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Dodgy not

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It’s been this kind of weather in Londra. 

Amazingly, no rain. Also none of that misty greyness hovering just above one’s head like a levitating fascinator. 

As this is like a second home for the Trivialista-Seriousimos, we don’t often do the touristy bits. But while Seriousimo rested, we popped by Buckinghome Palazzo to join the throngs from Ye Olde Europa who might soon not be quite so welcome here post-Brexit. Everyone with form knows Elizabeth Regina’s at Sandringham at Chrissy, rather than here. But still they wonder about it, aloud, in a rainbow collection of languages. 

Have my old Bane of Bris buddy Shallot and her famiglia coming for lunch, so popped into La Fromagerie to fondle some formaggios. Decided against the Umbrian white truffles, for now. That’s about three Célines per kilo. 

Divine wrapping. Love the pride. Oh gods – ‘pride’ – that’s made me think of dear departed Georgios Michaelos. Bugger, I might cry again. 

La wandered down Pimlico Road, early. Spotted a Banksy. Had a coffee at Daylesford. That place is such a wanky triumph of packaging over content. Love that a family that made its money from heavy machinery is now all preachy about crunchy-granola-save-the-earth-organic-or-die practices. *Spot the grumpy jetlagged Antipodean*. And their coffee was bitter. 

Visited my old haunt, the site of my first job in Londra in 1994. (That’s if you don’t count my couple of months with @Blackmorelife writing ad copy for ‘seccie’ jobs. “Pop the corks – we have champagne opportunities for you!” was a high point of our oeuvre.) The old Grand Met (now Diageo) HQ in St James’s Square. This was where La worked for one of Prince Charles’s charities, and got to meet that great farmer with the sausage-like fingers and crazy blue eyes a few times. 

What a welcome to Londra that was. More than 20 years on, the pull still pulls. Gods how I love it here. 


Dead slow 

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Ah, Londra.

As Big Ben tolled “jet lag coming!”, we rode our trusty Coventry-built black steed toward a Christmas bird cooked by La Mamma Seriousimo. 

Began morning the loss of old Georgios. That was a Yuletide sucker punch, non? 

George was my special guy since all that time ago when he looked longingly into my eyes – MINE, not yours – from the big screen at the Gosford Blue Light Disco and reassured me that “it’s cold out there, but it’s warm in bed…”. I barely knew then that bed was for anything other than sleep and reading Sweet Valley High by torchlight under my doona. But I knew things would be sweet in bed with Georgios. How right I was! 

When La first moved to Londra in my K-mart ‘coat’ (wafer-thin; looked like it had been bequeathed to me by an unemployed Durham miner) and leather Reeboks in 1993, the title of my memoir was to be Finding George Michael. My residence was only to be considered a success if I clapped eyes – and hopefully claws – on him. I managed it, once, on Hampstead High Street, years after it had ceased to feel so important; years after it felt like Londra had become my town as much as Georgios’s. Wish I could bump into him now. 

The male Junior Cost Centre (JCC) took some photos of the tourist nutbags lining up for the Harrods sale. Cray-town SW1. 

Then me and the JCCs ined up too, suddenly deciding it wasn’t that harebrained of an idea after all. 

Thought about purchasing Seriousimo this charming Beretta tie, adorned with bullet casings. I shit you not. 

Fondled what is still my favourite doorknob of all time at Chloe. It’s an equine nod to the house’s former creative genius, Stella. 

Retreated to the relative calm of Harvey Nicks Fifth Floor Café, an old family favourite. We shared jolly memories of the time we’d just deplaned from Sydney and the male JCC kept telling us he felt really sick and we kept telling him he was just jetlagged. Then we descended one floor and he vomited all over the Preen and Marc Jacobs. Ah, good times. 

“Why don’t we say ‘5mph?'”

“Nah…it’s gotta be slower than that, guv. It’s gotta be…”

“…dead slow.”

“Yeah, dead slow.”

Here’s to 2016, the year that’s been slow and full of death. Let’s mount it on Stella’s bronze steed in less than a week and whip it off into the…who gives a shit where it goes, frankly. As long as it goes. 

Wotcha, guv.

Dumb Clothes

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La’ve got the sh*ts. (“What’s new?”, you ask.) Today, my sh*ts are with Dumb Clothes. Hate ’em.

Case in point:  the ‘cold shoulder’ (CS) trend.

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Yup: cashmere, draping, long sleeves and BARE SHOULDERS. I love you Scanlan, but did you outsource your thinking to that well-known rocket scientist, Melania Trump? That’s $500 worth of stupid right there. Can someone ploise explain this trend to moi? Am I missing something? (Something aside from shoulder-coverings?)

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Even CR’s winter collection hopped on the CS bandwagon. Apparently winter CS clothes are not only Dumb, they’re rust-coloured as well.

And then there’s Milly, with a cold shoulder thing so drastic it’s almost a cold bosom thing:

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I mean, srsly?!? You would have to have the side-boob of a goldfish to pull this off. Oh — but hang on, if that were the case, what would hold it up? As FC would say, Christ on a ship! Jesus on a bike! My head’s spinning, and my teeth are chattering so hard they might fall out.

Here’s another example of Dumb Clothes: the ‘pointless addition’.

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This asymmetrical, slack-strapped booby-squisher-slash-WTF is a perfect example. Does it prevent lung disease? Is it to audition as an extra in a Blade Runner remake? Is it one-tenth of Rey’s next Star Wars outfit? Bassike describes it as a ‘stretch rib strap detail top’. La describes it as a heap of steaming horsecrap, an embarrassment to the baby elastanes that gave up their infant lives to make it.

Not to pick on Bassike, but — oh frock it, let’s keep picking on Bassike.

I give you: the back-to-front, chopped-shoulder windcheater.

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Was so ready to hook into the ridiculousness of this look until…until…a memory…

Years ago, La had a tri-striped cardi from Cherry Lane. Bloody loved that cardi. Chunky horizontal slashes of navy, red and bone, with big, shiny navy buttons; it was style incarnate for Brisbane in 1988. It was also, however, BRISBANE — a place where even the flimsiest of cardis is, in the well-worn words of La Mamma Trivialista, as usless as tits on a bull.

An invitation to an 18th in the city where I grew up arrived, and I decided I’d wow the hicks with my big-city sophistication (even Joh-era Brisbane was The Big Smoke compared to…Gosford). Looking for inspiration in all the wrong places, I made the call to draw it from here:


I wore my Cherry Lane cardi backwards, in November, to a boy’s 18th birthday party, in Gosford.

Holy hell, the sh*t that rained down on me that night…*shudders*. Brings to mind Winston Smith’s terror at being trapped in Room 101 with the rats at the end of Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Like I said, I hate Dumb Clothes.


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Channelling La Wintour today, with a couple of stacked sparkleneckpieces.

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If only I had her job, friendship with Baz and CM, forehand and daily blowdries.

Speaking of polished façades and shiny surfaces, am continuing la quest to spruce up the old girl’s (aka Palazzo Trivialista’s) make up.

Her tessellateds are being redone by the indomitable Frank, tiler to the fine wallahs of the inner-west, but I need to decide on a ‘riser treatment’.

Riser treatment

*Note: stunt stairs in use; not the Palazzo’s landing strip (STOP IT!)

No, it’s not a potion to help you spring out of bed, it’s what you do to the in-betweeny bits on your stairs.

Tossing up between these two:

Found them at the venerable Chippendale Restorations, where I occasionally go to fondle heritage artefacts. Always overwhelmed by the acres of doors and windows.


Was slightly alarmed by these instruments of torture:


But fondled them nonetheless.


Whinged on Facebook about my dire blowdry on Sunday. Visited a petting zoo in the afternoon and was, oddly, transfixed by this exotic chook. Couldn’t understand why until I realised it was like looking in a mirror. Obv some mad hairdryer-wielding man had slathered her weeny head in mousse and ‘fro-ed her up, too. See the downward droop of her little beak? She’s Not Happy Jan. And I get it.

Or maybe la beak is downcast at the parlous state of Australian political affairs. The level of discourse is high — NOT. Those trumped-up high school debaters and their backroom boys and girls calling each other “bed wetters“? That’s an insult to developmentally-average three-year-olds. All of them oozing smug self-righteousness as they label each other “mendacious“? (Embarrassed to say I had to google that one, but LOVE it and will deploy it daily.) PaulinefarkingHanson smeared all over my telly, again? I thought that fake-ranga nightmare faded around the same time as the bootleg jean. This go-round the numb-nut’s calling for a “Royal Commission into Islam”. What the fark??? Cripes, I’d rather have a screenful of Cersei Lannister stumping for the High Sparrow (before she fried him alive).


Srsly need to get La Mamma Seriousimo onto those Lithuanian passports. It’s all so sane, La’m sure, in the hallowed political hallways of Vilnius. And I bet they have killer heritage tiles.

Ciao x


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Devo about Brexit. Srsly, what’s the world coming to?

Seriousimo and I have long laid plans to retire to Ye Olde Europa. The maroon passports were supposed to make that a cinch. Our recent visit to Dutchieland reinforced the need for self-care now to ensure arthritic knees will be able to push pedals over cobbles come the end of our working lives.

However, Brexit’s shoved a stick in the spokes of that plan. Action needs to be taken to avoid toppling gracelessly over the handlebars of life.

Cue this:

Lith 1

Yup. Needs must people, needs must.

Seriousimo and I are making plans to hark back to his Lithuanian heritage and seek citizenship of Lietuvos Respublika, or the Republic of Lithuania, from the loins of which sprang Seriousimo’s beloved Mamma Seriousimo.

Thanks to Lithuania’s membership of the EU and European rights of residence, no ignorant English racists will be getting between a 60-year-old Triv and my daily serve of poffertjes in Dam Square, nor will they stop me sinking my face into a wheel of vacherin in my Parisien bolthole while bathing in champagne.

However — it’s about the fashion. Yikes! La’m not sure where Céline would fit into this sartorial picture.

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Here’s Seriousimo and I in a few years time, taking a turn about the village folk fair dance floor:

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At least the national costume of his forebears features a hat to keep his noggin warm. The brim at the back may present challenges when he goes to wear it to bed, though.

lith 4And here we are exchanging a loving look after a fortifying meal of cepelinai and a bracing mountain stroll. Clock Seriousimo’s footwear — love the nod to gladiatoral lacing.

Seriousimo could call on his old piccolo-playing skills to serenade La in the village square, after I’ve fetched a pail of water and he’s been shopping for some new burlap dacks:

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How will the Junior Cost Centres (JCCs) fare in the garb of their ancestral homeland?

lith 10Great! No jeggings and hoodies here, my friends!  The little lady loin fruit will love the accessorisation opportunities presented by headdresses, and the wee bloke will get right into the multicoloured waist sashes and floral hat corsages.

Oops, making fun of people from other countries makes me sound like a Brexiteer. Which, clearly, La’m NOT.

Sh*t. Time for another plan B..?

Try hard every day

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It’s cold. Love that though. Don’t know how to dress for summer unless it’s in a kaftan (my knees ceased to be my shorts-wearing ally somewhere around the time of the 1991 Café Neon dancing injury) and, bizarrely, flowy floral robes don’t go down well in Corporate Australia.

Had a weekend in Berry with the famiglia and was daylight-robbed by some shonk peddling this overpriced jar of snake-oil juice: am embarrassed to say I paid $8 for it, and realised too late. Fark.


Wheeled out the old Hunters. See how grubby they look? I know, makes me seem like a bona-fide bumpkin. However, the grub is the result of them sitting day and night on our front verandah and attracting the particulate matter from car exhausts that whiz past our house which is on a busy street. Fake it til you make it.


The male Junior Cost Centre (JCC) tooled his new RC vehicle around the Berry grounds. His clashing prints made me vomit a little bit in the back of my throat, but I took some deep breaths and a sip of $8 snake oil and survived until he changed.

As mentioned on the Facebooks, have been indulging in some insta-grat type self-treating. Look at these puppies! They are flats, though, which triggers a note to self: get working on shedding those last 10kg or patenting an optical illusion that makes calves and ankles look like two elegant exclamation marks rather than cankles. Flatties tend to flatter the bird-like.

Had a facial with Nerida, the best beauty expert ever. She put a youth-inducing mask on my moosh, then peeled it off. Voilà.

Triv mask

Looks like I’ve been captured mid-horror at seeing yet another ladybum clad in digi-print exercise pants at cocktail hour.


La’m continuing to be sh*tted on a regular basis by meaningless inspo. Here’s Kikki K’s latest effort. I mean, srsly, why don’t they just go with “Get dressed before you leave the house”, “Wax”, “Use your manners” and “Personal hygiene is good”?

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Am having Palazzo Trivialista’s maquillage fixed up. The old girl’s showing signs of wear and tear (to be frank, who isn’t?) and she deserves some love. She’s been repointed, and her landing strip (stop it! I mean her tessellated tiles!) is about to be redone. Then she’ll have her trimmings painted, eyebrows feather-bladed, choppers bleached and she’ll ready to face the world for another 100 years.


Suggested these dacks to Signor Seriousimo, to no avail. He put them in the same sartorial basket marked ‘FAIL’ as the CR denim joggers. That man! He’s taken to wearing a tweed flat cap to bed “because my head gets cold”. I fear we are but a whisker from an argyle-patterned mohair man-cardi.

He could take some style tips from this man:


Can’t stop revisiting this pic of DBow. Keep having to remind myself it was taken in the week or two before he died, when he knew exactly what he was facing down. A good reminder to suck the marrow, live every day as if it’s your last, tell the Grim Reaper (channeling “Rake“), “Go on, go on, off you f*ck.”

Holy inspo Batgirl, sounds like it’s time for me to get a job at Kikki K. Who are you and what have you done with La Triv?!?


Watching, reading, gobbling, injecting…

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Loadsa small stuff.  Here’s what La’s been…


Wondering…whether it was zits or mouth ulcers to which I religiously applied apple cider vinegar when I was a teen. Such are the nostalgic thoughts that scroll through one’s brain while shopping at Harris Farm.


Gobbling…this ‘cheese course’ at Sepia with Seriousimo. The ‘pear’ was pear sorbet fashioned into a fruit-like shape. Inside was gooey, stinky, amazing fromage, all nestled atop a bed of cloud-like grated gruyère. Schwowsers. Seriousimo normally boycotts cheese but even he hooked in and made inappropriate noises. I hate sharing, as you know.


Getting the sh*ts with…stupid, meaningless ‘inspo’ quotes plastered from here to kingdom come. I mean, come on, what does this cr*p even mean? And what the fark is a ‘planner dashboard kit’? That’s such a weasel-ish, fusion, would-be compound noun that I don’t know how to even begin imagining what it’s a moniker for.

I prefer this ‘note to self’ found recently in the female Junior Cost Centre’s (JCC’s) room:


No doubt the world would be a better place if we all vowed to live (‘with intention’?) by the words of old Gondi.


Visiting…the Art Gallery of NSW with Sarah Terrific-Home and old LaLa from Bne. We rounded it out with a lunch — as is our wont. Loved the guerilla textiles at the entrance, and was pleased to see a painting by Bne artist Michael Zavros paying homage to Triv’s beloved Mary Katrantzou ‘Dorchester’ blouse. Clock the resemblance:

LaLa tells me Zavros’s picture is a reflection on vanity — a buff-making bench press in the midst of a grand room in that old palace of self-love, Versailles. There’s something in that for all of us. (For me, it reinforces my long-held belief that exercise is best avoided, even if it means you fit better into your Mary Katrantzou clothes.)


Enjoying…the moustachio montage at one of my favourite cafs, Illi Hill. Those earnest, flat-capped chaps really know their way around a dirty great black juicy fried mushroom.


Buying…“triffids”, as Seriousimo calls them, for the palazzo. Generally, he hates nature, unless it’s trees that have been turned into wood panels to line a study, or cow butts that have been tanned to form a Chesterfield sofa on which he can perch his derrière.


His current pet peeve is La’s “emu butts”, or Bamileke JuJu head-dresses (for the wall) from Cameroon. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, that man has No Idea. I have him on a behaviour-management plan: every time he calls them “emu’s butts” (they’re chicken feathers, FFS!) I buy a new one. He’s piping down.


Puncturing…la skin in the interests of general health. Or rather, Steve Shin at Yang-Ji in Stanmore is piercing the Triv peau. Spied this ‘yodel gown’ in his rooms. Lost in translation..? Thought I was back in old Switzy for a minute.


Devouring…this amazing memoir by Sydney writer Tim Elliott. I don’t know Tim, but I Facebook-stalk him and so far that’s working out quite well. A brilliant story, one of the most affecting books I’ve read in a long, long time. Get on it people — mental illness is a f*cking big deal, as we all know, and this book captures the sadness as well as the humour, black as it may be.

Lots more to come – ciao x

Wandering around Wanders

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Readers from Moldova to Sierra Leone know Triv likes a bit of fash. What’s less well known – and, to be fronk, is also a bit of a dirty secret – is that I’m also a died-in-la-wool Furniture Wanker.

Thus the pilgrimage to here:

 Yes – an enormous, dedicated Moooi emporium two minutes from our wee Amster house! Couldn’t believe the proximity. 

A primer: Moooi is the brainchild of the brilliant Dutch designer Marcel Wanders. The rest you can google. 

 Think this is my fave Moooi of all time: the crochet seat. This thing could take the weight of a small car, or even a Triv after two weeks of holiday gobbling. La sister-in-law, a London-based starchitect who’s worked wonders with Wanders, had a prototype of one of these years ago. I am very fond of her but despite this I had to suppress my desire to whack her unconscious with it and nick it. 

 Need to get home and start invoicing so I can save up and buy this Dutch still life rug. Will need a new palazzo though. Bugger, double the saving then. 

 Here are a couple of the little crochet tables in action. Marcel likes a bit of granny chic. 

 This pic fails to do justice to this credenza, which clocks in somewhere in the region of EUR4,560,000. Worth it but. 

My friend Timpa has a not-insignificantly sized version of Wanders’s famous Heracleum light in his boudoir, so this is for him:

 Heracleum by the metre! Amazeballs. 

 The perfectly-hued piece for Holland. 

 Such a beautiful showroom. 

 One of the things I think is so clever about old Marcel is how he retains his clever Dutchness, and often references Dutch ceramics and Delft blues in his bits and bobs. 

Wit, wit as far as the eye can see:

 To wit: a cute-as-a-button armchair, with proper (clean, unused [I asked]) stockings draped over the arm! Might not make any sense whatsoever, but it amused me. 

 If you happen to bump into Marcey, please don’t tell him La’ve a fake Skygarden over the dining table at Palazzo Trivialista. I’m saving up until I have Moooi than enough for the real thing…

The Dam of Amstel

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The famiglia caravan arrived here yesterday, having said goodbye to the senior Seriousimos in London.

 This is our wee Amster house. Seriousimo hates it because he only “does” hotels. Bad luck. Who books wins. 

 La was feeling higgledy-piggledy as an inadequately-underpinned canal house this morning pre-coffee. Eventually found this bean palace:

 …but then was in a really bad one when I realised it didn’t open til 9. Grouchy traveling lady. 

 Not sure I’ll be getting the locks groomed here anytime soon. Imagine the exchange. Me: “Straight blow dry, thanks, with a bit of height at the crown, then could you please whizz through with the GHDs for some beachy waves?” Stylist: “Who cares.”

 Seriousimo was even more zipped up than usual against the chilly Lowlands breezes. He likes to channel haute-Gestapo fashion when he’s back in old Europa. I’m constantly trying to get him to move with the fashion times. “Pants have changed, you need to change too!” La bellowed at him recently as I thrust a pair of Country Road denim ‘joggers’ at him (elasto waist, elasto ankles). They were returned. 
 This men’s fash emporium might be just the go for him. Suitable. (Read: BORING.)

Had some amazing pintxos at Oliva last night – holy mother of gods they were delicious. Why has the pintxos tradition not taken off at home? Time to move. 

Because carny-built contraptions exist to scare the bejeezers out of me the world over, I somehow let the wee lady loin fruit talk me onto the giant swing that zsjoozsjles (made up my own Dutch word) you 60 metres above Amsterdam in Dam Square. Holy shitballs, it was bowel-voidingly frightening. This is how close we came, on a major angle, to the Ferris Beuller wheel:
 As the girl hollered for joy like a puppy in a convertible I made bargains with the deity about being a kinder, more selfless person, and promised to visit the old people’s home and sign up to replace flowers at the local church if s/he got me down safely. 

Rewarded myself with these:  Poffertjes. And didn’t share one. Will start holding up my end of the celestial bargain to be a nicer person tomorrow. 

  Srsly, that was me up there.

  Was beyond excited to see an Amsterdam house hook being used.

  And almost wept with sadness that I don’t live in this beautiful city where I could by my beloved parrot tulips for less than $20. 

Off to ride bikes in the Vondelpark, dressed – as is my wont – for summer on this sub 10-degree day, and sporting utterly inappropriate footwear. 


Note to my 44-year-old self

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Dear Younger Triv

Now that I’m 45 (so grown up!) and you’re still only 44, I’ve decided it’s time to share some hard-won wisdom on a few topics. I hope these insights help you avoid some of my mistakes, and rewrite our shared history for the better. 

I know you have the chance for a slightly spontaneous snow trip soon. So first up, I’m writing to let you know that, after many such trips, I’m calling bull-scheisser on the whole family-skiing-holidays-are-awesome myth, and urging you to reconsider future snow plans. 

Here’s why. 

 Every morning, you’ll need to squish your loin fruits’ tootsies into these rented torture machines, while Seriousimo, who’s the one who grew up on skis, takes work calls in your hotel room. (Or, as he reframes it, “pays for the blinking holiday”.)

At some point, due to oxygen deprivation at altitude, too many Kirs Royale the night before and four types of processed meat at breakfast, you’ll kick one of the aforementioned rented torture machines across the room in frustration after bending to attach it to a child’s foot. You will then look like a total tool in front of your loin fruits. And it won’t even be 9am. 

While you’re frozen with fear on the side of an alp, with your feet attached to two long fibreglass sticks, a man looking suspiciously like this one will holler at you with Teutonic zeal that you need to “LOSE YOUR FEAR!” You will weep like an abandoned baby, and no-one will give even the vaguest of sh*ts. You will mentally self-flagellate over the fact that you first donned skis in 1999 yet most of the time can still be found ascending a teeny gradient on a magic carpet, surrounded by four-year-olds. You’ll now regret the moment you adopted a ‘growth mindset’ and hooked up with the man in red. Back to the carpet for you, loser.

  You will spend AU$8.00 on this. And you will spend it again, and again, and again, like you’re trapped in some wallet-clearing, environment-killing, Groundhog Day nightmare. Which, basically, you are. 

You will have to wear deeply unattractive footwear.  

Even though you lived in the northern hemisphere for more than a decade and have visited cold climes countless times since, your long-held belief that only people who grow up in alpine environs know how to dress for the cold will be reaffirmed. You will continue to (not) layer up like someone who grew up in a sunny coastal suburb, with the frostbite spots to prove it. The Russian oligarch bride brigade will look down their rhinoplastied schnozzes at your lack of après style. Even your boy loin fruit, who could hardly look bad in a paper bag, will resemble an impoverished Romany urchin dressed in a Stasi’s cast-off coat.


You’ll wonder anew at what hotels wash their sheets in as your dermatitis flares up like a field of commemorative poppies in the Tower of London moat.

You’ll wonder, too, at the wisdom of booking the ‘gallery-style’ hotel room. All four of you in one room, and only one bathroom in that room, will prove to be less than ideal as Seriousimo toils through the night, and the familial bladders do their usual trick of needing to be relieved simultaneously.  Please, Younger Triv, avoid this EPIC BOOKING FAIL. 

You’ll allow your valuable loin fruits (let’s face it, with both of them at private schools now, the sunk costs are significant) to ski down mountains in conditions such as these. You’ll pine for the good old days of paying for them to ride on carny-built death traps at the Royal Easter Show, and promise to kiss that tatt-covered, leather-skinned man with the fag dangling from his gob manning the Mega Drop next time you see him in sideshow alley.

  You will be forced by the man in red to go on one of these. Beware: they are scarier than the seventh circle of hell, than Jason’s rotten corpse rising from the lake, than Vader unmasked, Freddie Kruger ungloved. Don’t lose your conviction that you will meet your mortal end in one of two ways: either driving north at 4pm on the M1 between Sydney and Gosford, or in a chairlift. Stuff the growth mindset. 

And yet. At times you will be felled not by your lack of facility with skis, but by utterly humbling and improbable natural beauty. By the smiles on the faces of your loin fruits as they emerge triumphant from the fog, at the bottom of a hill they’ve descended, a feat that 20 minutes ago they thought was impossible.



You’ll marvel at the  Matterhorn, the grande dame of geology, presiding over the clomping, messy, shoving, schussing sea of human chaos, unchanging and unbowed. She’ll be here long after you’ve drained your final flute of Kir

And you’ll realise that no family holiday’s perfect, but there are worse places in the world to sit and think and write and wonder. 

And then you’ll get hit in the face with a snowball.

Oh, alright. Go on. Book the trip. 

Triv X