Food for thought

I’ve never thought I would make a good restaurant reviewer, despite the fact that I eat out quite a bit. That’s because I’m too busy eating. And reading or playing with my iPad if I’m on my own, or drinking and acting like a bit of a noisy dickhead when I’m with my friends.

Most times however it’s just my husband and me. We tend to frequent the same places, not because we lack any sense of adventure, but because we know we are guaranteed good food and excellent service.

After all, we’re paying for this.

So yesterday, on day one of our Christmas holidays at Broadbeach on the Gold Coast, we ventured out the mall. Perhaps that was our first mistake.

Now I love the mall in Broadbeach. Mainly because it’s where John Farnham filmed his “Two Strong Hearts” film clip, circa 1988, at the height of his mullet. Regular readers know that I would give up my second born for John Farnham. Mercifully I only have one child. And in 2012 it is no longer a requirement to sacrifice your child, no matter what you owe.

Feeling festive and full of the excitement that is a Gold Coast Christmas, we knew seafood was on the cards. [Read more…]

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The reporter’s report card

A night on my own. Doesn’t happen often in the Cook family. With no kids living at home to demand and distract, and with two jobs that operate fairly routinely out of Brisbane, it doesn’t often happen.

So with my husband safely away for the night, it was a great chance to put in some extra time working and then skive off for dinner on my own. I know a lot of people don’t feel comfortable with the idea of dining alone, whether it’s at Ecco or McDonalds.

I love it. I can order whatever I like and not have to share. I can order a third glass of wine and not get “that look”. And I can choose where I want to go with no arguments. “Ohhh I hate that place,” or “But didn’t we just go there last month?”

Tonight, it was a plate of the finest sashimi and the latest Woman’s Day for company.

And that was where I made my mistake. [Read more…]

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Whitney

All my life I’ve wanted to be a singer. Or, more simply, just able to sing. As a gangly ten year old, I was convinced I was destined for stardom as the fifth member of Abba.  I mean, my hair was naturally blonde. Surely that was enough.

My girlfriends and I would choreograph these complicated dance routines, physically miming “digging” as we were “diggin’ the dancing queen”. Shovel, shovel, and throw it over your shoulder. Repeat twice. Seriously.

We were lip-syncing heroines long before Milli even met Vanilli.

Money Money Money was all about pretending to count out wads of cash [Read more…]

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Anti-waist matter

Sometimes, when I’m watching re-runs of Kath & Kim, I get a bit nervous. Not because I’ll start referring to my lounge room as “the good room”. Not because of the sight of Kim’s offensive g-string or the atrocious way she speaks to Brett.
It’s Kath’s high waisted jeans that scare the pants off me. They are seriously one of the ugliest fashion fallouts I’ve ever seen. Along with Peter Pan collars, bubble skirts and Whitney Houston.

I fear that high waists will again become a prime target on the fashion radar. That head Vogue-ette Anna Wintour will come back a bit pissed one day from lunch at The Plaza and think, “You know what would be funny? To send out an email to my mates Oscar, Cristóbal, Ralph, Caroline etc saying it’s time to pull their designer pants up.”

The fashion world follows La Wintour’s advice the way the Pope follows Jesus. Religiously. Before we can say “where the bloody hell are you”, Australian shops will boast piles of jeans, all with 25 centimetre long zips. I’m convinced style mavens will also insist we tuck in our tops.

Our shapely bums will be lost on a vast canvas of denim and our tummies, post partum or otherwise, will do that bulging thing making it look like we’re masking a water feature or Roseanne Barr.

I’m the sort of girl who will sit in coffee shops and nudge my girlfriends while surreptitiously casting my eyes in the direction of a passing unfortunate who clearly hasn’t been into Just Jeans since the mid 80s. She’ll be wearing jeans that threaten to snuggle in under her armpits and that rudely stop just above her ankle. Teamed with high heels. Ouch.

We collectively mutter “can you b-e-l-i-e-v-e it?!” and sneak a look at the length of our own hems just to make sure there was no pot calling the hem length black hypocrisy.

Jeans are the cornerstone to most of my ensembles. Have been for years. Born in France and raised in America, denim jeans came of age in Australia when we realised they weren’t the sole proprietary of jackaroos and The Fonz.

Wear them with a fitted white t-shirt and Dunlop Volleys, or a lace top and silver pointy toe stilettos. Wear them to work on a Friday with black ankle boots and a fawn coloured Witchery jersey top.

Just never ever wear them if they’ve got a high waist. I don’t care how fabulous your silver pointy toe stilettos are.

I’ve got my hands on my hips about this one.

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