Great ladylunch yesterday with Lali and Sarah Terrific-Home. How restorative an afternoon of chin-wagging with great buddies is. Sometimes La feels srsly sorry for menfolk.
We posed for the obligatory headless ladies-who-lunch shot.
Can you believe the fabulous neck adornments displayed on L and ST-H? They were the by-product of a fruitful shopping excursion to Darling Street, Balmain, and a visit to Lotus Pod. It’s a website that ought to hang its virtual head in shame (‘neclace’, anyone?) but they evidently do great neckwear. Hope the ladies don’t mind me outing their fash secret.
The afternoon ended up at the Wine Library on Oxford Strasse, where this became the tipple of the day.
We imbibed it on the recommendation of ST-H. When she ordered her first snifter, the very cool, dude-like bartender actually came out to meet her, so rarely is he asked to pull together a Lillet on lemon and ice. I think he even bowed in her direction a tiny bit. Apparently, it’s a drink of the hospitality crowd and not normally requested by layfolk like us 40-something ladies. Huge props to ST-H, forever and always a tastemaker.
Srsly, you need to wrap your laughing gear around a Lillet at the next available opportunity. Like wearing Rag & Bone or knowing about the latest exploits of the Bondi Hipsters, it appears to immediately bathe one in an aura of cool.
En route to the Wordporium this morning, La hopped off the bus early to visit my favourite urban art installation: Los Birdcages.
Well, that’s what I call them; their proper name is Forgotten Songs, and they were commissioned in memorium of all the chirpy, songful birdies who were squeezed out of the city by mean and nasty skyscrapers built to house institutions such as The Wordporium. This is a newer, shinier version of the installation, but the original one looked like this.
La preferred the older suburban budgie-style cages to the uniformly metallic ones we have now, but we’ll take our expressions of publicly-funded creativity where we can here in the byways and laneways of la Harbour City.
My Male JCC told me a story last night.
Yesterday J, a fellow smally at his school, fell over. Another small fry had the temerity to ask J whether he was OK. Apparently, J leapt up and yelled at the assembled crowd of 4-somethings, “What the f****** hell?”
Oh my lordfather, how I laughed at the retelling of this yarn by my Male JCC. Bad Parenting 101: roll about on the floor in hysterics when your four-year-old hollers expletives (even if only in the voice of another). Then make him retell said yarn again, and again, and again…
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