Month: March 2012

Photo of the day: Finch Hatton Gorge

Posted in finch hatton gorge2 Comments

My brother just woke up one day and decided he’d had enough of living close-by to family. Maybe we were dropping around cakes too often. Or he didn’t see the point in having a journalist sister who was really quite useless to him. Perhaps if my car wasn’t permanently needing repairs, and he wasn’t a mechanic, things may have been different.

Or maybe Rob was sick of our other brother, Nick, living so close and constantly pestering him to play cards and bringing around beers. Or Nick might have cuts his lawns a little closely

It could have been mum and dad, with their cheery disposition, that pushed him over the limit. Or living so close to the beach.

All I know is that he trotted off to Mackay leaving me with just one brother, one beach house and no mechanic.

Secretly and occasionally in a gossip-ish tone to my mother, I wondered whether Mackay was such a great idea.

If we would all be forking out for airfares, why not shoot for Airlie Beach, or Cairns. That would be, well, cool. But hot, of course. At least the reef was close by. And I’ve heard great things about the Daintree. And Port Douglas.

But ever since my brother decided the way to get out of a “pantsing” when he lost cards to our older brother was to don about 18 pairs of shorts, so Big Bro could never get to his junk, I just knew Robbie would have a clever idea tucked away in his plans.

Here it is. Finch Hatton Gorge, less than an hour from the steamy, industrial machine that calls itself Mackay.

Oh yeah, Mackay: the town is teeming with coin. People are Making Money in Mackay. Mining, sugar, anything you tough will turn to gold in that place. Except the mudflats at low tide, they are a recipe for brown, slime-coated legs.

So back to the picture. A little adventure through the cane fields takes you to a tucked-away National Park which is home to this stunning water hole.

It’s a crunchy, winding bushwalk, about 20 minutes, to get to this sweet little spot. Apparently there are other spots further on, but not everyone thinks a full-blown hike in the mountains is as fun as doing the equivalent distance in the mall.

However, this spot has everything you need. The water is exceptionally crisp and those rocks are a perfect height to jump off.

“That’s nothing,” I’d scoff at the people on top of the rocks, bracing themselves for a huge leap. “It’s not the bloody Harbour Bridge,” I think, quietly and to myself as the suckers quietly shat themselves at the top. Hesitating helps no-one.

Then you get up there and you may as well be leaping into a pool of alligators. It’s terrifying. And exhilirating.

So, Rob’s move to Mackay. I’m cool about it now. He did buy a house with a pool and a spa. And I figured out it ain’t so far from the reef.

I’ve moved on and found a new mechanic.

Oh yeah, and he has proved there are real adventures on his new doorstep.

Lovely you and lovely me.

Posted in lovely peopleTagged , , , , 1 Comment

“Hi Penny,

So sorry to hear that you are moving but hope all goes well for the future. Good to have met you.

Love Tony. xx.”

Just when you’re getting ready to sling a bag on your back and jump on a plane, the awesomeness of your life is bought into clear focus.

This letter from our gardener, a lovely, lovely man that I have met about five times, is one of many little gems that have been sent to me recently. The message is clear: “your life here is sweet. Aprreciate it.”

To cope with the influx I have found myself getting horizontal on my bed all the time. Straight back to bed after breakfast. A few hours in the middle of the day. A few hours at night. I stare up at my paper prayer flags, a few of my favourite posers and, of course, my dreamweaver map.

I do love being horizontal, there is no better position for lazing. But this recent phase, I think it’s a last ditch attempt to recognise the beauty within my current lifestyle. It’s a pointless pursuit, obviously, with just two weeks left in Sunny Brisbane, but I feel I’m being pulled back into my comfort zone. And lying on the bed helps me to process what I’m giving up in pursuit of a change and a challenge

Having mates up the hill in a house which I still have a key to, that’s special.

Rocking up to the markets on a Saturday and running into a few pals in an equally hungover state. Sharing a coffee with those dudes is also special.

Calling a mate and asking them over for dinner, them saying yes and having someone to cook for, that’s pretty cool.

Gathering a crew together and heading to the beach for a weekend on the sand, it does not get much better than that.

And, yes, that’s what I’m giving up.

Handyman Tony, the lovely dude who would rock up, weed the garden, drink all of our coffee and then bust in on me while I was getting changed, he’ll soon just be a memory.

I admit, I’m scared about leaving this cosy, beautiful existence I have made for myself. But make it once, you can make it again, right?

“I must say a word about fear. It is life’s only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever treacherous adversary.”

I came across these lines in The Life of Pi. To me, that says, harden the f*** up.

Finding lovely people, such as Handyman Tony, is a matter of trust. For example, while cruising down a back street in Pokhara in Nepal my brother had a motorbike pull up alongside him. It was about 1am and he was on the way home from a beer sampling.

The local on the bike stops and starts chatting to my brother. Of course, Nick asks for some advice on pick-up lines. After exhausting that avenue of conversation, the random dude asks if Nick wants a ride home. “Aw yeah, do I,” he  exclaims enthuiastically and jumps on this stranger’s bike.

A few blocks later, Nick jumps off the bike, shakes his hair out of the non-existent helmet and thanks the stanger for the ride. “Do you want some money,” he asks, again, enthusiastically.

“No man, of course not. It was just a pleasure to help you out,” the kind Nepalese man replies, graciously.

So I must conclude that these lovely people are everywhere. And creating meaning from passing interactions, that’s up to me.

This story has a happy ending, that I must be confident of. But more importantly, let’s hope it is a bloody interesting story.

Maybe you’re a bit of a dag, deep down.

Posted in dagginessTagged , , , , 3 Comments

Recently my bosses have made some pretty stark observations about my character.

One of the most accurate came today as I told my employer about listening to Sweet Caroline on Local ABC Radio and singing along like a grinning fool in traffc. “Yes, they play some fairly daggy music on Local Radio,” my boss tells me. “I usually switch off when the songs come on.”

“Maybe you’re a bit of a dag, deep down,” he adds, for good measure.

Personally, I don’t think you have to scratch very far beyond the surface to find my inner dag. It is usually lurking at the edges of my consciousness. “Wear those jeans with joggers,” the voice urges me.

For years at school and university I was that fool walking along, terribly pleased with myself for no good reason, oblivious to being such a walking fashion disaster.

What am I wearing here!!

The best part was that I never knew. It did not matter how many times my well-meaning, baffled flatmates told me that no, you cannot wear flowers with flowers or stripes with flowers, or to just throw out anything with flowers on, still I would end up drawing people’s gazes for all the wrong reasons.

Partly to blame is my childhood, and formative teen years in a little country microcosm on the New South Wales’ Northern Rivers. I don’t want to point the finger, but my mum did not always set the best example. Exhibit a:

My mum bought this coat for me when I lived in Armidale. I used to leave it in the cloak room, hoping madly that somebody would steal it. One night I thought luck had sailed into town. The coat had disappeared during a particularly vigorous dance-off at the uni night club. I did not even mind walking home coat-less in sub-zero temperatures, such was the delight at being rid of the eyesore.

Of course, the next morning my next door neighbour bought it back to me. They thought I had forgotten it, bless them.

Some things have not changed after six years in the city.

My flatmates still remark when I come home from work: “get dressed up for the office today, did we, Pen,” in a beautifully sarcastic tone. I look down at my cargo pants and singlet and wonder how I thought it was acceptable office attire.

Hindsight is a killer for daggy people. There are always photos, waiting, lurking and ready to mock.

I still spend an average of two hours getting ready for a night out – most of which is deciding whether the purple flowery pants are too lary or whether my plain green jacket goes with the white singlet and plain jeans. I have no answers for these truly terrific questions. Make-up is still limited to tinted moisturiser and mascara.

Often I am told by bus drivers that I “probably shouldn’t be running in that dress on a main road.”

But there is a slight silver lining in my struggle against dagginess. I have some great pals who have shed some of their more fashionable clothes to the Penny’s-wardrobe-needs-a-makeover charity. My best garments are cast-offs from people with a slightly less developed inner dag.

The second beacon of hope is much more fulfilling.

I’m not so concerned these days when I get it wrong. I’ll tack my errors under a banner of individuality and I revel in not looking the same as all of those well-heeled folk. It was not an attitude I had planned when I was trying on my mothers stilettos as a child. Back then I believed I’d look like Jackie Onassis when I grew up.

In reality, compliments on my attire set me on edge. “Are you taking the piss,” I demand of anyone nice enough to tell me my botched outfit looks good.

This predicament begs the question, who says what’s daggy and what’s not. Shorn Lowry wonders what people will think of me when I move to the outback later this year.

Perhaps I will come across as a city slicker. Or maybe they will see through my high-qua;ity cast-offs to the inner dag.

One things is certain. I doubt I will be blending in.

Photo of the day: Salamanca Market

Posted in tasmania4 Comments

Have you noticed the seasons are a’changin’?

The slight nip in the air at night, sneezes that rock you to the core – those hot summer days are just a figment of memory and autumn is here in all its glory.

Early autumn reminds me of a beautiful weekend I had in Tasmania last year. Here is a snap from The Salamanca Market in downtown Hobart.

Look at the colours of these vegies. How vibrant!

When I move to Tassie with one of my great pals, let’s call her the Tassie-Lover, we will go to the market most Saturdays, I think. She will buy some of those Chinese greens up the back and they will rot in her fridge. I will opt for a generous bunch of purple carrots and they probably will not even last the short stroll to my grand house over the Derwent.

The weather will be fresh and delightful, with sunny days and brisk nights. We’ll look at art and, honestly, we probably won’t work much.

Perhaps the Tassie-Lover will paint. We will both drink coffee.

Ah, how nice is it to dream, especially in early autumn.

Curiosity kills no-one.

Posted in curiosity5 Comments

One fine, balmy afternoon at pre-school I conducted a little experiment with the railings on the side of the stairs. I’m not sure what my intention was, but, of course, I got my head stuck and it would not budge.

Apparently they had to call the fire brigade to cut me out of the tight metal bars. The Jaws of Life may have even been bought in; I can’t quite remember how it ended.

“You were the only child ever to ever get their head stuck in those railings,” my mother recalls, a note of pride tinging her voice. Or exasperation, I can never tell.

It is one of many exploits that have stemmed from my rather active curiosity. I’ll be the one standing over the road kill, watching intestines ooze out, saying “wow, how weird do possums look on the inside. Cool!”

It’s a habit that has gotten me into a pickle many times. But, gosh, there are some funny stories.

Recently I was in Sydney at an Egyptian Coptic Christmas dinner. The food was spectacular: authentic, full of garlic and generally delightful. Alongside the normal baklava there was a tray of multi-coloured and multi-shaped sugar-syrup-soaked pistachio treats. Every cut of meat was on the table somewhere. Some of the loveliest ladies I have ever met urged me to eat more, more and more. Even as I undid my top three buttons they were packing me lunch for tomorrow.

Part of the cultural experience, for me, and the pearler that ignited my curiosity on this particular night was in the bathroom. The toilet seat had some unusual knobs on the side.

So I sat down and moved the dial to the right. A large jet of water shot into my bottom at speed.

It was an almightily strange sensation. “That was interesting,” I thought, with a look of consternation on my face and a dripping wet bottom.

But, still, my curiosity was not satiated.

Wanting to see how it worked, I stood up and turned it on, once again, to full power.

Straight into the eye, the bidet water went. My shirt and skirt copped some of the flow, some dripped down into my shoe and another spurt went across the room and dripped down the mirror.

“Well done, Pen,” I congratulated myself, laughing and marvelling that, of course the water is going to come out at an angle.

We all had a good giggle about that on the way home. It’s a good story, I reckon. But, most importantly I now know what it’s like to be shot in the eye with a bidet. Cross that one off the bucket list.

At times I think I will do anything, just for the experience. The sensations: smells, sounds, a different touch or feel, and especially tastes.

These experiences do not need to be positive. That’s not the point, at all, in taking a whiff of festering home brew or rotting mango. What is it like, I continually ask.

I’m not talking about taking pointless risks, that’s about adrenalin; curiosity is about learning. If you push yourself, you realise your limits.

For instance, now I am fully aware that a bidet squirt to the eye is slightly painful and quite drenching. I even know the squirt angle.

So, what’s the use of that? Well, aside from my new knowledge, I reckon it is a fine story and that’s all I need.

What the harm in tri-ing?

Posted in triathlonsTagged , , , , 2 Comments

Fancy doing a triathlon? Running, swimming and getting on the bike? Sure, easy. No sweat! Just do half of the Olympic route, don’t set your standards too high time-wise and bring a few mates to do the other legs.

Suddenly the pinnacle fitness event is as easy as getting cash out of the ATM.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

The difficulty, then, is finding the will. The motivation, that’s the real kicker. Not so easy to find. It’s more like looking for $50 notes in old winter coats. A rare occurrence, but occasionally you’ll have some joy.

My triathlon career began today after Shorn’s hot girlfriend and Shorn Lowry himself asked me to run for them. I lept at the chance. I have been in a state of frenzied excitment since last Wednesday when I got the almighty call-up. With just five days until the event I managed to get in one rather strenuous run, which I was still aching from this morning. I was not confident of my fitness.

But I had the will. I was the Glory Seeker. I was bringing home the team.

And with Kirby’s competitive streak I had some great inspiration.

She set a cracking pace with the swim, smashing out 750 metres in 11 minutes. Shorn was hot on her heels, cycling through 20kms in 36 minutes. There was really no option but for me to suck up my aching muscles and get to work. 5kms in 25 minutes was all I could manage, but that just in line with the ambitious goals Kirby had set for each of us.

“If it’s not a challenge, it’s not a goal,” she says.

As I waited for Shorn to get back from the rabbit warren of cul-de-sacs that is the Bribie Island bike route, an older lady and I began chatting. To put it in context the triathlon is chock-a-block with middle-aged folk. I’m not being ageist here, but at first take it’s surprising how diverse the field is in these gruelling events.

As Kirby was writing Shorn off: “he’s had a stack, for sure,” the lady told me her story. “A few friends and I just get in and give it a go,” she explains.

“We’re not very fast, but we just like to say we can do it.”

What an attitude!

So there we all were, just casually kicking some goals on a Sunday morning. The team-spirit kicking around was strong and organic. High fives were being bandied about as if we’d finished a cryptic crossword.

Plus, the event was done and dusted by 10am. Usually I’m still lolling around in my sheets at that time on a Sunday, but variety is spice, and all that.

All of the proactivity got me thinking about motivation and giving things a go.

Reverse parking, for example, is something I casually chucked in the too hard basket when I was about 20. I was happy to never attempt to fit my beast of a car into a tiny slot again. I’d had enough of mounting and unmounting and mounting and unmounting the kerb. Doing it in front a building site when one very nice gentleman had to come out and direct me, that was the final straw

So, no more reverse parking. “That’s not for me,” I delightedly told all and sundry, basking in the liberation of acknowledging my non-existent skills.

My mum, of course, spolied such complatency. “You’re probably a bit young to be just writing that off, Pen,” she warned me.

Smarting from the comment, I learned to back my car into tight spaces. The feeling of achivement is almost palpable. I might as well have cooked a few ducks for Sunday dinner and made Peking sauce from scratch.

“Did you see that,” I sometimes yell at complete strangers. “I didn’t even touch the kerb.”

Once upon a time marathons and triathlons would have been in the same basket. Now, I know they’re going to be painful, but try to give it a shot anyway.

It does open up the field to failure. Ewww, that horrible word. Failure! But keeping that door closed is like going through life without ever pairing Tasmanian blue cheese with a South Australian Shiraz.

It’s a life half-lived.

I reckon, if the mid-50s mother-of-five can do it, then so can I. Why not? The only thing that stands between us is motivation and determination.

The next bastion is water polo. Since a particularly gruesome season in my second year of uni I have shied away from that sport. “I almost die when I try to play water polo,” I delightedly tell my pals. Once again, if you acknowledge that you’re not good at it, you never have to try.

Perhaps I need to change my ‘tude.

“Water polo is an evil sport and I have no desire to play it,” is what I’ll start touting. Or I could gather some inspiration and dive in again.

A hoon? Me? Maybe.

Posted in hoonish waysTagged , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Guys with turbo-charged cars. They’re tossers, right? Well, actually I’m going to jump off my pedestal and side with the hoons on this one.

A great friend of mine, let’s call him Nick, because that’s his name, was on a hunt for some new wheels recently. I was horrified when he started gushing over a Subaru WRX he was thinking about forking out for. It even had one of those grates on the bonnet. So uncool.

“Think of the environment,” I pleaded. He did look sheepish, but admitted his fascination with the car had deep-seated roots. It must be one of those boyhood things the guys cultivate while the girls are learning to cook and sew.

I was not convinced. “C’mon you’d be much better suited to a van.”

“Think of the camping trips.”

Still not swayed, I launched the full offensive on the spectacle he’d make of himself. “You’ll look like a tosser,” I reminded him. His best interests, of course, were at the heart of my tirade.

“A complete tool.”

It was a bit mean, but I thought my cause was worthy. I was fighting the good fight against these offensive cars. They’re so noisy. So bloody bad for the environment. And, comparing muffler sizes, really, it’s not cool.

I see the merit in my slightly older-style car which offers a more sedate driving style. Hills are a challenge, I admit, but it’s just so lovely to get a close view of things as I dawdle past. How nice to be able to count the sections of sidewalk, instead of the colours of cars. It’s the little things.

Still, Nick got his dream car.

And he has been a happy man with those keys in his hot little palm.

At first take I had to temper my hard-nosed opinion, just slightly. It looked more like a Beamer than one of those horrid white sedans with an utterly unnecessary blow-off value. Surprisingly, it was not even that loud.

Still, it was fun to have a dig at Nick’s car. “You’re such a yuppie,” I would tell him, hypocritcially, as I luxuriated in the passenger seat, pleased to be in a car that was made this side of the Sydney Olympics.

Today, however, all of my reservations about the WRX, except it’s enviro score – which still shocks me, were blown away with one nippy burst of the turbo.

Within seconds of placing my hands on the steering wheel, my inner hoon started agitating toward the accelerator.

Oh, the power! What a thrill. Whipping around a corner was almost like bungee jumping. My pulse quickened and an involunatry grin spread across my face. The rush. The speed. The pick-up. The grip. Oh dear, I had become what I had loathed.

Or perhaps I was just broadening my perspective, I bargained with myself.

I must add here that Nick even complimented me on my driving: “you go allright in a manual, Penny,” he said, slightly shocked by my enthusiasm for his demonic car. That was all the encouragement I needed! He even called me a hoon. The two-older-brothers-and-no-sisters dynamic emerges yet again.

So, I’ve fallen in love with a sports car. I anticipate I will probably dream about rally driving tonight. And yet my old 1990 model beast is showing no signs of spluttering her last splutter anytime soon.

Until she does, I’ll continue to call WRX drivers douchebags and I’ll speak at length about their exorbidant fuel usage. It’s the only way.

On the inside, however, my inner hoon will continue to lust after the gutsy car with its fancy volume knobs on the steering wheel.

Photo by Josh Miller/CNET.

She who cooks.

Posted in messTagged , , , , 11 Comments

It is a habit that has upset almost every flatmate I have ever had. Even my ever-tolerant mother has expressed displeasure at my ability to accrue washing up. I am the kind of girl that is just never happy with a performance in the kitchen unless every pot, pan, bowl, spatula, can opener and grater has been used at least once.

My favourite red pot: I like to get that dirty at least twice.

There are a few reasons for the disorder.

I reckon a pile of dishes that resembles the leaning tower of Pisa is a brilliant distraction if the fare is below par.

The felafels may be bland, but look at that mess! If it looks like you’ve pulled out all stops, the appropriate noises will be made.

And then there is my obsession with feasts.

One of the real delights in burning the bottom of every pan is the array of dishes you can create. A feast is not a feast without seven different dishes, at least, and a pile of leftovers that easily last a few weeks. If you’ve got a kang kung stir-fry alongside your gado-gado and rendang then you’re scraping the sides of Indo cuisine rather than serving up cliched satays.

Or maybe that’s a cop out. Maybe I just like mess. OK, I admit it, I love the mess.

It’s so liberating to riot through the kitchen leaving a trail of chaos. I liken myself to a European settler with my ability to leave the natural environment in disarray.

A mate of my walked into my room a few weeks ago and, without stopping to put on her social filter, exclaimed loudly “how can you live like this?” Oh, what a glorious mess that was. Weeks it was, before I could see the floor of my room.

However, today I may have outdone myself in the mess stakes. I had a little cook off.  By myself.

Flying solo in the kitchen is a huge error. Already, I’ve done four rather ambitious loads of washing up. And there’s more to go. I’ll admit it is immensely satisfying that the red pot has already been washed three times, and it is dirty again, but  washing up is not where my strength lies.

I make the mess. The suckers that I cook for, they get to clean up.

My favourite rule at home was always “if you cook, you don’t have to do the dishes.” And did I cook. I still have the scars from the vicious old potato peeler

If ever I was beaten to the chopping board – my Dad also loves to create a superb mess in the kitchen – I’d have to think outside the box to avoid the dishes. Ma and Pa would be outside enjoying the fresh winter air, leaving my brother and I to an impressive stack of pots Dad had dirtied.

My screams would bring Jan running.

I’d have welts like zombie bites all over my body from my brother’s malicious tea-towel flicks. I still don’t know how he gets the end to bite so badly! There’d be water and suds all over the benches and windows. Rob would have to have a second shower on the nights that I decided to throw the rinsing water on him. Gosh, those were the days!

I understand not everyone shares my enthusiasm for the kitchen. Take one of my friends. I don’t want to name her, so we’ll just call her Zahara. She has beautiful long black hair and a Costa Rican husband.

Zahara is very good with take-away. She knows exactly what she wants and how to order it. Usually she will have some small change in her wallet. Her car is never without petrol, so her trips to pick up food are never complicated. I am sure that she does not even need the menus anymore – the numbers of several reputable outlets are probably permanently stored in her phone.

In a moment of generosity and frugality I made a business deal with Zahara. For the usual price of her weekly take-away I would cook her a week of meals. Winner, winner chicken dinner.

Herein lies the reason for today’s cooking catastrophe. The kitchen was destroyed after I had carefully crafted four pizzas, one large batch of spaghetti bolognaise and a Sri Lankan chicken curry (the curry doubled as payment for one of the bets I lost to Shorn Lowry at the cricket. The lawn is yet to be mowed.)

Cheese and grated zucchini were splattered across the floor. The stove top looked like it had been caught in the middle of a tomato fight. There were no pots left in the cupboard.

It was a beautiful mess.

But, this is the biggest issue with the deal Zahara and I had struck. She was not there to immerse her hands into the hot, soapy water and sweep the floor.

So, the dishes piled up and I kept cooking.

Now, imagine the almighty mess after I whipped up some spinach and fetta filos, baklava, coconut rice pudding and hummus.

I could not even recognise the colour the stove had been in the morning. The floor resembled a chook house. Food scraps were littered across the benches like roasted English tourists on a Thai beach.

It was shambolic! Oh, and it felt so good.

Luckily, Shorn and the hot girlfriend were being treated to dinner. And she who cooks, does not wash up.

Photo #1 by Ali Rae.

Do not look up.

Posted in risk-takingLeave a comment

Keep your eyes fixed on the ground. Watch each step. If you really need to stretch your neck, you can look straight ahead.

Looking to the side is also not allowed. You can see the rocks falling from above when you look to the side.

Looking up, that’s a disaster.

The boulders, perched ever so precariously in the landslide-ridden hill are grinning at you, taunting you with their imposing stature. Oh, you’re so tiny and insignificant. The glacier beneath your boots, your stunning, slightly lesbian-looking boots, is creaking and groaning.

“For this section we need to be quickly walking,” your guide tells you. “A German man died here last week.”

Great. Bloody great! Not even the German could hack it.

Then again, perhaps you will think to yourself “at what stage did you think it was going to be easy, hiking through the effing Himalayas.”

“You’re a bloody idiot,” you may want to add to the internal tirade.

In fact, you’re arguing away so merrily with yourself, giving yourself a firm dressing down that you forget where you are. And you look up.

Oh dear. The rocks are a-comin’.

“Just wanted to go for a wee stroll in the mountains, eh!”

Sure, you love a challenge and fancy yourself a bit of a let’s-make-a-fire-with-the-map-when-you’re-lost type of girl, but what’s the point of bringing your mortality into such acute focus.

That is exactly the point. In such dangerous situations we truely feel alive.

Recently, I came across an idea for my impending China trip. A secret informant whispered in my ear about the Mount Huashan Teahouse Trek tucked away in the middle of the Orient. I think they were telling me as a gag, a you-wouldn’t-believe-what-these-idiots-did joke, but dangerous hikes are my thing.

And this one has everything: cable cars, sheer cliffs, rusty chains, dodgy wooden platforms, an obscenely high drop and, of course, a relaxed attitude to safety. Down with red tape, I say!

Image

Get me there!

As I’m checking out a few happy snaps from the brush-with-death hike, I wonder how far I could go.

I love to take a good risk.

For example, those cheap momos the nestled-in-a-gutter vendor is pushing, they look good. Yes, I’ll have ten thanks. Of course, I want the hot chilli sauce.

Or, sure I’d love for you to drive me around the coco plantations in your Jeep. Of course! Why not! Yes, let’s have some drinks while we’re driving, that’ll help supress the fear. No, seatbelts are definitely overrated.

That is living.

But here I am, wondering whether I’d like to be one of the 100 tourists killed every year on this trail. Would the view be worth it? The tea at the top, would it give me the runs? Are there going to be many good-looking, rugged men on the hike? (A hike like this is sure to be teeming with adventurous gentlemen…)

But, the biggest question of all remains: am I brave enough?

About here my mother will interject and say bravery and stupidity are synonymous when I am involved.

Is she right? Will the danger prove too alluring? Like a ten buck note that just burns away in your pocket until you waste it on chips and gravy.

Let’s wait and see.

I’ve found this great new diet.

Posted in diets6 Comments

Beer and pizza. Five slices of cheesy, meaty goodness (yes, five) and an icy Corona. Boom! My Slow-Carb diet is out the window.

I did not even last a single day.

Best of all, I don’t even care.

There’s always tomorrow. Or I could try a different diet. Like the one where you don’t eat anything that has ingredients you can’t pronounce. Or the one with the 80/20 rule; whatever that means.

Chances are I am not going to stick with the program for more than five hours, so no point being too picky.

The dieting thing – it’s a bit of a lark, really.

How indulgent, to be able to cut out food groups and bring them back in on a whim. No sugar today, no dairy tomorrow. Liquids only for a few weeks. There is no bounds to the fun you can have.

In fact, I’d say forget about skydiving and treat yourself to a restricted eating program. How fun to watch 300 grams come and go so quickly. Actually, if we’re talking about last week, for me it was more the case of 1200 grams just coming and dossing on my hips for about five days. No worries. I got rid of it with lentils and a bit of exercise on Monday and Tuesday

What program will I subscribe to after last night’s pizza? This could be my chance to try the Paleo diet.

Recently my mother accused me of being into “all these fad diets.” She says it as if I’m some sort of junkie or compulsive pen-stealer. I am really scraping at the edges of socially acceptable behaviour, according to Jan.

Really, I just want a bit of a challenge. Being a vegetarian for the week is just like trying to run in thongs in the rain and not get mud on the back of your legs. It’s fairly annoying, but it requires thought and precision.

Cooking for my gluten-free, vego flatmate is a riot. Spaghetti bolognaise, one of my favourite foods, but also a representation of slothful cooking, is a no-go area when Amber and I are feasting. On the bright side, meat and pasta are traded for quinoa tabouli; a crappy little butter cake becomes raw chocolate brownies. And the things you can do with tofu. Wow!

Last year I followed Sarah Wilson’s ‘I Quit Sugar’ diet for two months. Not an inch of sugar passed my lips. Jan did not approve. In fact, she seemed genuinely pissed off to have lost a chocolate-and-liquorice-eating partner in crime.

That was a semi-successful diet. I lost a bit of weight and a few centimetres off my waist. No afternoon energy slump, and all that jazz.

The best bit, though, was having a little goal. A side project that did not cost any money and would still shock my mother; it was perfect.

She is still upset about losing her Clinker companion. Poor thing, she has no-one to share the gloom with when the packet is accidentally left in the car and the chocolate melts off the candy and the what-colour-will-this-Clinker-be surprise is gone. Plus, there’s nobody to weigh in on the pink versus green debate. Dad is useless here. He prefers yellow. Huh? So naturally Ma feels like she’s lost a limb when she buys Clinkers now.

But, hey, I didn’t eat any sugar for two months.

For the slow-carb regime I’ve been living off lentils and avoiding potatoes as if they’re likely to possess me.

So, one night of beer and pizza, was it worth it? Well, it was a shake-up from the lentil routine; one night when I did not pretend to be Neil from the Young Ones.

And in diet-land, there’s always tomorrow. I’ll make a fresh dhal.