Pinning pop-in

Just popping in purely to post these images so that I can then upload them onto pinterest, which I love as an organisational tool. Am very happy creating mood boards for every room of the house.

Can't actually act on any of these redecorating/renovation ideas but virtual planning is almost - if not more - fun as budget is irrelevant. More of a big things, unaffordable pleasures post.

Both these images are from Inside Out's 2012 Renovating and Decorating guide, but don't appear on its website, hence my scanning.

For the record, the bedroom image (it's the bed I'm interested in - Jardan's Leila bed) is from Julian and Louise Thompson's apartment in St Kilda (photography Sharyn Cairns). The bedlinen, which I also love, is from the architect's (Steven Whiting) wife's online shop y10store.com.

Bathroom image is an old one that's got another run, as photographer Sharyn Cairns nominated it as coming from one of her all-time favourite houses (it's in Melbourne and used to belong to Mark and Louella Tuckey, who've since moved to Sydney).

Record straight. Images loaded. Off to pinterest.

Time out

While it's the small, simple pleasures in life that make my heart beat a little faster, I have to concentrate on the big picture right now.

As much as I'd love to continue the blog, I'm going to put it on hold for a while. Nothing's wrong, I just can't give it the attention it needs to satisfy me, so I'm walking away for a bit rather than do it half-heartedly.

I'll still be around and popping in to all my favorite blogs. Just won't be posting here.

Hope to be back one day as it's been a real pleasure. x

Easter break

One of the many good things about having a bike with a basket is that when I spot something dumped in the street, I can scoop it up and leave the scene of the find quickly. So this Easter I'll have my hot-cross buns on my lovely new-old wooden painted tray.

School holidays also begin tomorrow and as such I'll be popping in only intermittently over the next couple of weeks.

Tomorrow we're off to a friend's house to bake hot-cross buns, the smell of which will be heavenly. In the lead-up to Easter, though, I've been adding the odd hot-cross bun to The Child's lunchbox as, like me, she's a big fan. What she doesn't know is that the hot-cross buns she's been enjoying are from a company called Ancient Grains and made with wholemeal flour. Unless you knew, you wouldn't pick it. I figure a little fibre before the onslaught of chocolate come Sunday can only be a good thing!

Have a lovely extra-long weekend. x

Vintage bunny illustration via Lee Mathews.

The Happiest Refugee

What a lovely little book this is. It's hardly new, I know, but I've just read it after borrowing it from a friend.

I normally wouldn't be interested in a stand-up comedian's book but thought The Husband might quite like it. I decided to have a look at the first few pages - and that was it. I was hooked.

It's the story of Anh Do and his family's escape from Vietnam when the comedian was just two and the lives they made for themselves in Australia. Simply, it's a 'boat people' story told from the perspective of a 'boat-person'.

The horror of their journey is evident and I felt like I was on that rickety boat with them, breathing the putrid air inside the cabin. Their boat was attacked by pirates - twice - yet Do's father still managed to bring 39 refugees to Australia, losing one life along the way.

It's something of a tragi-comedy, and something I think every young Australian should read so they don't become anaesthetised to what the term boat-people actually represents.

The beauty of this book is that it's never depressing, even when the subject matter is incredibly sad. I may not be a fan of Anh Do's comedy routines but I think he's a gifted storyteller. And who doesn't like a happy ending?

Sitting pretty

I've got rather a lot of work on at the moment, which is keeping me beak down and tail feathers up, so to speak.

It's a rather nice job with lots of words about wool and woolly events that, unfortunately, makes me want to stop working and start playing with the actual stuff.

Writing's a bit like knitting: one word or stitch at a time will result in something whole.

I figure if a couple of doves can sit in the tree outside my desk window for what seems hours on end, I can sit on my chair and keep tapping away.

Or maybe I'm trying to pull the wool over my eyes with that one.

Goodbye daylight savings

It's beginning to feel a lot like autumn around here. At the markets on Saturday, I listened as a grower told gala apple lovers to make the most of them as they're on their way out, with fujis taking their place. I love knowing what coming and going in the apple world as biting into a floury apple will guarantee I inadvertently pull the most unattractive of faces.

Made my first apple tart tartin yesterday with a mix of granny smiths and a variety of heritage green apples, which I can't remember the name of now. I'd show you, but it's already half eaten.

I noticed even the local Woolworths supermarket has erected a big seasonal list of apple-picking seasons, which I suppose is good but I saw people buying apples the other day that even Woolworths admits must have been picked last July. Each to their own.

We're starting to close the doors on cooler evenings, which is rather nice when the house is full of fresh eucalyptus as it is at the moment as it gently scents the air.

Goodbye daylight savings. Until next year.

The Paris Wife

Have just finished reading The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, and found it intriguingly enjoyable after a bumpy start.

It's one of those 'faction' books - books based on a real event, in this case the marriage of Ernest Hemingway and his first wife Hadley Richardson, and then fleshed out to create a story.

The book begins with the two characters meeting in the early 1920s, falling in love and then moving to Paris. Hemingway isn't yet published and the story weaves around his writing, their relationship and people they mix with, such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda.

The reason it took me a little longer than expected to warm to the book was because I found the Hadley Richardson of the book, frankly, quite wet. Whether she really was or not, I have no idea, obviously, but her prime reason for existing seemed to be to bolster Hemingway. But I went with it and ended up quite admiring her.

It's the sort of book to read tucked up in bed with a cup of tea and an iPhone, purely to reference Wikipedia when a bit of background is required.

Have a lovely weekend. x

Note to self

Found myself a little early for a meeting in the city today so popped into Typo, only to discover a 30 per cent off everything sale (runs till April 3). I would have happily paid the regular $4.95 for a three-metre roll of this fab crossword-puzzle wrapping paper but brought it home for $3.50 today. Bargain.

Elsewhere, I discovered one of my favourite Australian paper-product companies, Earth Greetings, has a new line of birdy bunting notelets out. I can think of many things I'd do with these (use them on blank cards, lunchbox notes to The Child, attach to a vase of bare branches) besides the obvious by-the-phone pad.

A big dose of prettiness for $9.95 - and environmentally friendly as the notelets are screen-printed locally on 100 per cent post-consumer recycled board and waste paper

Earth Greetings has great credentials to go with their beautifully designed products, and its Christmas cards have been my seasonal card of choice for some years now - a girl can only make so many.

Rituals

I've been thinking about the comfort I take in rituals and habits lately, not least because of the funeral I went to on Monday but certainly not solely either.

It began when I heard Alain de Botton being interviewed on ABC radio's Conversation Hour about his new book, Religion for Atheists. Now, this isn't the sort of title I'd normally jump at but a lot of what he was saying made sense to me, particularly when it came to creating a sense of community. He seemed to be suggesting (and I haven't yet read the book) the rituals of religion give people a reason to come together in a way that doesn't exist elsewhere.

While secular society has other get-togethers, such as sporting clubs, baby groups or school communities, you have to have a common interest to belong to one of those groups and often those interests won't span socio-economic groups like religious gatherings can. I'm pretty sure I don't know any financially strapped yachties, for instance.

He wasn't suggesting anyone not religiously inclined suddenly turn to God (de Botton is an atheist himself). Rather, that society should borrow or steal similar rituals (taking belief out of the equation) and use them in a secular way. Not unlike the way Christmas is successfully celebrated by making it a time about family and friends.

Monday's funeral was a case in point for me. It was a secular ceremony and friends and family ran the service so every word uttered was by someone who knew Jeremy well. They painted a lovely picture, which was colourfully added to later with a wake in the family's (cul-de-sac) street. It was a beautiful goodbye.

I'm no Alain de Botton but I do take comfort in many of the small rituals of our life. Every morning, my husband brings me a cup of tea, and I see that as a small gesture of love. I've no time for commercial festivals like Valentine's Day but many years of morning tea speak the world to me.

As does the daily gathering of doves on the back fence waiting for my (and the seeds I'm carrying) arrival. The way that every afternoon the sun falls on our rangy and rather scruffy old grevilleas and makes them glow is another small constant that warms my heart.

Life can be very short, so I'm determined to take more notice of every bit of it while I can.

There's been some devastating news in our community. A good man and a great father has died unexpectedly and the area seems to be covered in a fog of disbelief and grief.

But his is not my story to tell. It belongs to his partner and their two girls, the eldest of which was a good friend of my daughter's through primary school.

I'm intruding just long enough to offer an explanation as to why I won't be posting for the rest of the week. The world feels a little shaky after such news and I need a moment to mentally steady my foothold in it.

Back soon. x

Sky high

I have little to zero interest in Facebook, and have an account only to be a friend of my daughter, which was part of the agreement to let her join a couple of years ago. After policing her page for a while I found it was the same as listening to her and her friends wittering on in the backseat of the car - and there's been many a time I wished I had a chauffeur's window I could activate for instant, relieving silence.

I have nothing against Facebook, mind you, it just doesn't appeal. Or it didn't. Until reading the Sydney Morning Herald on our iPad this morning (I'm not a complete luddite) and found my favourite cockatoos - those who live in Sydney's Botanic Gardens and grace many a head in our family photos - have their own Facebook page.

Not just so birdophiles (I mean that in a nice way, not as people who creepily stare at pictures of birds on the internet) can be amused by photos of cockatoos, but, as a bunch of them have been wing tagged, to discover what their flight habits around Sydney are. Apparently, very little research has ever been done on this before.

Judging by these photos, I may have to move to a high-rise apartment on the off-chance the cockatoos choose to sit on my particular balcony-railing one morning. I'm off to break the bad news to my doves.

Photos via www.facebook.com/cockatoowingtags

Paperwork

I'm a pretty organised person but I tend to be a bit lax with paperwork. To the point where I started getting reminder notices for unpaid bills and penalties for late payment, which was enough to spur me into getting this small but irritating part of my life under control.

It was easy, really. Set aside a day to get to the bottom of the basket I threw everything into and decided to deal with paperwork every Monday. Now when mail hits the letterbox, I open it, throw it in the basket and deal with it on Mondays.

Come Monday, I'll pay what needs to be paid and file what needs to be filed, and then put anything with a due date past the next Monday onto a clipboard. If it's an email bill, I'll put a note to myself on the clipboard. Pretty rare now that I have to spend more than half-an-hour on paperwork - usually about 10 minutes.

My system has been running like clockwork for six weeks now and I feel a bit smug that I've formed a good habit.

If only regular exercise was that easy...

Ebony and ivory

The gold ones were too high, so now that there's a bit more room in my wardrobe thanks to the posting off of the giveaway bags I've added these to the shoe rotation. My wardrobe is therefore having an ebony-and-ivory-go-together-in-perfect-harmony moment.

So now I have two pairs of wooden bricks to walk around in. They're surprisingly comfortable as long as I don't step on anything not completely flat as there's no give in the sole. Walking over a grate makes me look a little drunk and I take the right one off when I drive as can't feel the brake pedal properly, but otherwise all good!

Have a lovely weekend. x

ps. I've been to Sweden and have no idea how anyone could possibly totter around in these in Stockholm's designery Sodermalm district. One word: cobblestones...

Ides of March

I have a love/hate relationship with Typo. Every time I'm in the new Westfield I have to go and have a look, but when I do I'm disappointed. Mainly because I want it to be Muji, and it's not. It slightly reminds me of Muji, but only enough to pale into comparision and make me wish we had a Muji in Australia, let alone Sydney. It's also got that cheap Cotton On vibe, yet sometimes manages to turn up something fabulous and affordable, which is why I go back.

These stamps are a case in point. I'm using them more than the similar but smaller set I bought from Muji in London so I have to admit I actually prefer the Typo stamps. But still I pine for Muji. I remember my first taste of Muji, which was in Rome. I came out of the shop with a rather large bag (possibly two) only to be excitedly talked about a few minutes later when my logo-ed paper carry bags were noticed by a bunch of Japanese teenage girls. Yes, an Australian comes to Rome and buys Japanese stuff. Very happy I was about it too.

So was delighted when I heard some Muji products would now be available through an online Australian shop, Amasia. Quickly got Amasia on my screen and headed to its Muji section. And there was a pile of Muji stuff. Just not any of the Muji stuff I wanted.

The ides of March may not have been kind to Caeser, but I'm sure he'd be happy knowing that if he was alive today it'd only take him 15 minutes to walk from the Roman Forum to the Muji on the Via del Tritone. Or he could hop on the metro at Coloseo, jump off at Barberini Fontana de Trevi, saving precious leather on his Roman sandals.

He could even pick up some of my favourite dishcloths for me while he was there.

The ides of March have a lot to answer for.

Birthday song

As I waved The Child off to school from our front gate, this magpie was singing the most lovely song. To my motherly ears, it sounded just like a birdy version of Happy Birthday, but that's perhaps because today The Child officially became A Teen.

We have quite a few magpies in the area, two of which have made a nest in a disused chimney in a house across the street. Once the sun is properly up, they either fly to the tops of other houses and sing or walk around the nature strips looking for worms.

This one's having a sing just after sunrise, hence the sky isn't its ususual blue blue yet.

This is the chimney they nest in, snapped just after dawn.

If you don't know what an Australian Magpie sounds like, they have the most beautiful song (hear it here.) When they're all going at it at once, it sounds like a choir singing from above.

And today that choir was definitely carrolling to the tune of Happy Birthday.

Square necessities

My wool stash was making feel guilty. Here was all this perfectly good pure wool that'd I'd probably never use. Then I remembered Wrap with Love, the not-for-profit organisation that takes knitted squares or whole wraps from volunteers and then sends completed blankets to people who need them.

So I'm knitting squares in between crocheting my own blanket. The project will take a while as I intend on making an entire wrap according to the pattern, but at least I'm on the right track.

Thinking of squares reminded of all the fabric squares I'd cut for some patchwork cushions I made a little while ago. Being a novice patchworker, I cut way too many patches and had spare squares spilling out of drawers. So these will go towards another cover for our outdoor bench.

I now haven't got a square to spare.

Here's the wrap-with-love pattern if anyone feels like putting their wool stash towards something genuinely useful.

The winners are...

After an unsophisticated allocating of Scrabble letters (according to the order the comments were received) which were then thrown into an old pudding bowl, the winners are Bountifully's lovely Tracey, who's got the bronze leather bag, and Harmony & Rosie's also-lovely Kate, who'll soon be able to tout an orange koala around the streets of London should she so wish.

Thanks to everyone who entered. My other bags particularly thank you as they have a little more elbow room in the cupboard.

I'm planning a trip to the post office on Friday so Tracey and Kate would you drop me an email with your addresses please.

ps. Kate, I always liked the koala bag against navy or dark blue so should go well with the dress you're wearing in today's post!

If you're reading this...
Sally and beezneez, I'm very sorry but I didn't include either of you in the draw as your comments weren't published by blogger for some unknown reason. I've just noticed them now on my gmail account, ie, after the draw. This isn't the first time this has happened, unfortunately, and my queries to blogger have never been answered. I do wish they'd fix this glitch up. Again, apologies.

Bag giveaway

I'm giving two bags away, actually, but bags giveway just sounded wrong.

Truth be told, I haven't been doing deals with designers to bring you fabulous bargains. Something far more self-serving. Yesterday's cleaning frenzy included a bedroom cupboard, so I'm now looking for two people to help me keep my house tidy.

I bought both of these bags some years ago from Francesca Rockette, who used to have a regular stall at Paddington Markets. Like them as I might, I know I'm not going to use them again and was hoping there was someone - or two someones - who would like to give them a bit of love.

One is bronze leather, with a pretty paisley fabric lining, and the other is a lined-fabric shoulder bag (there's an emu on the other side).

If you'd like a chance at one, leave me a comment letting me know which one and I'll choose two winners at random on Monday. Nothing more involved.

Will send anywhere.

Have a lovely weekend. x

Clean break

The house had gotten a little out of control and so I'd put aside today for a thorough clean. Turned out to be a perfect day as the rain was torrential, thunder and lighting was pummelling the skies and Sydney traffic had come to a standstill.

The Husband and Child stayed home today prompted by radio announcements recommending anyone who could should work from home today - the roads really were that bad. Not wanting to be deterred from my task, I popped back into bed (it was still early) and took this book with me. It's a trick I sometimes use on myself.

Looking at lovely clean, uncluttered rooms makes me want some too.

Coffee finished, I hit the shower and started on our bedroom, kicking The Husband out.

"Do you know it's International Women's Day today, Mum?" asked The Child. I did.

Perhaps not the best day to don an apron, in retrospect.

Edited to add: this is a lovely book with nice words, apart from one major boo-boo. One chapter opening lists the great flea markets of the world, and includes Sydney's Paddy's Market. Which is a bit 'What the?' Paddy's Market isn't a flea or vintage market. It's a fruit and veg market with a side of cheap and nasty stuff, including badly made designer knock offs. Gave me a good laugh, though. Believe me, if one of the world's great flea markets was a couple of kilometres from my house, I'd be there all the time. I haven't been to Paddy's in years...

Homemade gozleme

Last night's dinner snapped moments before it was devoured.

Homemade gozleme is so easy to make. All ingredients are in bold.

• Put 200g full-fat plain yoghurt in a bowl and sift 250g plain flour, 3 tsps baking powder and a pinch of salt on top.
• Mix with a wooden spoon and then finish off with your hand.
• Knead dough for a couple of minutes (I don't even bother taking the ingredients out of the big bowl I use) until dough is no longer sticky.
• Put dough in a clean bowl lightly oiled with olive oil and cover with cling film. Leave for about an hour.
• Divide dough into four balls.
• Roll each ball into a dinner-plate-sized circle.
• Place washed-and-dried spinach leaves on one half of each circle.
• Crumble feta over spinach.
• Fold the other side of dough over mixture and pinch edges together before sealing with a fork.
• Fry each one in a pan with olive oil for a few minutes each side until golden brown.
• Remove from pan, cut and serve with lemon, salt and pepper.

I cook two at a time in a large frying pan. As the base becomes firm when it's cooked, these are super-easy to turn.

Black Beauty

She may not have a mane, but my Black Beauty does have gears unlike my first bike love Apricot.

Apricot, a fixed-gear bike, was perfect on flat ground. As much as I tried to convice myself otherwise, getting up even a small hill was a hard slog - and we live at the highest point in our suburb so everything bar the corner shop involved more than a little pedal-power.

I told myself it was good for me, which I'm sure it was, but it was also impractical as I found myself using Apricot less and less and not at all in summer. Why young hipsters actually seek out fixed-gear bikes I do not know. Not being a hipster, either young or old, I don't understand. The only thing about fixed-gear bikes that appeal to me are the price but, apparently, you can still pay ludicrous amounts for them. I don't pretend to understand.

So Apricot has been sold to a film company to be used as a prop (minus the basket, I kept that) something she's well suited for as she's exceedingly pretty.

Black Beauty was surprisingly affordable as there's so many more of these types of bikes on the market now. She came from Woolys Wheels in Paddington, as they have a big range and you can road test before you buy, which I was determined to do this time round.

True love.

Stitched up

Never again should I have trouble trying a new stitch for a crochet rug, thanks to the book I bought today. See the blue, white and yellow cushion in the pic in the background? I've been wanting to make that cushion for a while but it was just a prop as the pattern in that book was for the ripple blanket (which I did make and was easy to follow).

Thanks to my new book, though, I now know how to do it.

And lots of other repetitions too.

250 in fact - and all in lovely UK/Australian terminology. And all in both words and diagrams. I almost punched the air in the bookshop but pulled myself together just in time. The colour combinations are fairly attrocious but I'll forgive this otherwise seemingly perfect book. Basic Crochet Stitches, $30, from Kinokuniya. Can be found much cheaper online, if you're that way inclined, but I personally had to have it on the spot.

I should never have trouble crocheting a rug again. But, as James Bond once said, never say never. Or was it Justin Bieber? That doesn't bode well...

Kicking autumn

It's the first day of autumn, and I can feel my clothing mindset changing to visions of long sleeves and cardigans in shades of plum and olive, even though it's about 30 degrees outside.

Am thinking all those colours, not unlike the top of my coffee table, should go nicely with my new Funkis clogs.

I was wearing them for the first time the other day when The Husband's business partner remarked that his mum used to be a pharmacist and would wear them to work back in the day. Not quite the look I was going for. Maybe I'll only wear them to Swedish design shops.

Truth is, though, I've also got my eye on the gold sandals. Just the thing for kicking through fallen autumn leaves.

Pure

Did you know there was a cemetery in the heart of Paris - it was the oldest and largest - so overcrowded that there wasn't enough earth left to allow bodies to decompose properly? I didn't, until I picked up Pure by Andrew Miller.

The cemetery, Saints Innocents or Les Innocents as it's called in the book, is no longer there: in its place is a fountain Fontaine des Innocents on the Rue St Denis in the Les Halles district. The bones are now in Paris's Catacombs.

From the Middle Ages until the late 18th century, the ground and its charnel houses had swallowed up almost two million people, many buried in mass graves, until it could take no more. The cemetery and surrounding area were so unsanitary, even by mid-1700s standards, and the already intolerable situation made signicantly worse by a prolonged period of heavy rain, that Louis XVI ordered it destroyed. Every body and every bone was to be dug up and moved. The cemetery and church was to be no more.

Pure is a fictionalised version of this event told from the viewpoint of the young engineer, with no more experience than having built a small bridge in Normandy, who was given the task.

I haven't finished it yet, but so far it's the best type of book: a literary page turner. Andrew Miller is beautiful writer, and he's just won a major prize in the UK for the book. If I'm still enthralled by the end, I'll be straight on to the library to reserve everything he's ever written.

The Husband, who read it first, also loved it and he'd normally resist anything that could even be vaguely labelled as historical fiction with a barge pole. But he was desperate for a book and I was in the middle of something else. Now he keeps asking me what Jean-Baptiste is up to every time he sees my nose in the book.

Last night we looked up the exact location of Saints Innocents, now the Place Joachim-du-Bellay, on Google Maps and found the site was literally around the corner from the apartment we stayed in when in Paris the year before last. If only we'd known then, but Paris has so many secrets and stories.

Not far from the Pompidou Centre, which I never got around to either. Clearly, I need to go back.

Red mist

My tomato growing days are over. The Grosse Lisse was floury. Ditto for Mama's Delight. Still waiting on the Tommy Toe and Black Russian to ripen, but don't have high hopes. Even worse than the texture, though, is the battle of the fruit fly. Too disheartening to go through all that planting and watering to discover motley little holes throughout the crop and the creator of the holes having a little rest of the biggest tomato after all its hard work. I shake my first at its awful twitchy little wings but it just sits there. Not worth getting angry over. I give up.

Next year, I will just buy tomatoes from the farmers' markets at the height of summer when they're juicy, perfect and cheap. Which is what I've been making my daily Greek salad lunches from. To me, a Greek salad is like summer in a bowl, and as there are only a few days of summer left, I raise my glass to it. At least the cucumbers were ours.

The only variety to have worked so far is the Tomato Berry, but I'm not sure all that water and garden space can be justified on two handfuls of cherry tomatoes - so goodbye to those too. If I adapted the cost-per-wear fashion equation for these I may be looking at the Louis Vuitton of tomatoes.

For anyone who'd like some tomato-growing tips from someone who knows what they're doing - clearly not me - The Mother-in-Law's pal Mildred who's a champion grower says tomatoes like a bit of milk. Who knew? Mildred fills an almost empty 2-litre milk container with water and uses that on the soil. Also likes to grind up egg shells and toss ground coffee about.

Suspect my troubles had more to do with lack of sun than the tomatoes' desire for an omelette with a latte on the side, but heartfelf thanks to Mildred. I think it's fair to say I need all the help I can get.

Dove sanctuary

I seem to have unwittingly created a dove sanctuary. Everywhere I look, there's a dove in our garden.

What started as feeding two breeding doves whose eggs kept being stolen by currawongs, has turned into my own flock.

On our teeny tiny patch of grass this morning, I counted 12 breakfasting - three quarters of them babies.

Some sit in our tree afterward, others just loll about on the grass.

They don't bother the native birds, even the two willie wagtails who seem to spend most of the day in the same tree don't tell them off - and they're birds who like to give everything a telling off with their telltale shaking-maracca sound, which means they're annoyed.

One landed in front of The Cat, who was sitting around doing nothing, a couple of weeks ago and gave her a beakful. The Cat looked at the bird with a "what-the-hell" expression but didn't move towards it. So the willie wagtail walked straight up to The Cat's face and let loose again. Luckily for the wagtail, The Cat was a mild beast.

While I'm not encouraging any more doves into the garden, I have to admit that I find the cooing, their weird dovey dancing and the proximity of their general animalness comforting. When a pet dies, the house feels quiet. Thanks to the menagerie of birds in the garden, though, I'm assured of at least one, if not 12, pairs of beady eyes that register my presence whenever I walk outside.

End of an era

There's a cat-shaped hole in our hearts tonight.

Sweet dreams, little friend.