Okay everyone, have at the hits:

1.  This book:

SO good

I don’t really want to even tell you about it, because I am insanely jealous that I didn’t write it, but I must. I underlined so many passages, I don’t even know what bits to tell you about.  Just get it.  And read it.  It is a thing of beauty.

PS I don’t usually do book reviews because it reveals too much about my heart, but this time I’m compelled.  So I’m making it compulsory reading as your blog assignment. GO.

2.  These Espresso Martinis.  I made them myself, thanks to the explicit instructions from the QT Sydney, and they were goooood.

Made by me. And god knows I don’t make many things..

3.  This view:

Check out that … beer

I know everyone talks about the view from the other direction, but you can have that, with the shitty bridge in the way- this side is the business.  With the added bonus you get of walking through The Rocks and sitting with an excellent beer on the roof of this bar:

4.  This dude:

I guess I’ll wanna name drop, and write you a post about what he was like, sometime.  But for the moment, let me say that the dude was grouse, and exactly like he is on telly.  And he got this  motley lot together again, and THAT is a good thing.  Warms my heart.

I hope my husband wasn’t giving J.O. the bunny ears*..

5.  My Mum.  She looked after the kids and the cat all weekend, whilst we explored Sydders and wined and dined to our hearts’ content.  Shame one kid had a cough and the cat had a urinary tract infection and was pissing all over the floors.  Who’d be a parent, eh?

* He was

…From The Ashers xx

Dinner One

When Hayley was scared and about to start the serious chemotherapy, but was acting tough, I went down to Newcastle for a visit.  It was winter, and as Nath would say, “As cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss.”  But Nathan wasn’t with us.  He was back with the kids in the humid faux-winter that is Noosa.  John was working his skinny-whippet arse to the bone in the calm of before, so it was just us.

We mostly stayed inside; by then Hayls was bald and probably feeling the cold more than she would ever let on, and at home we had heat packs that Kay had sewn, either for Hayley, or for Ricki before her.  At home we had thick socks, and cups of tea, and heaters, and the oven.  Always the oven.  We were cooking a slow roasted bit of cow, and when I say we, I mean Hayls, because we all know I don’t give a shit about cooking, and I definitely wouldn’t dare offer to cook a meal for my mate, cancer or not.  Every time she told me to go and check on dinner, or DO things, I quietly shat myself, but I did it anyway because I can be tough when I need to, and I know she hated having to tell me in detail what she wanted done.  Decribing how she wanted the sourdough soaked and squished into dumplings, telling me the amounts of wine and herbs and things to add to the meat, watching from her spot on the couch as I cut up the veggies.  She would have given most anything to be the one doing the work.

Whilst we waited for dinner to cook, we talked about things, old and new.  We laughed at all we had done together so far, and of things yet to hatch.  Swimming through pregnancies, eating at organic cafes, jump dancing, drinking beer, family holidays in tents with leaches and open fires, and others with sticky tropical beaches.  We looked at PET scans on the computer and decided that the white hot cancer was definitely receding, definitely.

Olive and I danced together in the lounge room.  We spun around and jumped to test my pelvic floor to Michael Franti.  “Aunty Ricki loved Michael Franti” we were told, and I wondered if we should turn him off lest he was a bad omen.  And then to Rhys Muldoon and the Poo Song.  We danced and whirled, not because I wanted to- I don’t even like dancing- but because Hayley was puffy and achy-sore, and our dancing made her eyes shine.  I can be tough when I need to.

Eventually we sat down to dinner and the meat fell from the bone and the sauce was like nothing I’ve ever tasted and the dumplings were perfect, and I knew this was a good meal.  A meal of friendship and fear and hope and love.  We drank our cherry beers and I wondered if I would ever have a meal as good as this.  Because it was the meal of before.

Dinner Two

When Hayley had been gone six longshort months we were invited to a dinner in Sydney with a man she had worked for back in those days of endless adrenalin and boundless fun in London, back in the days before the grey shadow of cancer attached itself to her soles.

We were all in the dining room, waiting for Jamie Oliver to arrive, and the energy in the room was strange and it was nervous.  For some of us, the last time we had set eyes on each other was at Hayley’s funeral, and for all of us, the last time we were together was that long long day.  We were a gang, a group of people tied at the hearts by the light of our friend, united in our sadness and with each of us stuck in our memories of the one who would have put us all at ease with a twinkling tease.  What are a group of mourners called?  A sorrow?  We were trying to be bright and smart and funny, but we were, in the end, a sorrow.

He stepped into the room, this man who had made this night happen, but was somehow an outsider, he had a sadness, but he was not in our sorrow.  At least not yet.  I wanted to like him, and I thought I would, but he was an interloper in this party of his own design.

He stepped into the room, this man who had barely met any of us, and walked over to Little Olive.  He bent down to her level, and gently introduced himself, and befriended her with his eyes and his lisp, and in that moment I loved him in a way that made my heart almost rupture, because I knew that this man, on this night, had made a memory for Olive that she would carry with her forever.  A night when so many of the people who loved her Mum hard, and her Mum loved right back, were gathered together, in laughter and fun, the tears buried deep this time.

Eventually we sat down for our meal and it was delicious and plentiful and cooked to perfection.  We sipped our flowing beer and although I knew that this was supposed to be a good meal, a meal of friendships and love and commemoration, every single part that I liked just reminded me of something I didn’t.  Every delicious bite reminded me of a bite that Hayls wouldn’t have.  Every laugh was one not shared with her.  Every bit of light, reminded me of the shadow.

I know this was supposed to be a good meal, but it wasn’t, not really, because it was the meal of after.

A little thing to make it all worthwhile…Bless you J.O.

…From The Ashers xxx

Just a quickie today, because I don’t want y’all to think I’m neglecting you, or have forgotten you, but I’m KNACKERED after my weekend away.  This country mouse just can’t do the big city any more.  Or perhaps that’s just the Espresso Martinis talking.

Anyway, blogs will be forthcoming about our adventures I’m sure, but for the moment, let me tell you that Sydders (as I like to call her) is a different beast from Newsa, and I know this because I caught taxis everywhere.  And taxis tell you a lot about a town.

Up here cabbies tell you about; the weather, Toned Abs and the fact that he’d better not bring in Daylight Savings, or when the surf festival/food and wine festival/triathalon festival, or any other festival, starts.  And if you leave your $7.50 bestbargainintheknownworld high heels in their car, they drop them back at your front door.

In Sydders they’d rather not have a chat really, unless you count talking quietly to their mates on their earphone-microphone mobile phones.

However, if another cabbie slights them, they will bring on Armageddon. Shouty amageddon.

Our driver: What are you doing you idiot, why did you block me in?

Other driver: (Gesturing to front side panel) You didn’t have your light thing on that flashes me, how did I know you wanted outs?

Ours: Well you blocked me now you are costing my clients money.  Lots of monies.

Other: You should go back to school, you know the school where they teach you about driving, and about the little light thingy.

Ours: You are an idiotman and yous should go back to school.

Other:  No you should.  You don’t even know how to do the drives. You have to turn the big wheel for steering and also put on the light for me and the other drivers to see.

Ours:  You are mormon.

Other:  You are mormon more.

I suspect no one was actually a Mormon.  I suspect no one had been to that special school with lessons of blinky things, or possibly any school at all.

But at least no one talked about Tony Abbot and made my mind’s eye ill with the thought of him in his Speedos.  (Sorry, you can’t not think of it now can you?)

Seeya all tomorrow…. From The Ashers xx

I have lived up here in the sun for close on thirteen years now, but I still think of myself as a Southerner.  Footy is still Aussie Rules.  Carlton Draught is still the best tap beer of the modern age.  Black is still the best colour for all of your clothes.  You should still keep your shoes on when you go to someone’s house (lest your outfit be ruined by not having the right footwear).  Sundried tomatoes should only be made on someone’s Nonna’s tin roof.  The best place to go for a run is still a lap around the Tan.

Some days I have to pinch myself when I realise that I really do live here.  Until the end, if I like.  And I pinch the hardest when I go to Hastings Street (which is every week, so that’s quite a few pinches).

Perhaps I’m feeling particularly nostalgic, because I’m going to Sydney this weekend, and although I still think of myself as a Southerner, I know I don’t look like one anymore.  I own more fluro than any self-respecting 43 year old should, and I have blonde streaks and a tan.  (Please don’t say the word ‘Mutton’ within earshot- I’m quite sensitive you know.)  So when I venture south of Byron, I start feeling a bit out of water.

So with the trip looming, Hastings Street was beckoned with her pretty fairy-lit trees, and wide footpaths: a local shopping jaunt to Sydneyfy this spiky little pineapple.

These are the things that were amazing about my shopping experience:

• I got a “Member’s Park” directly out the front of the shop that was my first stop.  I came over all George Costanza, and almost took a photo of it.
• My first shop Parallel Culture was the best.  They have recently changed their name from Youth Culture, and although the clothing hasn’t really changed, the attitude of the staff has.  The twentysomething who served me was perfect.  She listened to what I said, chose pieces, and helped me get the whole outfit together, even suggesting another shop for the ‘right’ shoes.  What a happy, pretty, little thing.  And when I asked “Does my bum look big in this?”  She gave me a careful and considered answer, not just the usual “Oh no, you’re tiny, BS” that is so often on offer.  Let’s face it, if we’re asking, we want to be heard and scrutinised.  A platitude won’t cut it.  This lovely spoke to me like one of my true friends would (even though she did say yes to a jumpsuit and boyfriend jeans.  Sorry Nic- I defied your advice).  So I got this… It looks better on than off, I promise. (I’m cringing slightly- remember I’m old…)

What’s in the bag?

A Jumpsuit..
What am I? Four?

• My second stop was Kookai, and again, the PYTs listened well, and got me trying on things befitting my age and stature. They wanted me to get a skin-tight number that apparently looked “hot” and that Layne Beachley bought last week.  Problem is, Layne and I are probably a bit of a different body type, and, I felt like I was wearing a wetsuit.  So yeah, I was hot. A hot seal.  Or whale.  Despite that, I loved the way they attended to me, and I appreciated their efforts.
• My last stop was Witchery, the old faithful, old ladies’ fall-back.  The store in Hastings Street really is well done.  It’s tiny, and of course doesn’t have all of the stock you can get in Briso, but it goes all right.  And again, the staff were just great.  They knew their stock and they could tell your size just by looking.  I like that, because as good as my Olympic-standard park was, it was only a two hour-ey.

The Witchery shopping haul

Let’s just take a minute to review these shoes shall we?

So now I’m game ready.  Look out Sydney.  The adult Ashers are on their way, and they’re bringing their A-Game.

What do you love about Hastings Street (or Hazos as like to call it)?

Any Sydney hints for me?

…. From The Ashers xx

***This is not a sponsored post (worse luck) but of course, I’m always up for it if you want to send me free stuff.. I’m looking at you Witchery and Parallel Culture…***

PS I just found out I was helped in Witchery by Bev from Iris May Style.. Small world!