“Coffee or tea?” she asks and then laughs as she interprets my pause. Accurately. “It’s okay — we have an espresso machine, I’m not offering you instant.”
And with that, I accept the coffee. My caffeine-addled brain anticipating the jolt. Addicted to all the fast, fast, fast — the more, more, more. Coffee suits my lifestyle. Cramming just a little bit more into each moment than is altogether healthy. Using that shot of espresso to push myself just that tiny bit further.
Tea isn’t like that. Tea is cosy and slow. Tea takes its time. It steeps and deepens and takes its sweet while to achieve full flavour. You don’t rush tea. It’s not the kind of drink you slam down so that you can get to the next thing. It’s the kind of drink that you take your time with. It goes well with books, chats, craft and late night television. Read more
Style. Fashion. Words. Three loves and I adore it when they collide. I’ll talk (or write) style until the hem lines shift. But one thing bothers me a little. Whether I’m talking to a friend, or having an online chat about style, the word “too” appears.
It goes a bit like this: I’m too old, too wide, too short, too tall, too timid, my lifestyle is too boring, my wardrobe is too sparse and my bank account is too empty.
Style doesn’t require a certain body shape, it doesn’t have an age limit, a glamorous life is not a pre-requisite and it doesn’t even have to cost a great deal of money.
Entitlement. “The belief that one is inherently deserving of privileges or special treatment.” It’s a popular word at the moment. Usually used with reference to young people expecting their dreams to materialise by way of glittery unicorn, rather than hard work. Or as a warning to indulgent parents. Don’t give your children so much else they expect life to be as generous.
But my experience is that a sense of entitlement is not the sole terrain of a much-maligned generation. People of all ages expect the universe will deliver them a happy ending. Particularly when they feel the universe has already been unkind. Read more
I had two broken things. My husband’s old white business shirt. Frayed, thread-bare and ready for the rag bin. An old necklace, long ago tugged on by a baby and left in heap of forgotten yellow beads. Two broken things and an idea.
I have always loved false collars. There’s something a little rebellious, a little geeky and a little nostalgic about them. What a lovely alchemy to bring broken things back to life.
Do you have dishwasher wars at your place? Not who is going to stack or unstack the dishwasher, or who didn’t turn it on, or who left dishes out rather than putting them in. That’s amateur stuff.
I’m talking about the subtle nuances of dishwasher use that vary from person to person. The little things, that for some reason, manage to escalate into household civil war. I have a theory that it’s not arguing over money or kids that drives the biggest wedge into a marriage. It’s dishwasher disagreement.