myself – I was only interested in being somewhere of cultural / European significance (Bratwurst representing Germanic culture in this instance). Now, moving on…

Whilst there are many things I don’t mind doing (waging war on cockroaches, assaulting handsome males whilst on public transport, eating all my flatmates chocolate and then reacting with shock when she looks accusingly at me – there are only the 2 of us in the flat – as if I have no idea who the mystery sweet-toothed snacker could be, etc.) – I have always known what the boundaries are. The boundary rests firmly with wallabies, which (to my mind, at least) are so adorable, so ridiculously cute, that merely a picture of one can get me squealing.

Now – bear with me, I’m not getting side tracked, however much it sounds like I am – I recently had the pleasure of going to Melbourne.

Being a dedicated Sydneysider, I haven’t – on my 2 previous visits – quite “got” Melbourne. I know the Australians all say how European it is, but being European myself, I didn’t think that was the case. Aesthetically, as well, it isn’t as picture perfect as Sydney – I mean, it takes a hell of a lot to beat that Harbour. But, because I have family there who mean a great deal to me, I took it upon myself to return. And suddenly – the fog of Melbourne miscomprehension was lifted. I got it. I saw the charms of its laneways, the variety of its theatre, the cultural microcosms of its suburbs. It’s not European to me in that it is not steeped in the kind of history I associate with Europe, but it is drowning in interesting places to go, things to see or do, and – best of all for Gannet de Sydney – places to eat. And it is in one such place to eat – Sarti – that my story unfolds.

There for a GNA (or for those who don’t speak Australian / in acronyms – Girls’ Night Out) – the drinks were flowing, and had been for some time. My cousin who I was there with is the kind of petite, delicate looking girl who is always my downfall on nights like this. You see, despite frequent warnings that she might have to carry me home, she continued to peer pressure me into drinking (at least – to explain the copious amounts I drank that night, that’s the excuse I’m using…) – and thinking that she was matching me glass for glass, and that surely anything her small frame could handle, mine could too – I carried on. Now curiously, despite my own logical assumption that if her blood stream could handle it, so could mine – there is no scientific evidence at all to suggest that 2 women drinking together are any less likely to feel the after-effects of alcohol, if at the time of drinking, both think they’ll “probably be fine”. Whatever. The science is not what matters here, it’s the end result. And that was that the need to eat was becoming dangerously apparent, for me at least. And given my inebriated state / love of trying new things / however you want to explain it – I gave a cursory look at the menu and saw that wallabee escalope with thistles was my alcohol absorbent of choice.

Reader, at this point I can make no apologies. The wallabee was delicious. It was like its whole purpose in life was to melt in my mouth, make my taste buds explode, and bring me to quasi-orgasmic culinary ecstasy. Do I feel slightly evil in retrospect? Undeniably – yes. But would I do it again? To quote Meg Ryan – “yes, yes, oh – yes!”

Gentle reader, here is what I have found on this latest voyage of Australian and self discovery:

·         My enjoyment of food has – in this case – far out weighed my previously assumed ironclad boundaries. My love of wallabies has been sacrificed – literally and metaphorically – at the altar of gastronomic enjoyment

·         I will never, ever under-estimate the potency of drinking with my cousin again. The girl has mad skills.

·         Seeing people I love, in a place I now love, will make for some very special future holidays.

Boys and Girls, I’ll write again soon. But for now, I need to go and lie down in a darkened room…

Love,

Belle de Sydney, #1 Melbourne fan

Above - the helpless wallaby. I really do feel bad now.

The joys of domesticity...

Boys and Girls,

It has been a relatively quiet couple of weeks for Belle. The big move-in, now complete, left me drained emotionally, physically, fiscally and culinarily.

Now, here's the thing.I love to cook. I may in fact be a 1950s housewife trapped in the guise of a modern, body-rocking, party-hopping (not really actually - I generally like to be asleep by 10pm. Sad, I know), simile-twisting, cupcaking-making badass. (Hmmmm. Not sure that someone who owns a cardigan and bakes can ever really be thought of as a badass, but anyway...)

Nevertheless. Of all the loves that have come and gone in my life (scrunchies / Boyzone / putting on "dancing shows" for family and friends / Westlife *cringe* / trying to bring back the boater single-handedly - I was a very "individual" child) - cooking has, for me, remained a constant. Possibly because it gives me that all important opportunity to dive head first into a vat of food, without needing to be ashamed. Suddenly, you're not pigging out, you're just "taste testing". And maybe something needs to be "taste tested" dozens of times. Or even more, if molten chocolate is involved. I'm just saying.

Now, being exhausted from schlepping (education time - that is a Yiddish word for having an arduous journey, in some form or another. For example - "Did you see Haskell lately? He had to SCHELPP all the way over here, on a fool's errand. Meshuganah." (I'll teach you that one later).) - where was I? Yes, being tired from the schlepping, I anticipated. Being tired emotionally (a tiny bit of homesickness kicked in, I admit) - well that was to be expected as well.

Financially... all I can say is pink fairy lights with rose buds are worth it. And that whilst a gentleman may never kiss and tell, nor does a lady shop and reveal her bank balance. True?

But culinarily? Are you kidding me?! That was going to be the best part. The freedom to cook. To make whatever my heart desired.

However.

It turns out my heart is actually pretty boring, when it comes to this at least. In the last month, I have eaten a lot of salad, pumpkin, and chicken. So much, indeed, that I may turn into one of the 3, or a bizarre combination of all of them (Jack-o-Lantern face, green tinged skin, feathers sprouting? Yikes).

So the other evening, I decided it was time to branch out. If Belle can be adventurous with her love life (remember Gollum, and the date that almost was?), she can sure be adventurous with her food too. Oh yes. The culinary excitement revolution was coming. Thus, pumpkin chilli recipe firmly in hand, I began to cook. And cook. And cook. And taste. And spit it out. And add more things, in an increasingly desperate, feverishly desperate, desire to make it taste half decent.

Gentle reader - I have harsh standards. We have already established this. Therefore, my harshest - and most dominating critic - can only be myself when it comes to many things, including my cooking (although my father can be a close second.... In fact, my poor stepmother dreads a meal out with us both. If we're harsh on ourselves, we're worse when we're paying for the experience. I think the suggestion of "grabbing a quick bite out" leaves her flushed with fear and anticipation of the embarrassment we may cause her. Oops...). But oh, oh how I failed with my most recent efforts. My lovely flatemate, sensing not so much a temper tantrum as a storm of self-despair, hastily tried to reassure me that "it was quite nice, really. Maybe, maybe if you mixed it in with something..?" (This being said whilst she backed away slowly, trying desperately to reach a "safe zone".)

Boys and girls, here is the problem. I have excitement in many areas of my life. I have fun and interesting friends, who bring (drag) me to nights out I wouldn't otherwise go to (including one in Redfern... Hmmm. For those of you who don't know Redfern, it's not synonymous with law-abiding citizens, or those who are necessarily sober / not under the influence of something, much of the time. Not quite the place that yours truly fits in all too well...).

I have interesting dates (although quite whether that's a plus point for a date I'm not sure. I mean, yes, the guy telling you he's a drug dealer makes for a conversation piece, but someone you want a long term - or even short term - relationship with? I don't think so!). (In fact, saying that - any single, stable, emotionally available, decent men should feel free, at this point to contact me. I'm not saying you're not interesting, just dependable. And that could be rather nice right now).

I have even more "unusual" family (remember the Mexican?).

So, it seems that "Dull" is simply not in my vocabulary.  And dull food even less so. Life's too short, chocolate's too good, and my standards are too high. The disappointing pumpkin chilli ended up in the bin. I dined on rice crackers and tinned tuna this evening, and can feel the weight of my own disappointment descending upon me.

Like my discarded dates, the pumpkin chilli has been consigned to history - part of the closed box of bad thoughts I don't like to think about (unless it's to laugh at. Indeed, one of my best friends and I still regularly wet ourselves (metaphorically) about our respective ex-boyfriends, and some of their more bizarre moments. But that, friends, is a story for another time...)

But let's be honest. The pumpkin chilli is a more serious disappointment than my ex boyfriend(s). An ex-boyfriend can always be blamed for any mistakes or failures (JOKING...ish) whereas in this case - the problem was entirely my own. Or maybe the recipe, actually. Yes, thinking about it. Actually, I blame the recipe...

An ex-boyfriend doesn't leave you to just eat a dinner of ryvita and tinned goods (although in the case of one of my exes, I wish he had. His culinary efforts were poisonous at best).

But, at least with a failed recipe - it spurs you on. Makes you think of your future happiness, with recipes that work, food that tastes good, and the knowledge that your flatmate can venture into the kitchen when you're there without having to worry about you having an "episode"every time something doesn't quite go to plan. (Worryingly, I'm seeing increasing similarities between my dating, and my cooking. Oh dear).

So what joys of domesticity can I leave you with, really?

Ok, the cooking hasn't been me bringing my A-game, but that can change. And it will. I vow not to have another kitchen disaster (if it can possibly be avoided. And if it can't - I blame the recipe).

But, at least I have successfully warded off the attacks of 3 cockroaches (yes, really.Why the buggers like me so much I don't know), and 2 huntsman spiders (UGH). I have hosted my first dinner part (using food entirely bought from a deli, but still - I hosted it) which was a rousing success, and led to multiple columns of praise in the Sydney society pages (ok, not quite, but it could have). And I'm settling in to a whole new way of living independently stiry-fry free. And that has to be good.

My friends, I'll write again soon.

Until then,

Belle x

PS For those of you desperate to know - Meshuganah - another Yiddish word, this time for a crazy person.

Belle, Queen of DIY...

My dear Reader,

When last I wrote, I was about to head off to the sunny shores of Vietnam. My suitcase was packed. My online check-in was done. My hair was a mess (thanks to the "technique" of my sadist hairdresser), and my heart belonged to Ryan Gosling.

And now, 3 weeks later, where do I stand?

Well, firstly - back in Sydney. Honestly, words cannot express what a relief that is. My return flight shook so much that several days later, the world still seemed to be gently vibrating (not as fun as it sounds). That the plane stayed up in the air seemed more like a miracle than a feat of mechanical engineering. It was definitely one of the more nerve-wracking experiences of my life, and that includes a battle to the death (almost) for the last giant Malteser in a box of Celebrations, with a friend who is as much of a Chocoholic as me...

But anyhow, I digress.

For two blissful weeks, I enjoyed / endured in equal measure: quality time with my parents, sunshine, empty beaches, the sight of my father taking Vietnamese lessons from our lifeguard (not for him quiet relaxation poolside - oh no!), minor food poisoning, and the consumption of a mystery meat (which I keep telling myself / hoping was beef...)

What has changed since my return? Well, firstly - and most importantly - not my Ryan Gosling love. That remains as steadfast as always, and those who doubted this shock and appall me.

Next - and only with slightly less significance - my hair. Yes, gentle reader, my hair has grown, and the Haircut of Horror is, for the most part, disappearing from sight. Phew.

But the biggest change has been how I've felt about returning home. To Sydney. Because it does feel like home now. And whilst some of the most important people in my life are not here, and there are times when I struggle with that, I'm also aware that I have some very wonderful friends out here who make this city for me. Now, in my book, there are many ways to prove your friendship. There's giving someone your last Rolo. Baking them a cake. Cooking for them (is it bad that I see a direct correlation between feeding and friendship?!). But more than any of that, is helping them out around the house.

You see, as I mentioned previously - before I left for Vietnam I'd found a flat. Living with the family was over, and a new period of independence was being beckoned in. There was just one problem - I had to move. And somehow, in my 8 months here, I have accumulated A LOT. This wasn't just a move I could make with a few boxes and suitcases, this was a move which required serious manpower. Being a single girl (alas) there was no partner I could drag into this. No, I had to do a la the Beatles, and get by with a little help from my friends. And so I did. Whilst one set came to physically help me move, another turned up the next day to assemble my bed / stop me having a nervous breakdown when the various flatpack instructions seemed to resemble some form of acquatic squirrel rather than the furniture I hoped to end up with.

At the end of 48 very long stressful hours, victory - and some seriously aching muscles - were ours. I am now the proud owner of a bed, a wardrobe, some other miscellaneous furniture (I could go into detail, but do you really care that much?), and - gulp - 6 spare screws. Let's hope they weren't for anything important...

Boys and Girls, I may now be the Queen of DIY. But it's not an accolade I want. Bring me the friends who'll do this for me, whilst I sit and eat their last Rolo - that's what I need in my life.

I'll write again soon.

With love,

Belle x

 

A date with Gollum...

Dear reader,

I write to you on the eve of a momentous occasion. For tomorrow, I leave Sydney. (Before you react with shock / devastation, let me assure you - this is just for a brief holiday.)

Yes, tomorrow I venture to Vietnam, to be reunited with my parents, and relaxation (quite whether the two go hand in hand I'm unsure, but lets hope so...). It has now been nearly 7 months since we've been in the same timezone as each other, and I find myself feeling almost nervous at the thought of being back together again. Having grown so used to communicating at a distance, the thought of being back together - for only 8 days - and then being separated again is a pretty difficult one. With luck, I've acclimatised enough to my new life that I'll handle it, but I can't deny that a part of me is worried that I'll just fall apart. Every ex-pat I've spoken to says their first goodbye, be it on home or foreign soil, is the hardest. Well, until you have the second goodbye. Then the third goodbye. Then the fourth... Yes, you get the picture.

In a bid to be pro-active (I am nothing if not zealously organised. I recently tried to book some flights 18 months in advance and was told that the airlines only release them a maximum of 355 days ahead. Apparently, most "normal" people don't think as far ahead as me... How can these people leave things so last minute?! 355 days ahead is simply not enough suitcase-preparation time... Am I right?) - but where was I?

Oh yes - so - in a bid to be pro-active about my possible future anguish / breakdown (although this may equally occur at having to go back into the real world, and work, rather than the leaving of my parents...) I came up with a list of things that could make me feel better.

In no particular order, they were:

• Ryan Gosling (have you seen "Crazy Stupid Love"?!)
• Ryan Gosling (as above)
• Ryan Gosling (no, I'm still not off that train of thought yet)
• Chocolate (as a poor, but just about acceptable RG substitute)

But then, gentle reader, before I could action any of the above (not that that would involve the casual drugging / kidnapping of RG... of course not...) - the unthinkable happened. 

I went to my hairdresser for a trim, and came out with a head of hair that looks like it has been mangled by a deranged sheep shearer. Seriously. My fringe sits an inch above my eyebrows. I have random bits of hair that are not the same length as others. And due to my frequent head-rubbing (apparently this increases blood flow to the follicles, and stimulates hair growth) I also have the kind of bed-head last seen on a caveman. This is not good, gentle reader. My hair is - or was - my crowning glory. Now it's the hair equivalent of a sh*t sandwich. And no sauce / hair magic in the world can disguise that.

The only flip side - and it is the only flip side - is that this has entirely distracted me from all thoughts of sadness re the parents. What are parents, when compared to a bad haircut?! Ok, I joke (ish) - but hair trauma is an amazing distraction. 

And so, incidentally, is a bad date. Or rather, the opportunity for one. You see, this evening, after a busy day of packing and organising, I went into my local take-away to grab some dinner (complete with a paperbag over my head, obviously. I cannot be seen by my adoring public with hair like this!), and had my "chef" (I'm sorry, I don't count a take-away place as having "chefs") smile at me, and then - with a thick Israeli accent, tell me "Zooooo... you like ze lamb viz ze hot sauce, yes? Maybe you like your man like you like your schwarma... hot, viv extra pickles? Yes? Yes?"

Reader. Gentle reader. He looked like Gollum on a bad day. If the choice is him, or a nunnery, I choose the nunnery. If the choice is him or an ork, it would be a tough one (where all these Lord of the Rings references are coming from I don't know). Clearly, this was not a happy moment for me. And thus, my answer - the only answer it could be - was a firm, hesitation-free "no". 

My friends, I may have the kind of hair that requires emergency attention. I may - for now - still not be Mrs Gosling. And I may be attracting the kind of guy previously seen in Mordor, looking for the ring, the one ring, to bind them all... But I also have the prospect of family. And a holiday. And I'm sure that however upsetting the prospect of saying goodbye to my parents is, the reward of seeing them is more than worth it.

I'll write again soon. 

Until then...

With love,

Belle x

Confessions of an Accidental Flasher

Boys and girls,

It has been a momentous time in the House of Belle since last I wrote to you. For one thing, there has been the discovery of a magical new shampoo, which helps enormously with the ridiculous Sydney humidity, transforming me from this:



* Please note: picture above may not be accurate representation of Belle


to this:

There has also been the excitement of discovering an almost too good to be true product which, if sprayed generally on any surface, kills the insects which come into contact with it (following on from the recent cockroach incidents I've endured, I have been genuinely considering spraying this over my person as a whole, but have - for now - decided that this may not be a healthy way forward. Watch this space)...

But, more than any of that, has been the all new experience of house hunting. Since coming to this sunny and humid land, I've been staying with (until now unknown) Australian family, and much as they have been very kind and generous hosts - the happy prospect of independence is beckoning me, with it's well manicured finger of independence...

In the month of my absence from this blog (I am sorry!), which I realise has been a dark and empty time for each of you, bereft of my presence, I have spent days and evenings trawling the internet, attempting to find a flat and a housemate that would meet my exacting standards. 

My criteria, were as follows:

• Must love cake, enough to enjoy mine, but not so much that they would steal baked goods from me (I am Princess Cakeface after all, and couldn't live in a home where my cake was under threat)
• Must not have a pet bird (remember my fear of birds?)
• Must be a nice human being in general

Now, initially I thought this would not be such a big ask. I mean, really - how complicated could it be? 

Apparently, however, other than having a pulse (my base criteria) everything else was going to be a bit of a struggle. I saw flats which looked like something out of Guantanamo (I imagine), met people who absolutely resembled the strangers my mother used to warn me about as a child, and saw interior decor that would not look out of place in the 80s. Oh dear. Avocado green bathroom suites are enough to bring me out in a cold sweat. Yikes.

Days and weeks of this continued, until - suddenly - one day I found somewhere. The Place. The Flatmate. The One. (At this point, I am oddly tempted to go into a Lord of the Rings / One Ring to Bind Them All... soliloquy, but I won't...). But seriously. The perfect flat, with the perfect flatmate. Honestly, I nearly fell over with shock. In fact, several days later (now) I still feel like falling over. Finding a property in Sydney is kind of like winning the lottery, only then instead of getting any money, you have to watch as all of yours disappears. 

So - my friends! Independence, with her shellac-ed nails beckons me forward. I shall move from the HoSF (House of Stir Fry... the "rellies" I live with eat A LOT of stir fry. Indeed, I may be turning into a stir fry, such are the enormous quanitites of they stuff I've consumed since staying there) on the 10th March. Independence (and the prospect of a more varied diet) is mine!

But alas - I've neglected the true story here. The story behind the story. The true confession.

You see, the evening I found out about my new residence-to-be, I went for a celebration dinner and drinks with a very lovely girlfriend. However - our special skill (were it to be requested) is the ability to get each other as hyper as 3 year olds with a barrelfull of sugar. As our meal wore on, and our mutual excitement elevated (she is also moving from living with her family, so it was a joint celebration) I suddenly realised - as you do - that I was wearing a rather pretty new brassiere (as I will primly call it) and camisole, which was at that point hidden from view... I would like to emphasise that normally I do hide my lingerie from public consumption / viewing. This, however, was different. One glass of wine plus chocolate cake plus the company of Sylv, had rather altered my decision making process. So, with no preamble at all, whilst in full view of the entire restaurant, I giggled loudly, and pulled my top forwards so that not just Sylvie, but the dining public as a whole had an unencumbered view of my decolletage and lingerie (which had been the original point of my flashing). The waiter, who was on the point of pouring me a second glass of wine (not that I really needed it... And yes - all of this had happened on just the one glass) stood stock still, frozen (with admiration, obviously). Cool and together - for all of 5 seconds - I turned to him, smiled and without missing a beat said "And that's your tip for the night". With that, I pulled my top back into place, and with that - my evening continued as normally as it possibly could, after an incident like that.

Gentle reader - I have not yet been arrested for public indecency. Although I can confess that making a concerted effort to keep my cleavage under wraps is harder than it should be. I will keep you abreast (oo-er) of my flashing "issues".

Until next time...

Love,

Belle x

The Cockroach Chronicles...

My friends,

Before I go any further with this post, I want to clear up a possible misunderstanding that could have arisen from my last post. That is : an aversion to willies. A revulsion. A repulsion, indeed, if you will(y).

But that is simply not the case. Truth to tell, if the year ahead does indeed involve them for me, I would not be remotely averse to that. Between emigrating, settling in, and enduring a variety of bad dates (red poloneck, anyone?) I have been single and willy-free for a while. And that's ok. I have great friends (without benefits, I hasten to add - unless you count the one friend who manages to regularly score us free theatre tickets - now that is an awesome benefit... Although probably not the one you'd immediately think of...). I have a good social life. And (according to a friend of mine) with 5 years to go until I hit the big 3-0, I'm still an eligible girlfriend for at least another 3 years. Phew (I think).

So - no - my last message was more about my reaction to the willy and its drunken owner, than willies in their own right. And in my bid to accurately record all aspects of my emigration / settling in process over here, I thought you'd want me to clarify. That and my hope that Robert Pattinson is reading this, deciding I'm the girl for him (swoon), that Kristen Steward is neither pale nor interesting, and that, therefore, he needs to get on his Gulfstream ASAP to come to Sydney, propose, and make me his Twilight bride. Of course, this whole fantasy would come crashing down if he thought I was not willy-focused (not to say I'm focused on them, but you know what I mean), so... yes. Situation clarified. Time to move on.

Gentle reader, more than trouser-snakes, what I really want to talk to you about today is cockroaches. Yes, really.

You see, along with my ornithophobia I also suffer from a general fear of insects, things that fly, and things that are excessively ugly (Ryanair boss Michael O'Leary has, therefore, no hope with me. Ach, Michael, I jest. Although if your version of a private jet is a cramped Boeing then R-Pattz may just have the edge...). Where was I? Yes - my fears.

So, what we can conclude is that cockroaches are a vicious and terrifying combination of all of the above. And they can hiss as well, which is not a reason for fear in its own right, but is pretty freaky nonetheless.

Now, I always knew that the various insects found in the southern hemisphere would be one of the more difficult aspects of emigrating (along with finding a new hairdresser, missing my friends and family, and being without real Dairy Milk chocolate. Whether or not this is in order of importance, I couldn't possibly comment...). But still. Quite how gross these critters are is still a shock to me. Even more so when just the other day, I was sitting out on the balcony with friends, enjoying a glass of wine and a view of the ocean, when I suddenly felt a little thump. On. My. Head.

Yes. Really.

Even as I write this I can feel my goose-bumps rising. With remarkable poise (if I do say so myself) I went to brush the little bastard off me, only for it to fly straight back to my forehead. Apparently, I have a very appealing head for cockroaches. How nice (not). Yet again, I batted it off me, only this time as it hit the floor I started jumping up and down on it with more enthusiasm and intent than you'd have thought possible. To my friends, who were not aware of the situation (it all happened so quickly, and my focus was very much on causing death to the 'roach) it looked worryingly like I was having a "funny turn". Did I care? Not a jot! In my war against insects (a war which I have been waging all my life), outside appearance is meaningless to me. The fact that I am almost inseparable from my Raid can is pretty accepted amongst my friends. And it comes in handy. The whole reasons these aerosols were invtented (other than protecting weaklings like myself, who would surely not have otherwise survived the evolution process) is because cockroaches are attracted to the smell of cockroach blood. Thus, stamping on a cockroach is in fact a very bad idea, as then all its little cockroachy friends want to come over too.

Alas - what was a girl to do?

Well, very simply - get a man in. A sprayer. A killer. A hardened cockroach-hating machine. (Apologies, I'm getting over excited, but - trust me. It was worth getting excited over). Spraying every window sill, every outside door, every drain cover, my happy little home (which by this point had probably created a hole in the ozone all on its own....Oops...) was cockroach-protected. Victory, in the great War of the Cockroaches would be mine.

And so - what does this prove? Firstly, that cockroaches are gross - although we knew that already. Anything attracted to the smell of its dead friends' blood is just not right. Secondly - that I really need to change my shampoo. If my hair smells good to them, then I'm worried. Thirdly - that even the most insect-repulsed Londoner can get past her phobia, so long as she's armed with Raid, shoes, and a glass of wine. Or just Raid. And finally - that I did not have a funny turn (whatever the opinion of my friends). Indeed, I've been out in Hyde Park (the Sydney version) when a cockroach flew straight down my friend's top, and into her bra. Very calmly (ok, not really, but with amazing speed) she whipped off her top, pulled down her bra, and got the sucker out. If there was an Olympic event for Roach Removing, she'd win it hands / top down.

When cockroaches are involved, there can only be 1 winner. And that winner needs to be you. So friends, let me give you this one last piece of advice before I leave you for today: keep your friends close. Keep your can of Raid closer.

Love,

Belle x

And then he waved his willy at me...

Boys and Girls.

Gentle readers.

My adoring public.

Alas! I have been absent from you for all too long, disappearing somewhere in the Christmas and New Year whirl, never to be seen again (or so it was presumed).

We have said goodbye to 2011 and all the madness entailed there (be it in the form of Mexicans, my own ornithophobia, an obsession with cake - although, much like a puppy, that's not just for Christmas / 2011, but for always) - and many other things besides.

2012, with all it's possibilities, potentially bad prophecies (do we really think the Mayans have it right? I mean, their civilisation was outsmarted by Angeline Jolie / Lara Croft in Tomb Raider - intellectually I feel that they may, therefore, have their limits), and new beginnings, is here.

"Belle!" I hear you cry, "Tell us your thoughts! Will this be a golden age? What is to befall us? What are your new year's resolutions? How should we proceed in this new and uncertain year?"

My friends, I tell you this - and only this - I do not believe in New Year's Resolutions (and I like to sidestep questions to which I don't have the answer). For me, the new year changes very little - other than the desperate effort of remembering to date things "2012" from now on... You'd be surprised by how much I can struggle with that...

But where was I? Yes - the year ahead. No, I am no believer in resolutions, unless they are a fairly permanent commitment. I have many commitments in my life, all of which I believe in staunchly. They are (not necessarily in order of importance): cake, family, friends, and chocolate. Please be aware that cake covers everything in the dessert-related arena, including - but not limited to - cookies, brownies, pastries, gataeux, etc. I am a cakeface. Fact.

So, no resolutions for me. But definitely a desire to start off the year as I mean to go on. To continue to treat people as I would want to be treated, cook as I'd want to be cooked for, and eat cake as if the Myans are right, and I only have 11 months left to enjoy it.

With this in mind - I pay particular attention to the first couple of days of the new year. To me, they are somehow very meaningful. The Italians go out of their way to set themselves up for the new year, by eating certain foods (lentils, to symbolise an abundance of money) and doing certain things (giving out chocolates, or sweets, so that the year ahead is a sweet one). I agree with them on both counts - although it should be known, that I am also open for receiving chocolates etc. at other times of the year too. I'm just saying.

So there you have my New Year / New Age / More Cake philosophy.

You can, therefore, imagine my reaction when, on New Year's Eve, things did not go quite to plan.

There I was, at the best house party in town, shaking it like a polaroid picture on the dancefloor, and gawping at the Sydney fireworks (which were, it has to be said, probably the most ridiculously spectacular things I've ever seen). Everything seemed to be going swimmingly. And that's an expression I rarely use, being 1) A bad swimmer and 2) Not a fan of chlorine.

But anyhow.

One thing I was not expecting, was The Incident. Walking home, only 2 hours into 2012, and with only a short distance to go I was accosted by a youth weeing in a bush. Upon seeing me, he stepped out of the shadows, waved his willy at me (I've seen better) and asked me if I wanted some. My response was what it could only have been; a very prim, very British "I'm ok, thank you".

Whilst the youth pursued things no further, The Incident upset me greatly. Ok, not greatly, but a bit. If I believe in the significance of what happens in those early, formative hours and days of the new year as being a signal of what is to come, does this mean that 2012 holds a lot of willies in it's future for me? And how do I feel about that?

But then - then! I remembered. Haha! It may be 2am on 1 January 2012 in Sydney, but in London it's only 3pm on 31 December 2011. What happened didn't really count. I had a "Get Out of Jail / Get Away from the Trousersnake - free" card, and I wasn't afraid to use it.

So - here we are. Firmly back in the present. And what can I tell you?

Well, first and foremost - having received no other willy waving these past 11 days, the youth does indeed seem to have been a purely 2011 /2012 (almost) aberration. Phew.

Secondly - that I didn't, and never will, forget you, my readers. And my commitment to this blog will improve and continue this year. Promise. My radio / web silence has not stemmed from a lack of desire to write.

Thirdly - that cakes, chocolates, and other such gifts are always welcome.
And fourthly - that I wish all of you the very, very best for 2012. May it be a wonderful year for each of you.

With love,

Belle x