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Monthly Archives: October 2012

Gift wrap

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My gift to you:  the (mostly) weekly Wrap.

Ready to be better primed than a Chanel catwalk model’s face on show day? Then read on:  everything you need to know to get a leg up on this weekend’s social ladder is here, 100% fact-checked and verified. The key is to re-tell it with confidence, in your very best, this-is-for-the-cheap-seats voice.

“Mr Singh, my Tim would love to have a snip at what’s under that turban.”

PM’s Sensible Pumps Bog in Soggy, Monsoon-Affected Indian Grass; Leader Felled.  Poor JG.  She truly is a champ when it comes to re-composing herself and stealing back her prime ministerial dignity. In a nod to the new-found camaraderie among the Wide Brown Land sisterhood in the wake of weeks of anti-lady public discourse, La has refrained from including a snap of JG mid-fall. It’s something we all dread: there but for the grace of gods…

Nic and Carls Spend $1100 on Takeaways in NYC for Flight Back to France. OK, whatever. My question is, what the hell is going on with her face? Has she had an attack of the Burt Reynoldses? Carls is teetering dangerously on the verge of Bride of Wildenstein territory. Also, who cares (apart from underpaid, jaloux journalists) what they spent on takeaways? Anyone with even a glancing knowledge of their 1980s supermodels (Moi? Guilty!) knows La Bruni’s independent wealth is virtually boundless.

Lance Revealed as Drug Cheat; Dropped by Sponsors; Credibility Lost. So? Anyone who follows cycling even half as closely as La followed los 80s supermodels has always known they all cheat. Sure, he’s fibbed and been very sanctimonious about it all, but has everyone forgotten the man won all those Tours after he’d had testicular cancer and tumors in his lungs, abdomen and brain? A perfectly healthy Triv could inject and swallow all the horse steroids, androgens and T in the world and not even be able to scale one of those French Alpy hills with the aid of a velo-scooter, for gods’s sake. Let alone ride a pushie up countless of them, countless years running, and be faster than all the other sport-billy drug cheats after a near-ravaging by cancer.  Signor Seriousimo too had cancer of the man bits, and believe me, even without all those extra tumors thrown into the mix, he was sick enough.

This is Lance, not Seriousimo. The latter was lucky enough to retain what little hair he had.

I know it’s Lance’s holier-than-thou, woe-is-me attitude that’s getting up people’s schnozzes. It’s just a shame that a very inspirational story for cancer sufferers and sports fans alike has lost its shine. From here on in, it will be about how Lance comports himself, and how soon Oprah can press her couch back into service and make sure he’s on it, pronto.

Luciano Candisani/2012 Veolia Environnement Wildlife Photographer of the Year

Years of Sun Damage Finally Take Their Toll on Triv’s Face. Not news to anyone who knows La, but… I could not resist this photo. Tempted to blow it up to triple life size and use it to scare your loin fruits when necessary, or is that just me?  It’s one of the ‘highly commended’ images from the Veolia Environment Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition. Ye gods, some people are clever — and brave.

People Respond Emotionally to Sound of Babies Crying, Research Finds. OMG, really?  Really?!? Katie Young from Oxford University has found, according to The Guardian, “there is something special about the way baby sounds are processed by the brain… the sound of a baby’s cries are tagged as important even before our brains have had a chance to fully process them.” Many mothers would argue the sounds also lead to a Pavlovian desire for chardonnay and solo, one-way flights to Paris.

And while we’re on the topic of loin fruits…

Uma and Arki Announce Name of Female Junior Cost Centre.  Rosalind Arusha Arkadina Altalune Florence Thurman-Busson, in case you’re wondering. However, for ease of use, she shall henceforth be called Luna. Sheesh, srsly? It’s none of La business what anyone wants to name his or her bubalista, but this is almost up there with Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii.

Go forth and inform x


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Tomorrow, La jets to the City of Laneways, then wends her way to the Ton of Kyne for the annual LadyFest with one of los besties, Brunny.

We will rest our weary heads here

And we will sup here

…and here

At the latter, this lady will cook for us.

Am happy about this because it’s part of the Triv Manifesto (stubbornly, still a work in progress) never to dine at the gaff of a chef who’s a) skinny or b) unsmiling. And it’s always a bonus if said chef is willing to pose hugging would-be meal ingredients. With faces.

Hopefully this won’t feature too prominently on the menu…

…or these…

…because a bit of knob-twiddling at the Triv Media Control Console and consulting of the deity Google shows she does amazing things with those critters she cuddles.

Hopefully we will share a flute or two of this…

…or maybe one or two of these…

There’s sure to be much wagging of chins and sharing of confidences. And laying of personal development plans for the year to come. sprang from the loins of last year’s LAdyFest, with Brunny and Glammo Amo in the City of Angels.

Sometimes you need good amigos to give you a good, old-fashioned kick up the…

See you on the other side x

Fights for justice

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So today, like a good citizen of the Wide Brown Land, La toddled off to report for jury duty.

This guy came pushing his actual, real-live reason to be excused.  Was jealous.

Had to jettison this at the door, which hurt.


Decided very early on, after rubbing shoulders with Matt Day at the female Junior Cost Centre’s nippers debut yesterday, that it would only be right to channel the spirit of Cleaver Greene and make like I was being called to the Supreme Court, Taylor Square, to appear as an extra in la beloved Rake.


I put on my best concerned-and-dutiful-citizen, lock-the-b*****ds-up face, and waited for hair and make-up, the craft services van and Richard Roxburgh to arrive. But, like the tiger the little girl hoped would come back again for tea, he never did.

Made friends with a sweet fellow, we talked holidays and ABC comedy. He confessed either Dicky Roxburgh or Matty Day were welcome to park their slippers under his bed anytime. We *sighed*, jointly and collectively.

In a risky manoeuvre worthy of that Austrian who just parachuted from an altitude of 38km, La snapped a piccie inside la palazzo of justice.


Let no man decree I do less than serve the very best voyeuristic interests of the great body of readers of, a readership that stretches from Palestinian Territories, Occupied to the outer archipelagos of Los Philippines. (Greetings Imelda! Did you find La by googling ‘awesome shoes’?!? Welcome, you are among friends!)

After much bloody waiting nervous anticipation, La was dismissed on the grounds of being a carer of young loin fruits.

But after all that jurisprudence, it seemed right to wander back to the Wordporium only after making a pilgrimage to Rake HQ.



Get the impression the Harbour City’s bathed in sunshine right now? You would be right.


Wick of Rand, Wick of Chis

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Last night, as we were sitting down to the televisual joyfest that is Rake (membrum virile, anyone?), Seriousimo and I felt like wetting our whistles. (Cleaver Greene kind of makes you want to hit the bottle.) We scoured the cellar — nestled beneath the dustiest and most pigeon poo-splattered nethers of Palazzo Trivialista — and stumbled upon this gem. Twas gifted to us by our very good chums, Los Harissas of the Wick of Rand, for Seriousimo’s last birthday.

La looked askance at Seriousimo. “Shouldn’t we wait, share it with Los Harissas?” And it took us all of, ooh, a third of a second to agree that it would be best tasted there and then.

Surely no-one would lop us off the friendship tree for that?  Would they?

20121012-201800.jpgToday La enjoyed a real treat: lunch at Matt Moran’s new Wick of Chis in Woollahra. Good place, but the larger treat was the company — three gorgeous McK woman, currently visiting from the Land of Queens.

20121012-201830.jpgThere was an interesting spud vignette going on near the entrance to the toileys. Not sure whether I’ll try this at la Palazzo just yet, but certainly something to keep in mind for those under-utilised corners.

20121012-201857.jpgI know this is La second mention of toot paper in the past few posts (have you been stocking up on 20 packs of Quilton for $10?); don’t want to appear obsessed. But this was a fetching meat safe/bog roll arrangement in the gorgeous loos.

20121012-201918.jpgWick of Chis had some albumens arranged near the reception desk. Snapped a pic of this one, which was the first ever member of the Trivialista Musica Viva collezione.

After some pranzo and prosecco, we wandered along Ocean Street and into Parterre. I bought Laself a Fat Bird for the blue room.

Here’s the magnificent fellow in side profile. I am loving this Fat Bird.

What I am not loving is having been summoned for jury duty on Monday. Civic duty be damned — La did it in Londra a few years ago and there’s no more torturous experience than having to sit in a room with 11 complete strangers and come to an agreement. Apart from genuine torture.

Wish La luck.

Welcome to Ryantown

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Benvenuto to the space beneath the virtual dusty rafters.  Today, you find La in a wistful mood.

That’s because I’ve just returned from Ryantown.

Ryantown (which bears little resemblance to Smugtown, home to La’s occasional juiced-up alter ego, Smuggy McSmugginson, after she’s tracked down a bargain) in East London is inhabited by the incomparable Rob Ryan — poet, dreamer, artist extraordinaire.

Rob’s recently added another string to his bow and — for my lira — possibly the most exciting one thus far.


We’ve barely touched on the topic of scarfage here at the virtual palazzo thus far.  Suspect this is because every time I contemplate a scarfalista post, I’m crippled by the fear that words will fail me.  La loves scarves like Tony Abbott loves Alan Jones.  Possibly more.

(And not just because they’re a more effective and comfy way than this to hide an encroaching turkey neck.)

Which leads me to Rob’s handiwork.

‘Every night at the same time, I go outside to look up at the moon. I hold it tight and think of where you might be, a thousand miles away, looking up at the same night sky. I feel you in my heart thinking of me.
This same moon that looked down on my parents and your parents and all the parents that there ever were looks down at us now still sharing its light
These same stars and this same sky hang over both you and I, in our dreams and in my heart, they help us feel less far apart.’

And the best thing is, this amazing necksheath is a whopping great 2.5m x 73cm.  La bigger, la better.

He’s also done some smaller ones in three different colourways — too cute by half.

‘I miss being a small girl.’ So do I sometimes, Rob.

Smallies are $135, and the misty-making big one is $205 from misterrob on etsy. Silk, and made by some impoverished ladyfolk at an Indian co-operative, so good for both the wattle and the conscience.

While we’re in Ryantown, let’s take a wistful look at some of Rob’s other laser-cut and screen-printed masterpieces.

‘Can We? Shall We? One day very soon, let us go away together just you and me. Can We? Shall We? Call in sick one day and travel to the sea and hold hands all day. Can We? Shall We? Eat our sandwiches on the train, get drunk on fresh air and come home tired and never tell anyone… Ever.’

‘Can We? Shall We?’ hangs, hopefully, above the Trivialista-Seriousimo marital bed.

And — at the risk of over-sharing — this one srsly, srsly makes los ovaries ache.

‘The father-to-be turned upon the window ledge to face the city (if not the entire world) that lay spread out beneath him. And swelled up with pride, he burst out into song – louder than he had ever sung before. He could not tell you where the words came from, he certainly didn’t plan them in his head, they rose directly from his heart up to his beak and from there they travelled out across the whole town and beyond… A Child we are going to have!! I already feel like the proudest Dad! And I don’t think I could be anymore glad! All of my life I dreamed of this day! And I will teach him or her how to fly, just like my father taught me. I want every bird in the whole world to know… A Child we are going to have!’

And finally…

‘My home will have no windows, doors or floors nor bricks or mortar.
My only home is in your arms and nowhere else.’

Come on softies, join me on the count of three for one enormous collective cyber*sigh*.

A Lawsons unto itself

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La lives in the vicini of Lawsons, an auction house. Sarah Terrific-Home got me on to their Friday weekly auctions — you know, drop-in-and-bid stuff. Palazzo Trivialista can always do with some more items to catch the dust that drifts from the pigeon poo-splattered rafters so, a few weeks ago, I happily went along.

Trust me, between STH and La, we’re talking four extremely eagle-eyed peepers, capable of a laser-like lock on a bargain. Although we missed the bulk of the auction action, we did spy a few gems. Out of curiosity and a rabid desire to know when I’m on to a good thing, La looked back through the auction results from that day to see what some of the aforementioned gems ended up selling for.

Pair of lovely bedside tables. Would have been yours (or mine!) for only $75. As we all know, a good bedside table is hard to find.

Oak dresser — went for the princely sum of $130.

Sweet Art Deco cabinet — made someone’s day at $120.

Sweet ladydesk — something I’m kicking myself I didn’t snaffle for $260.

And the piece La’m truly regretting I didn’t raise a paddle for: gorgeous mahogany drawers that sold for $200, and are now being displayed in the window of a local antique store for — wait for it — $1,850.

Even those of truly quirky tastes are catered for.

Anyone for a $150 antique wire lobster trap? Surely the handy among us could do something amazing with this, a deck of playing cards and some LED lights.

There are also major art, glass and ceramic bargains to be had. And it’s not all mouldy oldie loot, they also hold C20th auctions. Scandi rosewood sideboard that would sell for (trust me, I’ve looked, lusted and left) $6,000 in Great Dane?  At Lawsons, yours for $1,500.

Even if you have to engage the services of a handy French polisher for zsjoozsjing, much of this would still be a bargain at twice the price.

La’s set to be all over the Friday auctions like a cheap suit. Planning to cottage and frottage up to the dusty goodies like no-one’s beeswax with my eagle-eyed friend.  When that happens, you can look forward to another guest post from Smuggy McSmugginson from Smugtown, Smugstralia. Blogging from atop a $85 turned-leg Victorian chaise.

Wish you were here..?

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On the weekend I took the Male Junior Cost Centre to the party of one of his little pre-school chums. After approaching the event with an attitude of let’s-get-this-over-with resignation, this ended up being one of those kiddie dos during which I texted Signor Seriousimo thus: “Suck-ahhh! You’re on the sofa and I’m here!!!”

This was the view from ‘here’.

Got back?  Well this house has front.  Waterfront, to be precise.

What La loved most about it, though, was that it belonged to the birthday boy’s grandparents, who bought it 35 years ago or thereabouts and have resisted the urge to ‘zsjoozsj’ it. It’s a real, functioning, working family home where children have been raised and where grandchildren now visit, complete with cork tile kitchen floor and much-loved, lived-in furniture.

Sure as eggs, one day someone will get their mitts on it and knock out walls, do a Candy Brothers makeover and deplete it of every shard of its charm.  This must be one of the most beautiful palazzos in Sydney and I’m so glad I got to see it. And male JCC was glad there was a reptile show, so smiles all round.

Spotted this on the way home.  Assume it has something to do with football, about which La couldn’t give less of a fig.

Enough twaddle and nonsense — onto matters of serious import.

Am srsly not loving this wedge boot phenomenon. It’s all over the shop in the northern hemi, so will hit our fair shores post the summer sales. La for one is unlikely to boot up for this trend. Do you think it’s inspired by the cankle? Ruddy hideous.

\Had some not-so-good feedback from a couple of readers on their trip to Ojay. Feel bad!  But I am liking my v v v buona value Wordporium frock from there, particularly with la new turquoise neckpiece. Maybe I relieved them of their best stock.

A more body confident woman would snap a pic of her whole person, but not this one; not til we see more benefits from the salad days here at Palazzo Trivialista.

But anyhows, this is what I want to look like when I’m — wait for it — 81.  It’s the incomparable Carmen Dell’Orefice at New York Fashion Week.

On the one hand, am happy I have something to aspire to. On the other hand, am depressed that I’m aspiring to look like an 80-odd-year-old, albeit a foxy one.

How times change.