The house in the mist

Home away from home and pit stop before global adventures. 

Treehouse in Spring

It was too pretty a day to feel as deflated as I did, but there was a moment of pure gratitude noticing my quarterly bill contributions do indeed maintain such a lovely spring garden.

119 Days

Pesto crusted field mushroom in oven? Check.

New hairdo that rectified the "Ginger Meggs" situation? Check.

The Radio Dept. to dance to? Check.


It's a swell Wednesday. I have (give or take) 119 days till I see my wifey in the mythical land of Ice and some bucket list items get seriously checked off.  In the short-term I have many a fun things coming up - a movie with my favourite Chan-streeter/Secret Belcompton Mall Rat/basically same person but upgraded, dinner with my oldest lady friend, annual trivia (a matter I don't consider trivial in the slightest), and a birthday celebration with a lady I get to go out with so rarely.

A Song To Pack To

As most of my friends (and mother) know, I am atrocious at packing. Notoriously slow, and highly distracted. But at least I have fun tunes to do it to. I'd like to think it improves my speed, high doubtful though...

When Phoenix Rose

When I heard the news, this song was playing. Such a great pop tune to accompany such a great announcement. I am so elated that my favourite pub in my hometown has finally reemerged.

Monday Morning Sounds

Ironically, it is not at all like t-shirt weather.

Debunking the paleo diet: Christina Warinner at TEDxOU

Long, but so worth it. Although I have seen this one hundred times and I still enjoy how brilliantly the speaker exposes the false basis that underpins this absurd diet trend.

My nearest and dearest know not to mention the world 'paleo' near me, as instinctive rage-ranting ensues.

Pita Pizza Tuesdays

I know traditionally the best pizzas only have a smattering of toppings but I can never stop, especially when there's vegan chorizo made by the most talented vegan wizard on top.

Thin and crispy base is the only way. Ever.

Monday Night Tunes

Monday Night Cooking

Home cooked tomato sugo courtesy of the Dapplewood vegetable patch. 

Plus some delightful Dapplewood eggplant, roasted.

Yum. Thank you Farmer Mum.

The Loveliest Highlands

Easter Dining

A delicious meal so delicious I forgot to take a 'before' image. So here's the modern Asian delicious food porn substitute.... Rustic looking sugar cubes.

My only criticism of the Hungry Duck was their complete nonchalance when asked why a meal under the 'vegetable' heading of the menu arrived smothered in bonito flakes. Not. Cool.

Homeward Bound

An excellent driving album.  You can never go wrong with a sneaky Wes Anderson reference.

Saturday Afternoon Tunes

This band always takes me back to Christmas in Paris, and the hostel with bed bugs.  The receptionist had this album on loop and I spent my Christmas evening with him in a tacky sports bar sinking beers and watching soccer.

It's a very fond memory, apart from the parasite part.

An Easter Vintage Find

Would somebody just feed this squirrel a nut please? Look at that face. 

One Sunday at the Gallery

At first I thought I should just put the experience that was Portraits from Prime Time behind me, pretend it never happened like the time I smashed that huge bottle of olive oil in the middle of the supermarket but evidently, just like that frigging olive oil I just can’t hold onto this any more.  I really am a big believer in the 'if you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say it at all' mentality but this has just really been bothering me. I have recounted the tale to a couple of unsuspecting friends during the week who innocently asked what I did on the weekend, to which I replied ‘I went to the Portrait Gallery’.  Inevitably the next question is ‘oh, what did you see?’, and unfortunately this is where it gets ugly. Sorry in advance, National Portrait Gallery, I hope we can still be friends.
In brief, Portraits from Prime Time was shallow, vapid and downright depressing. In order to understand the context of this most epic let down I should probably set the scene here. For me, the most recent visit to my much-loved National Portrait Gallery was to see the Elvis at 21 Exhibition which was not longer than a month ago, and an exhibition which I still think about frequently due to it being pretty darn swell. What made this particular series of photographs so great was the depth that emerged from what was essentially a serendipitous  few days of observational photography. Unbeknownst to the photographer at the time, the significance of the series has understandably increased given the events of Elvis’ life and death.  What was a relatively short compilation of photographs articulated the beauty in observation, the wonderful stories to be told in showing the ‘just before...' and ‘just after...’ moments, with the added depth of what was a complicated time of change and revolution in both music and America’s social history.
Back to Portraits from Primetime, and I couldn’t help but feel a serious juxtaposition between these two exhibitions. A large number of the photographs from Portraits from Prime Time were in fact film stills, perfectly primped and placed not unlike their actor/singer/socialite subject matter, a number of which were from television series I didn’t consider particularly groundbreaking. Yes, I’m looking at you, Offspring. Alongside said film stills were information bubbles explaining how television stills photographers use a ‘blimp’ casing to ensure the actors don’t know they’re being photographed, which I could only interpret as somehow trying to convince the viewer that these photos essentially pulled straight from the television screen deserved some kind of artistic merit. For me, this was a losing battle.
For the non-film-still and film-still pieces alike, information bubbles - and I use the term bubbles as they were circular stickers on a wall with literally just dot points - detailed the most inane facts about said celebrities. ‘ABC Celebrity has 150 000 Instagram Followers - Is a Vegetarian - Daughter of XYZ - bought a car for $500 and drove it around the country’.
By trying to demonstrate an intimate insight into these celebrity characters the complete opposite has been achieved, whereby their worth is boiled down to trivial, insipid factoids.
These images were being displayed in the National Portrait Gallery, but I would go so far as to say many of them fell short of the criteria of a ‘portrait’. Many felt as though they’d been ripped straight from the pages of a glossy magazine, and consequently were far too easy to just walk right past.
Now, it’s not all bad. Fortunately, the day was redeemed by the second half of the tour being National Photographic Portrait Prize exhibition.  Each of portraits had a rich narrative and varying subject matter - for some of these, the image and the narrative clashed in positively thought-provoking way. Some portraits were political, some not. Some heartwarming, others brave, others shocking. After what felt like navigating a barren cultural desert that was Portraits from Prime Time I was glad we found ourselves in the relative oasis that was the National Photographic Portrait Prize, saved before I had lost all faith in the Gallery I love very much. NPG, you're forgiven, but please don't do something like this again.

"Noah". Just, no.

Oh, Noah. Not since the emergence of skorts have I seen such an interpretation of a classic go so very wrong. 

Over two hours long, it's certainly not an unamusing film, better again once we'd accepted the film was not to be taken seriously which then turned into a joyride of stifled laughter. 

The dialogue is so strained in a film that takes itself far too seriously, jumping between rare relatable moments of an approachable protagonist and plain and simple pretentious biblical-film, slap-you-in-the-face-with-meaningful-messages bullshit.

The narrative has some serious 'creative additions' which were just downright strange, not to mention a particular scene involving an inebriated, naked Noah.

The special effects were certainly a - if not the only - redeeming feature, and Director Darren Aronofsky's trademark sound palette was impressive as always. Unfortunately as much as I'd hoped the immense talent of Aronofsky could pull this one off, it sunk under the weight of its own pretentiousness. 

2 out of 5 massive apocalyptic plot holes. 

Friday Night Tunes

I will never stop loving this song - it is a pretty spectacular way to end what's been a fairly mad working week.

Cue terrible apartment dancing...

Emma

This is Emma, I met her at a cafe where she was cradled in her Dad's arms willingly accepting all the pats she could get. And there were many.

Most people who know me know that I am a pretty crazy dogless dog lady. At one point today I literally ran outside so I could pat a pair of sausage dogs. I have a problem.

Ahem. Moving on... 

Almost.

Nigella

Turns out my housemate pervy Nigel is actually a lady possum, with a cute clingy baby to boot. Still doesn't make eating my spent flowers okay, Nigella... 

(Note the two sets of laser beams locked on to the camera).