There’s nothing like the dopamine hit you get from the thrill of the hunt.
Arylene Westlake-Jennings
If you can drive an Audi TT camping, you can afford a $25 bag of firewood.
It’s that hollow pit in your gut, that feeling of guilt that manifests when you are faced with testimony of your shortcomings as a parent, when you’ve failed your children as their protector.
Shopping centre parking is not exactly meant to be anyone’s idea of a good time but imagine being asked to pay for the privilege.
I doom-scrolled Instagram reels for 45 minutes and felt like I needed to hook myself up intravenously to my flat white.
I couldn’t figure out if the term hobo bag was used to describe its design or its functionality as a hold-all, but the term is complicated because, in context, I assume it was never meant to be derogatory.
It turned out better than a TripAdvisor top-ten list.
While I tip my hat to the new homeowners in Kelmscott for their bravery, expecting others to chip in for free in this cost of living crisis is a bit (pardon the pun) rich, no?
It was exasperating, in all honesty, to watch new mum Trish Faranda as she tried to hold a conversation with TV presenters.
‘It could never erase those three months I apparently stole from her as she grew me in her belly, but I understand the value of those five minutes today more than ever.’
As data showing how much more male staffers were earning compared to female staffers was revealed this week, discord about unfairness and imbalance was also revived at the school gate.
It was 2010, five years since I had moved to Australia, and I was staring down the barrel of not knowing where I would live.
I adore a history-making red carpet moment. Whether it’s the Globes, Emmys, Oscars or the pinnacle that is the Met Gala, I live to spy the glam as they trickle through.
About 10 years ago, I stopped eating carbs for a whole year. It was an effort to lose some flab, something I have struggled with since my teens.
I’d wake up to Dad rubbing some secret spice mix all over the chook, which was perched atop a bed of onions, a rainbow of root vegetables and a medley of rosemary sprigs and garlic cloves.
A nauseating phone call and a review of transactions revealed almost $2000 in dodgy payments had occurred over two weeks — buried deep amid grocery bills, utilities and an extensive list of Christmas shopping.
We put up the Christmas tree on the weekend, with my brother-in-law decrying it far too early: ‘It’s not even December!’
The return of Nineties and Noughties fashion had me in a spin the other day...
The terms ‘stress leave’, ‘burnout’ and ‘mental exhaustion’ are far too commonplace in our vernacular and, whether you work full-time or part-time hours, a three-day weekend simply cannot be undervalued.
So there was little doubt I was going to watch David Beckham’s eponymous documentary on Netflix, even more so because a part of me also finds his wife Victoria highly engaging.
‘I’m so tired.’ It’s the phrase I often hear, typically tinged with an apologetic note or one of utter frustration. I hear it from family, from colleagues, from the lady at the supermarket checkout.
Before me were freshly laid plans for the next mega-mansion fronting the Swan River — a four-level monster with enough bells and whistles to impress even a cynic.
All parents can attest to going out of our way for our children — whether it’s an acrophobic dad agreeing to a roller coaster ride or making that dramatic Book Week costume your child dreamed up in their heads.
“Are those girls?” was the candid query posed by my wide-eyed four-year-old as she strove to grasp what was unfolding on the big screen.
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