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Monthly Archives: April 2013


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Los specks on your screen right now would be the sand coming from La shooken, sun-drenched mane. Yup, that’s right folks – la famiglia Trivialista-Seriousimo is at la beach.

Which can only mean two things for a sun-hater like La: prawns and shopping.

Ever headed to the seaside and snaffled up a tie-dyed tote or two, a faux Camilla kaftan and a pair of rhinestone-encrusted Havaianas?

Nup, me neither. Well at least not for a decade or so.

Today I snaffled this:


La Anya Hindmarch navy sparkleclutch – half price at Toscani, Hastings Street, Noosa! La’ve been eyeing that puppy off online for about 18 months now. The whole happy experience was almost enough to restore la faith in bricks and mortar shopping.


This is the male Junior Cost Centre trying to bend it like Beckham, or do his best flamingo impression. Jury’s out. Get a load of the solo sandy bott cheek. How the hell did he manage that?


Los skies have been amazing. Have been loving them (you noticed, K Maxster!), and also loving Instagramming la hell out of them.


After a busy day wave- and clutch-chasing, Seriousmo and I are now relaxing on the sofa at la luxury rental at Sunshine Beach, the JCCs abed. Issue forth with joyful yowling. Well, let me clarify a few things: Seriousimo did not chase clutches today and knows nothing about the latest addition to la clutch arsenal (and nor will he until it has served the requisite time with the dust bunnies beneath the Marital Bed of Deceit); I’m relaxing in front of ep 1 of Game of Thrones, hoping to induce a new evening addiction that’s not Hobnobs; and Seriousmo’s relaxing by flicking through some legal briefs and draft precedents, casting the odd, loving glance at the Camilla in our marriage — la BlackBerry.

Astonishing we ended up together when you think about it.



Fast breaking

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Today there’s a nip in the air, heralding the imminent arrival of la favourite time of la year: chilly time. Perversely, cooler morns always make me want to head to la costa. So this frosty one los Junior Cost Centres and I hot-wheeled it to Vaucluse to break the fast at Il Grumpy Baker. And what a fracking great choice that turned out to be.


Just a trad, completely delicious brekkie menu. The Harbour City is riddled with tops brekkie gaffs, but srsly, this place is up there with the all-time top o’ the pops.


Ah, the happy situation of los scrambled googies sidling up to advocarto, which in turn is canoodling in the corner, like a horny teenager, with vine-linked oven roasted cherry tom-toms. Drool. Oh, and it being a bakery and all, homemade tostadas enchiladas. (That’s what we call toast beneath los dusty rafters of Palazzo Trivialista.)


But the true revelation was these button mushies, normally the tasteless, forsaken members of the funghi family. Here, they were lightly sauteed in beurre then mixed with some cream and softened onions. Oh my holy Pope Francis: genius.


Both Male and Female JCCs were most impressed with these little open-faced ham and cheese scenarios.


Female JCC bought us a Grumpy sourdough bread baby, freshly baked and swaddled.


Here he is. We are so proud. Mum and bub both doing well.



Afterwards, somewhat morbidly, Male JCC wanted to have a squiz at the cemetary. This triggered lots of talk about who in la famiglia Trivialista-Seriousimo would be buried and who would be “sprinkled”. Most present seemed to opt for sprinkling. Apparently Zermatt’s Matterhorn will play host to Female JCCs dusty remnants.


Shielded small innocent eyes from this on the way out of the “dead centre of Vaucluse” (Ha ha! Dad joke!). Someone’s obviously had a merry old time post-Grumpy and pre-sprinkling. Think it was the roasted cherry tom-toms and the advocarto?


Ciao — La’m off to eat my young (bread baby). x

All you can do is step back in time…

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Ok…so. Let’s say you work at Country Road. You haven’t been there long – just a few days. You’re summoned to an A/W 2013 design meeting and you’re super excited. You think, “This is my shot…my chance to make a mark. Show the buying ladies of the Wide Brown Land what this once-great label is capable of doing, of being…”

You toddle off, purposefully clutching your compendium and mini-mood boards to your fashionable chest. Full of ideas. Full of anticipation. Full of hope.

And you end up being part of a design team that creates this.


It’s about then you realise your sartorial talents would be better put to use in the road safety / fluoro vest design department of Bunnings.

There are so many crimes being committed here La doesn’t know where to begin.

First up, what evil did this innocent piece of gauzy fabric ever visit upon the designers at CR to cause them to seek such bitter revenge? Many Chinese polyesters died in the making of that bolt of cloth, and you can bet your bottom renminbi they deserved a better ending than this.

And about the visual merchandising. Can they not do better than a mannequin shoved hard up against the fire hose reel door? And why did someone in VM really think this toptunic travesty was stylish enough to feature in the flagship window in the first place?

Imagine being a poor, innocent burgher of the Harbour City. You’re blamelessly making your way to the doctor, the shops or the Wordporium, when suddenly your visual senses are assaulted with this. A sartorial trip back to 1985, and not in a good way.

According to the CR seers, the gathered drop waist — something most of us bid farewell to in Home Ec class — is back! But don’t be alarmed, they tell us: we’ve updated it by incorporating it into a tunic! In Thai restaurant waitress fabric! And after you’ve ferreted out your Stuart Membery pants to pair it with, you should exchange Marky Mumford, Florence and Bruno Mars on your iPod with Foreigner and Tears for Fears!

Oh, and book yourself a holiday to Thailand! Because if these fash travesties bother me you so much, it’s a surefire sign that it’s time to get away.


Rainy days and Mondays

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Am still loving la Miu Miu necklace sick, especially with la new Tibi top. Don’t tell Seriousimo about the latter or it’ll be curtains for any more Miu Miu necklaces.


The weather in la Harbour City has once more turned toxic. This was my world view en route to the Wordporium as I awaited the arrival of my mass transit vehicle. Love that Marimekko brolly — echoes la beloved Dinosaur Designs.



Lunched yesterday with LaTanna, a stratospherically glamorous friend of mine. We ate near my beloved birdcages.



Remember los birdcages? They commemorate all the little birdies, such as the White-throated Treecreeper, that no longer flit about the bowels of the Harbour City because their trees have been replaced by skyscrapers to house Wordporia.


LaTanna is a major foodie — even her dog is named after one of the world’s leading chefs, who happens to be Japanese-Australian and one of her best chums. LaTanna’s funny, smart, mega well-connected and always has top-shelf goss.


Liked this lamp tableau; might track it down for an appropriate corner in Palazzo Trivialista. Though preferably not underneath a pigeon-poo splattered rafter.


Channeling a wilder, zanier, less permanently employed woman, La drank two items from this list. With lychees. At lunchtime. On a Wordporium day. What is the world coming to? I blame that blasted clock change and early-waking Junior Cost Centres.

Lately, have found Laself pondering the concept of regret. Must be something to do with notching up another year beyond 40 35. I know, it’s a decidedly untrivial, non-small stuff topic, and I know you all like to get what it says on the packet here beneath the virtual rafters. But don’t panic — the thing La’ll rue on la deathbed came to me in a flash.  And it’s summed up in one small, ramrod-straight word: posture.

Shoulders back people.


Show offs

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And so off the famiglia caravana trudged westward, as is our yearly wont, to expose the Junior Cost Centres to babies drinking Coke through teats, toddlers sporting mohawks and head carvings, adults missing many bottom teeth and more body art than one can poke a fairy floss-covered stick at.

Yup, the Sydney Royal Easter Show.


As usual, proof that los mothering standards are constantly on the slide was not hard to come by. Here’s just one of the many carny-built contraptions La actively encouraged the JCCs to go on.


Little fella JCC just never seems to grow fast enough for his liking. Here he is gazing wistfully at yet another heightist sign barring him from entry to a carny contraption. La suspects he could also be picking his nose. Or finding himself downwind of a less-than-salubrious Easter Show odour.


This little rather large piggy went to market. Well, technically not to market; rather to a Donald-Trump-style-Miss Universe ‘meat market’ pageant of the porcine world, where she found herself roundly objectified and judged on her weight, complexion and fairness of face.

After her swimsuit parade, she hot-hoofed it back to her pen, where she multitasked — resting while feeding her Junior Cost Centres — like any diligent, hard-working mum.


La just wishes someone had done the decent thing and removed the steaming wodge of piggy poo near her sleepy head before she dozed off.

We love los cows.


Someone once told La a failsafe way to tell a dairy moo from a meat moo: when viewed from the top, the former’s torso is shaped like a teardrop, and the latter’s like a rectangle.  Thoughts, farming people?

Couldn’t get high enough at the show to test this method. Sadly for La, big big shoes are verboten west of Five Dock; might need to unexpectedly run away from scary local folk missing teeth.


We fell in love — all over again — with the O’Packers (as Male JCC calls them).


Who could resist this face?


Here’s Mrs O’Packer at her own meat market parade… dealing well, though, with the critically appraising eyes and general objectification.


Trap for young players: beware los animal pats. Even in sale-shopped $40 ballet flats. A soleful of this stuff is an indignity that should not be visited upon even the cheapest of shoes.

But despite the beauty parades, evidence of infant malnutrition, inappropriately situated poo and fascist height directives, sure as Easter eggs we’ll be back next year.