Confessions of…

Confessions of a Queensland Christmas

When people picture Christmas, the image is usually straight out of a snow globe: frosted windows, pine trees dusted with white, scarves, mittens, and mugs of hot chocolate warming chilly hands. But if you’re in Queensland on December 25th, you can forget every one of those clichés. Here, Christmas comes wrapped in sunshine, and the only thing frosted is the glass of a cold drink sweating in the heat.

There is a rhythm to Christmas in Queensland that feels entirely different from the rest of the world. We slip into sandals and watch kids tear across the backyard in bathers. We dress light—cotton dresses, shorts, and thongs, grateful for any outfit that doesn’t cling when the mercury rises above thirty. And we find refuge in air-conditioning, ceiling fans, or, if all else fails, a dip in the nearest pool.

Christmas morning here begins bright and early, sometimes before the sun itself has appeared over the horizon. Children still wake with the same excitement, tumbling out of bed to check if Santa came. The difference? Santa in Queensland knows better than to wear fur-trimmed red velvet. He’s a sensible fellow in board-shorts and sunnies, with a surfboard strapped to his sleigh.

By mid-morning, the day is already heating up. Presents are unwrapped in a flurry of ripped paper and squeals of delight, but even that comes with its Queensland twist. Batteries are hunted down like treasure, pool noodles appear in stockings, and before breakfast is over, someone is already outside testing out a cricket bat or inflating a giant novelty pool float.

While some households stick to tradition with their food and have roasted meats and steaming puddings (and sweat through every bite), more and more Queenslanders lean into the climate. Seafood takes centre stage: mountains of prawns, platters of oysters, and fresh fish glistening with lemon and herbs. Salads in every colour of the rainbow jostle for space on the table, alongside glazed hams that feel more at home in the heat than turkey ever will. Dessert is just as telling. We bring out pavlova piled high with mangoes, strawberries, blueberries, and passionfruit—the crown jewels of a Queensland summer. And somewhere in the freezer, there’s always a tub of ice cream waiting for its moment to save us from the heat.

Afternoons stretch long and lazy. Families spill into backyards, verandas, and beaches. Some gather under the shade of a gum tree, others head straight to the sand, car boots packed with eskies and picnic rugs. The soundtrack isn’t sleigh bells but cicadas buzzing loudly in the summer air. Children run in and out of sprinklers, their squeals carrying through the neighbourhood, while the adults argue over backyard cricket rules— “one hand, one bounce” firmly enforced. The smell of sunscreen mingles with the scent of barbecues, and before long, even the family dog is panting in the shade, hoping someone will drop a sausage.

And while the sun blazes, storms often lurk in the background. Anyone who has spent more than a summer or two in Queensland knows the drill: the sky darkens in the late afternoon, thunder rumbles, and suddenly the heavens open. A tropical storm rolls through, sheets of rain pounding the hot ground, steam rising as if the earth itself is exhaling. Then, as quickly as it arrives, it’s gone—leaving puddles for kids to splash in and a freshness in the air that makes the evening bearable.

As the day winds down, Christmas lights flicker on. Fairy lights twinkling against palm trees, inflatable Santas bobbing in the warm night breeze, and illuminated reindeer glowing awkwardly beside hibiscus bushes. Families wander the streets, ice creams in hand, admiring each other’s creativity (or excess), the night still sticky with heat.

There’s something almost cheeky about Christmas in the Queensland sun. It laughs in the face of tradition, swapping snow for sand, and fireplaces for fans. It’s not the Christmas we see in movies, but it’s one that belongs to us. It’s laughter echoing across backyards, prawns sizzling on barbecues, mango juice dripping down chins, and the unshakable sense that no matter how hot it gets, this day is about being together.

And perhaps that’s the charm. Christmas in Queensland isn’t about replicating a European fantasy; it’s about leaning into the life we live here—bright, bold, sun-drenched, and a little bit sweaty. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. But I will say, having experienced northern hemisphere christmases for over 30 years…. I do miss them.

Confessions of a Christmas Birthday

 

 

Having a birthday on Christmas Day sounds magical, doesn’t it?  “How lucky!” people say, as if the entire world conspires to throw me the ultimate party. But let me tell you a secret: being born on December 25th is both a blessing and a curse. And sometimes, more curse than blessing.

 First, let’s address the elephant in the room: the dreaded joint present. If you’re a Christmas baby, you know what I mean. One box. One gift. A card that cheerfully reads: “Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday!”  But let me tell you. I was lucky. My mum always made sure that I had double presents at Christmas. There was something for Christmas and something for birthday. The perfect example was 40 presents for 40 years! The other great example was my late husband. He was a June baby and always bought me a present on his birthday, so I had something to look forward to ½ way through the year!!

Then there’s the cake situation. You’d think, at the very least, I’d get a glorious birthday cake to make me feel unique. I did. My dad was a pastry chef and when he made a Christmas cake, my birthday cake was decorated to say, “Merry Birthmas.”

As a child, the struggle for a party was real. School friends had parties with pass-the-parcel, and enough cordial to send everyone into a sugar frenzy. Me? Try scheduling a birthday party on Christmas Day. Nobody comes. Everyone’s busy with their families, opening presents, or dozing in a food coma. My mum always tried to make sure I’d get a “half-birthday” party in July. But it’s not the same.

There are perks to a Christmas birthday. For one, the atmosphere is undeniably festive. While others get a lonely “Happy Birthday” text, I have the potential to wake up to the sound of carols, bells, and sometimes an entire church service. The world feels alive. People are merry (or tipsy—it’s hard to tell), the lights are twinkling, and at least I never spend my birthday alone. Family is always around, whether I want them or not.

The truth is, having a Christmas birthday teaches resilience. You learn to carve out your own space in the middle of the biggest holiday of the year. You learn that celebration isn’t always about the number of presents or the size of the party, but about making sure your moment still matters—no matter how busy the day.

So yes, my birthday might get tangled up with tinsel and turkey. Yes, I’ve blown out candles on fruitcake and unwrapped “Merry Birthday” gifts with Santas on the paper. But here’s my final confession: I wouldn’t trade it. Being a Christmas baby might mean sharing the spotlight, but it also means being part of the most festive, colourful, over-the-top day of the year. And really, who else gets a whole planet singing “Joy to the World” on their birthday?

Confessions of Overwhelmed & Merry

The world tells me Christmas is the season to be merry. The carols insist on merriment. The greeting cards proclaim it, and the endless loop of tinsel-covered advertising demands it. Merry, merry, merry. But here’s my confession: sometimes I don’t feel merry at all. In fact, sometimes Christmas feels less like a joyful celebration and more like a carefully choreographed performance that I’m expected to star in—complete with costume changes, forced smiles, the occasional party, and an applause line at the end.

Don’t get me wrong. I like Christmas. I like fairy lights that make the living room look like a magical grotto. I like that there’s social permission to eat chocolate for breakfast because “it’s festive.” But buried under the baubles and every other Christmas item is a pressure that can feel crushing. The expectation is simple: be merry. No matter how tired, broke, lonely, stressed, or sad you might feel—slap on that smile and sing along to Mariah Carey. It’s doesn’t feel like a request. It seems more like an instruction. Society hands it out with every advent calendar. “Thou shalt be merry.”

Christmas is meant to be about joy, togetherness, generosity. But life doesn’t always fit neatly into the holiday script. Some years come with grief, missing chairs at the table, or bank balances that groan under the weight of gift lists. Sometimes the family gathering is more of a soap opera Christmas special: drama, arguments, and someone storming off before pudding. Sometimes you just don’t feel like making polite small talk with relatives you barely see.

And yet, the pressure persists. Think of the social media feed—glossy trees, matching pyjamas, grinning families with mugs of cocoa. Compare that to the reality: tangled lights, burnt shortbread, and a cat climbing the tree. Everyone else looks like they’re floating through December in a snow globe of happiness while you’re frantically trying to find a parking space at the shopping centre.

Here’s another confession: sometimes I just want to opt out. Not from Christmas entirely, but from the demand that I must radiate cheer. There are days I’d prefer a quiet cup of tea, and an enjoyable book. But if you admit that? You risk being labelled a Scrooge. Or worse: a “downer.” Nobody wants to be the person who says, “Actually, I’m not really in the Christmas spirit this year.” It is social heresy.

The irony is, Christmas is meant to be about connection and kindness—two things that do not require forced merriment. You don’t need to be merry to sit with a friend and listen to their worries. You don’t need to be merry to take soup to an elderly neighbour. You don’t need to be merry to remember someone you have lost and honour them in your own quiet way.

The problem is that “merry” is too narrow a word. Life is richer and messier than that. Christmas could allow space for a full range of emotions. It is okay if joy is mixed with sorrow, laughter with tears, gratitude with exhaustion. After all, real life doesn’t stop in December. Bills still arrive, illnesses still happen, grief still aches. What if instead of demanding merriment, we allowed each other to be real? To say: “I am happy about some things this year, but I’m also tired. I am grateful, but I’m also sad. Wouldn’t that be more honest—and oddly, more freeing?

Confession: when I stop pretending, Christmas feels a little lighter. When I admit to myself that I don’t have to be perpetually merry, I can appreciate the small moments more. The warm glow of fairy lights. The taste of gingerbread. The unexpected laugh that erupts from nowhere. The hug that says more than words. These don’t require forced cheer—they just happen.

So, here is my conclusion: maybe it’s okay if I am not merry every second of December. Maybe it’s okay to be human first and festive second. Because the truth is, Christmas isn’t a stage show where we all play the role of “happy holiday person.” It’s a season. A season where joy can be genuine, but also where reflection, honesty, and even sadness has their place.

And when joy does arrive—unexpected, unforced—it feels even more magical.

Confessions of a Birthday Tree

There is something magical about a Christmas tree. The twinkle of lights, the shimmer of ornaments—it’s a family tradition steeped in comfort and nostalgia. But what if the Christmas tree isn’t just for Christmas? Let’s throw in a curveball here. What if, instead, it becomes the centrepiece of a birthday celebration?

For those of us born in December, (like me, actually on the 25th) – the line between birthday and festive season is blurred. Not so much as I get older, but when you are young, everyone chimes in, “merry Christmas…. oh yes, it’s happy birthday too” like an afterthought. Cake candles fight for space with fairy lights, and birthday gifts sometimes come wrapped in reindeer paper. But there is an opportunity hidden in this overlap: the Christmas tree itself can be transformed into a birthday tree.

The process begins with intent. A Christmas tree, no matter how small or large, becomes the canvas. Instead of defaulting to red, green, and gold, the colour scheme should reflect the personality of the birthday person. For the last couple of years, my birthday tree has not had a colour scheme. This year it will.

Next, the lights. Christmas lights are non-negotiable, but for a birthday tree they can serve double duty. Twinkling fairy lights strung carefully through the branches create the familiar festive glow, The sparkle now says both Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday.

The ornaments are where the magic happens. Swap anything that says ‘Christmas’ and replace with birthday. Simple baubles in a favourite colour. Happy birthday hanging decorations. Balloons. Streamers. Birthday cards pegged to the tree. It all says birthday not Christmas.

Of course, no birthday is complete without cake, and a birthday tree offers the perfect stage. Imagine the base of the tree surrounded not by wrapped Christmas presents, but by cupcakes or a tiered stand of treats. Gifts for the birthday person can be placed beneath, but wrapped in birthday paper rather than Christmas motifs, ensuring the occasion feels distinct and special.

The result is more than just a tree—it is a statement that says, “Your birthday matters, even in the middle of Christmas chaos.” For December babies, who often feel overshadowed by festive sparkle, a birthday tree carves out space to be celebrated in their own right.

So, this year, if you know someone whose birthday falls during the festive season, consider swapping the tinsel for balloons and giving them a Christmas tree that shines a light on their birthday!

(Says the woman with a Christmas birthday and a traditional red/green/white Christmas tree!)

Confessions of a Music Addict

“If music be the food of love, play on.” Isn’t that the quote? Well, something like that anyway. I love music. I am a music addict. Not in the casual, “I like to have the radio on in the background sometimes” way, but in the “I can’t function without a soundtrack” kind of way. Music is the fuel, the comfort, the constant. It’s less of a hobby and more of a survival mechanism, a memory jogger.

I wake up to music. Literally. My alarm isn’t the dull beep, beep, beep that makes you want to throw your phone across the room.  My phone wakes me with the opening chords of The Beatles “Love Me Do.” It is a carefully chosen song that drags me out of sleep and sets the mood for the day. The morning playlist matters—it’s the first hit of the day.

The addiction shows itself in the everyday. Brushing my teeth? Music on. Driving? Forget silence—I don’t even know what the car sounds like without music. I suspect the engine could be falling apart and I’d never notice, because I’m too busy belting out Fleetwood Mac or getting lost in the Pink Floyd album I love (but really should have appreciated years ago!)

I am never without my headphones. If I leave the house and realise they are missing, it feels like I’ve left behind a vital organ. Do I turn back? Sometimes, yes. Because what’s worse than standing in a supermarket queue surrounded by chaos with no way to drown it out? Music doesn’t just entertain—it shields. It cocoons. It creates a bubble where the world can’tintrude.

Then there’s the one more song problem. Much like the “just one more episode” curse of streaming services, music has the same grip. I’ll be heading to bed, yawning, knowing I need sleep, but then I think: just one more song. Three songs later, I’m wide awake, swaying in the dark, rediscovering a track I loved ten years ago. My sleep schedule has been destroyed more than once by this late-night habit. But oh, what a beautiful destruction it is.

Music also has this insidious way of attaching itself to memory. Every moment of my life seems to come with a soundtrack. Certain songs feel like time machines. Play anything from Mike Oldfield or The Moody Blues and I am at one of my parent’s dinner parties. Play the Grease soundtrack and I am at Fairlop Waters belting out ‘Summer lovin’ with friends. Give me a dose of Coldplay and I am sitting in Suncorp Stadium. Play Paul McCartney and I’m transported back to the first time I saw him in Las Vegas, how it felt so wrong because my dad wasn’t there. Play anything by Meatloaf, ABC, Soft Cell or Dexys Midnight Runners and my late husbands 80s soundtrack is born. Even grief has its soundtrack. There are songs I can’t listen to without tears because they’re stitched into moments of loss and love. I don’t just listen to music—I live through it.

My addiction also extends to collecting. Some people collect shoes or handbags; I collect playlists. Hundreds of them. Every mood, every scenario, every passing whim gets its own carefully curated list. “Rainy Afternoon.” “Driving toNowhere.” “Cleaning.” Each one a little capsule of feeling. I know it borders on obsessive, but there’s a strange comfort in knowing I can conjure up a mood at the press of play.

Some people might argue this isn’t really an addiction—it’s just a passion. Maybe they’re right. But I’ve seen the signs. The way I panic when Spotify glitches. The way I hoard old CDs I don’t even own a player for anymore, just in case. The way silence feels uncomfortable, like an itch I can’t scratch. These aren’t just quirks. They’re symptoms.

The funny thing is, I don’t actually want to be cured. If addiction is something you can’t live without, then music is mine unapologetically. It doesn’t hurt me, it doesn’t hurt anyone else, and it makes life infinitely richer. Music has carried me through heartbreak, lifted me in joy, and sat with me in the quiet moments when no one else could.

So yes, I confess I am hopelessly addicted to music. And if that’s a problem, then it’s one I never want solved. Because silence might be golden for some—but for me, life will always be better with a soundtrack.

 

Confessions of a Streaming Addict

Addiction is not always about substances. Sometimes it is about behaviours—the things that quietly slip into daily life until they become patterns you can no longer control. My confession is simple: I am a streaming addict. I’ll admit, right now that I have three services. I have Amazon prime, well, it does go hand in hand with the shopping, and I get the ‘Reacher’ series into the bargain too. I have Stan which gifts me ‘From’ and ‘The Handmaids Tale’ amongst others, and I have HBO Max. Ok, I have The Daily Wire too.

It feels almost laughable to admit. How can something as ordinary as watching television be considered an addiction? But that’s the tricky part. Streaming is socially acceptable. Everyone does it. It’s marketed as relaxation, entertainment, or self-care. The platforms sell the illusion of control: watch what you want, when you want, however much you want. But beneath that promise lies a trap.

For me, it started innocently. A show (The Handmaids Tale) recommended to me, a series to fill my evenings. But slowly, streaming became more than just background noise. It became central. Days began to revolve around when I could squeeze in another episode. Nights stretched later and later because I could not bear to stop at a cliffhanger. The phrase “just one more” became a mantra I never honoured. The consequences crept in quietly. Hours slipped away unnoticed, swallowed by seasons and storylines. I stopped reading as much. Conversations became harder to follow because my mind wandered back to fictional characters instead of staying present with the real people in front of me.

Streaming is designed to be addictive. Algorithms feed recommendations tailored to keep you watching. Autoplay ensures there is no natural break, no pause for reflection, no opportunity to choose something else. Entire series are released at once, encouraging marathons rather than measured consumption. It is a business model built on holding your attention for as long as possible, and I, like millions of others, fell straight into its design.

Streaming can feel like company, but it is not the same as true connection. When nights are filled with the company of fictional people, real relationships can suffer. Invitations may get turned down because staying home to watch feels easier. Conversations become hollow when your head is filled with fictional plot lines instead of shared experiences. Slowly, the gap between yourself and others widens.

Confessing this feels important because it is easy to minimise. It is easy to laugh it off, to treat binge-watching as a harmless quirk of modern life. But when it begins to dictate your habits, erode your sleep, and disconnect you from real life, it becomes more than entertainment—it becomes escapism at a cost.

I may never give up streaming entirely, nor do I want to. Stories are part of what makes us human, and television is a form of storytelling that connects people across cultures and continents. But I want to engage with it consciously, not compulsively. I want to watch because I choose to, not because I can’t stop.

This is my confession. I am a streaming addict. And while the shows may continue to roll on, I am learning—slowly, imperfectly—to press pause.

Confessions of an Amazon Addict

 

Ok, it is November, and I am here for my second confession of the month. This month I have been talking addiction, and this one is no different. I am talking an addiction to Amazon shopping. Now, I should stress here that I hate regular shopping. I loved it when mum was here, there is something about a girly shopping trip, but life is different now. So, as much as I can, life (and shopping) comes via Amazon.

Here is where the trouble starts though. What starts as a book here and there, soon leads to other things. Let me elaborate. I am talking books, make up, mens handkerchiefs, an electric frypan, drawer dividers, a make up bag, a handbag, an iPad case, a broom holder, artificial flowers and more. You see what I mean? Where else could I get make up I like at a 1/3 the price of the local supermarket? Where else could my electric frypan arrive the next morning? I love Amazon.

Every now and then, I tell myself, ‘Be disciplined, no more books until you’ve cleared your pile that need to be read.’ Then I realise that I’m wasting my breath and hit the pre-order button (says the woman who has 10 books (so far) preordered between now and Christmas.) It’s then that amazon grabs you and throws you down a rabbit hole. You know what I mean. That section that says, “Customers who bought this also bought…” and suddenly I’m tumbling down said rabbit hole of unnecessary items.

There’s also the issue of Amazon Prime. With free two-day shipping, the barriers to rational thought collapse entirely. It’stoo easy. Impulse becomes action, and action becomes delivery. At one point I calculated that if I ordered daily, I could, in theory, see my delivery driver more than my own friends. I’m not sure if that says more about my social life or my shopping habits.

The packages themselves have become part of the addiction. I hear a thump on the doorstep and practically sprint to the door. For a moment, I am the star of my own unboxing video, peeling back the tape like it holds the secrets of the universe. Still, I sometimes wonder how history will view my addiction. Archaeologist’s centuries from now may unearth my house and marvel at the unopened gadgets, stacks of novelty mugs, and an inexplicably large collection of reusable shopping bags. “Clearly,” they will conclude, “this was a shrine to the gods of convenience.”

For now, though, I have made peace with my Amazon habit. It may not be noble, but it is harmless enough—unless you count the mountain of cardboard boxes in my garage. I recycle, of course, though I suspect the recycling bin itself was once an Amazon purchase.

So, yes. My name is Joanne, and I love Amazon shopping. But honestly, things could be worse….

Confessions of an Addict

You’ll see a pattern this month with my confessions. I am talking addiction. Not drugs. Not alcohol. Not any of those weird and wonderful things that people can be addicted to, but normal everyday things. I’m talking online shopping. Online TV streaming (go on admit it. How many are you subscribed to?) I’m talking online music. We’re all addicted to something, whether we like to admit it or not.

And let’s be honest, these addictions have become part of the rhythm of modern life. Shopping no longer requires a trip to the mall—it requires a click, a cart, and the endless anticipation of delivery. Streaming isn’t just about watching TV anymore; it’s about binging entire seasons in a weekend and pretending you’ll stop after “just one more” episode. Music? Well, it’s the soundtrack to everything we do, from driving to writing to cooking dinner. It’s the addiction I wouldn’t dare quit because silence feels like something’s missing.

So, this month, I am talking about things I am addicted to. On the 14th, I will tell you how I love my Amazon shopping and why. On the 21st, I will discuss TV streaming and that little phrase, “just one more…”. On the 28th, I will share my obsession with music and how I cannot live without a soundtrack playing in the background of my life.

Perhaps the real confession is this: I don’t actually want to quit any of them. These little habits—these so-called “addictions”—are not destructive. They are the small indulgences that make life brighter, easier, and sometimes just more fun. If addiction means having something you look forward to every single day, then maybe, just maybe, we’re all guilty—and that’s not such a terrible thing after all.

Confessions of Loving Birthdays

Some people dread birthdays. They see them as a glaring reminder that another year has passed, that they are older, creakier, and further away from their younger days. But me? I love birthdays. Always have. Birthdays are not simply about numbers—they are about life. They are about being here for another lap around the sun. And in my case, being born on Christmas Day, my love for birthdays had to fight hard for survival. Because let’s be honest, sharing your birthday with Jesus is like trying to blow out candles while the Pope sings louder than everyone else.

When I was a child, I didn’t care that my birthday fell on Christmas. I got presents. I got cake. And while the rest of the world seemed distracted with tinsel and turkey, I quietly claimed my corner of joy. My mother always made sure I had a birthday party in the middle of the year, a ½ birthday like the queen, to ensure that friends could make it to a birthday party. My birthday at Christmas was for family.

Somewhere along the way, birthdays became a celebration of more than just me. They became a celebration of people. I love other people’s birthdays as much as my own. There’s something heartwarming about celebrating the life of someone close to you. I don’t understand people who want to hide on their birthday. I get it—maybe you don’t want the fuss, maybe you don’t want the attention, maybe you don’t want to face the number. But in my mind, a birthday is the one day that is wholly yours. It’s about letting others show you they appreciate you.

Of course, I’m not blind to the passage of time. My joints click louder than they used to, and my face has taken on the habit of forming lines it never consulted me about. But I still celebrate. Because the alternative to aging isn’t youth—it’s not being here at all.

I also love the traditions people attach to birthdays. The beauty of birthdays is that they are flexible. You get to celebrate however you want, and that expression of self is just as important as the celebration itself. When my father turned seventy-five this year, I took him out for breakfast, as I always do. It’s become our ritual. Birthdays, for us, are not just about marking another year—they’re about creating new memories. That’s the gift, really: experiences, laughter, shared meals. Candles and cake fade, but moments live on.

Some birthdays carry grief. My late husband’s birthday still hits hard every year and always will. My mother’s absence makes Christmas—and my own birthday—a little sharper around the edges. But even in loss, birthdays hold meaning. They become days of remembrance, of honour, of gratitude for the years we had together. Birthdays, in their strange way, remind us that love doesn’t die.

So yes, I will always love birthdays. Birthdays are not about the number. They are about the story behind the number. They are about presence. They are about saying: You are here. We are glad. You matter.

And if that isn’t worth celebrating every single year, I don’t know what is.

Confessions of an over-packer

I have a confession: every time I pack for a trip, I overpack. Not just a little—a lot. What is strange is I never used to. Something has shifted, and now it is as though I no longer trust myself.

Here is the scenario: I go away for three days, so I pack three outfits. Perfectly reasonable, right? But then the “just in case” voice pipes up. Just in case we go out for dinner. Just in case I spill coffee all over myself. Just in case I suddenly need two extra pairs of shorts. And before I know it, I have packed enough “just in case” outfits to survive a six-month relocation.

And then comes the second demon of the suitcase: the dreaded fear of packing the wrong thing. It walks hand in hand with overpacking. “What if the weather changes? What if I forget something crucial? What if I suddenly decide I need a pair of shoes I have not worn since 2012?”

It’s not just packing—it is a full-blown battle between logic and irrational panic. Logic says: “Three days, three outfits.”Panic says: “But what if you need four different versions of yourself?”

For three days, here’s what my bag typically holds: three pairs of shorts, three T-shirts, three lots of underwear, pyjamas, two spare outfits (you never know), a dress just in case, extra underwear, a jumper in case the weather changes, and long trousers for a cool evening. Oh, I am not kidding. I’m going for three days and packing for a safari.

Then there is the technology. iPhone, iPad, headphones, watch, and laptop. Naturally, every one of them comes with its own charger. So now I am also hauling around a spaghetti junction of cables that could power a small office.

But here’s the thing—maybe it is not overpacking at all. Maybe it’s about control. It’s the scouts’ “be prepared” motto tattooed onto my subconscious. My bag says I am ready for everything. And yet, the punchline? I live in shorts, T-shirts, and Converse sneakers. I usually wear the same outfit two days in a row, which means I’ve overpacked more than I even realised.

So, why do I keep doing it? Maybe because life feels unpredictable, and my suitcase is the one place I can outsmart the unknown. Or I just need to admit the truth: I am not packing for three days—I am packing for every version of me that might show up. And honestly? It is exhausting. But when the apocalypse comes and everyone else is scrambling, you will find me sitting comfortably in clean pyjamas, with three spare pairs of shorts and all my chargers at the ready.

Confessions of missing the little things

I confess to missing the little things. I suppose you’re wondering what I mean by that, so I had better explain. Im talking about the tiny things that partners say or do. Sometimes we take those things for granted. Sometimes we don’t.

Let me tell you my “missing things” story. I lost my husband back in 2019. Some days it feels like the six years that it is. On other days, it feels as if it happened yesterday. That’s par for the course being a widow. But I miss things.

Talking – I miss that every night we laid there talking, a bit like Mel Smith and Gryff Rhys Jones (my UK friends will remember that show.) We could be talking about anything at all, but it was important that we gave each other that undivided time.

Sleep – I miss that he could not fall asleep without having a hand or finger touching my back.

Flowers – I miss that he always bought me flowers. It was always sunflowers which were my favourites or irises which he loved.

Surprises – I’m not a great lover of surprises but boy could he pull them off! Coming home from work on a Friday night and having tickets handed to me for a London show that night. Hotels booked for a night away. Holidays booked in places I had dreamed of going. Coming home from work to dinner cooked and my favourite dessert or bar of chocolate in the fridge.

Concerts – Over the years we saw many bands, quite often a surprise night out. U2, Coldplay, The Police, Billy Joel, Elton John, Moody Blues, Paul McCartney, Phil Collins, The Beautiful South, James Blunt, Robbie Williams, Eric Clapton and more.

When you have your partner beside you in life, take note of the little things. The little things such as the sound of their voice. The way they smile. They way they know you better than you know yourself. The way you could finish their sentence. The way they make your coffee. Remember all those tiny things.

Why?

Because the tiny things are the important things. Life is not about how much money you earn or where you live. It is not about the size of your tv or the type of car you drive. Life is about being able to look at your family and smile knowing that you have all you could wish for.

Confessions of a Failed Domestic Goddess

Some women float through life like Pinterest boards come to life. You know the type. Their houses smell of freshly baked sourdough, not the faint whiff of last night’s takeaway. Their laundry folded into neat little stacks that look like they belong in a boutique shop. They even remember to iron tea towels. Seriously, who irons tea towels? Meanwhile, I was what you might call a failed domestic goddess.

I never set out to be a goddess, let alone a failed one! I never set out to fail, I just married someone who was better at this than I was. Cooking became his thing. My kitchen reality was marmite on toast, that’s it.

The Kitchen – My Enemy and My Playground

Cooking…every recipe says, “20 minutes.” That is true if you have everything pre-measured and pre chopped. That is true if you have the obscure spices that you use once and never again. It is also true if you shut the kitchen door while you cook blocking out all distractions.

My meals would fall into two categories.

  1. Put it on toast (which means basically beans or marmite, maybe both)
  2. Let someone else cook (the easiest choice and my get out clause!)

I hated cooking. It was a chore. But when Mark got sick, cooking was a necessity as he could not manage it. He started giving me pointers on the best way to do things and you know what? Cooking became fun. I realised I enjoyed it.

Laundry – A Game of Chance

Laundry day is otherwise known as ‘potluck day.’ Whites and colours go in together because life is too short for sorting. Socks? They vanish into another dimension, leaving me with a drawer of widowed singles. I like to think of it as a charitable project for lonely socks.

Then there is the folding. How do women fold a fitted sheet with so much precision? I fold one and it looks like a three-year-old has tried origami with a sheet of wet paper! So, I don’t fold them anymore; I wrestle them into a ball and shove them into the cupboard. Job done.

Hosting – My Domestic Olympics

I hosted the occasional dinner party. Usually for my parents on their birthdays. They would pick what they fancied to eat, and I would cook it. My mum always liked my shepherds pie which was my speciality! My mum loved her dinner parties, and I suppose that I got my love of setting the table and using the best china from her.

Embracing My Failures

For years, I felt guilty that my cooking wasn’t up to scratch, for not measuring up. But then you realise how liberating it is. Nobody expects perfection from me. Guests know the wine will be decent (I buy it, I don’t make it), the food will be edible-ish, and the conversation will be lively. Nobody cares if there’s dust on the TV or if my cushion covers do not match. People are happy to have a good night without the fear of my poisoning them!!

My Kind of Goddess

So yes, I’ve failed at the traditional goddess role. My house will not be featured in glossy magazines, my cooking will not win any prizes, and my ironing board is mostly used as a makeshift shelf. But in a world obsessed with appearances, failing at domestic perfection is its own kind of victory.

After all, laughter tastes better than soufflé.

Confessions of Unpacking Woes

Unpacking is the part of travel nobody talks about. Sure, we all post glamorous airport selfies, sunsets from hotel balconies, and food we cannot pronounce — but we never post the crumpled heap of despair that is our suitcase after a trip. Why? Because unpacking is a personal hell.

I unpack immediately. That’s just me, always been the same. Unpack and washing on in record time! When you open your case, the first layer is always chaos. The clothes are no longer folded; they’ve had a party and everyone left with someone else’s sock. There’s sand in places that have never seen a beach, a charger that doesn’t belong to you, and one single shoe as though the other went off to live a better life.

Then comes the Laundry Layer — a ripe ecosystem all its own. There’s always a moment of sniff-test roulette: “Did I wear this? Or did I just try it on, throw it on the floor, and now it smells like holiday regret?” Spoiler: everything goes in the wash, except the one item you actually want to wear — which, of course, is missing.

To add insult to injury, there are always at least three mysterious items that don’t seem to belong to you. A straw hat you definitely didn’t take with you. A tiny shampoo from the hotel that’s exploded in a passive-aggressive act of rebellion. And a receipt from a cafe you don’t even remember visiting. Did I buy four iced lattes at once? Was I okay?

Unpacking toiletries is its own adventure. They never go back in the bathroom where they belong. Instead, they live in a plastic bag near the sink until you need toothpaste and realise you’ve been brushing your teeth with whatever was in the hotel vanity kit for a week. Bonus points if your moisturiser has somehow merged with your conditioner to form an unholy goo hybrid.

And let’s not forget the souvenirs — those panic purchases you convinced yourself were charming and authentic. In the cold light of home, you now own a ceramic llama, five novelty fridge magnets, and a t-shirt with a slogan that made sense in context but now reads like a cry for help.

Eventually, I try to reclaim my bedroom from the luggage that’s held it hostage. But by then, the suitcase has developed its own personality. It’s not just an object anymore — it’s a lifestyle. It’s become a part of the furniture, a secondary wardrobe, a footrest, even. Moving it feels like a betrayal.

And yet, there’s something beautifully hopeful about the unpacking process. It says: “I went, I saw, I overpacked, and I returned.” It’s the concluding chapter of the journey. The slow, reluctant rolling of clean socks back into the drawer. The triumphant reunification of all your chargers. The moment you finally, finally zip that suitcase up and put it back in the cupboard, vowing never to travel again unless someone else packs and unpacks for you. (They never do.)

But let’s raise a glass to my opposites. Let’s give a high five to the unpackers who wait. The ones who let the suitcase settle in, get comfortable, maybe even pay rent. Who bravely live out of semi-open luggage for days — possibly seasons — and who know that, eventually, everything finds its way home. Except the other shoe. That’s definitely gone forever.

Confessions of Packing Issues when Travelling

Some people can pack a bag in ten minutes flat with the grace and precision of a seasoned minimalist. That just isn’t me. I am prepared the night before, I’ll grant you that, but I am a woman that packs and repacks…just to make sure it’s all there and I have not forgotten anything. It is not unheard of me to repack my case at 1:30am when my brain reminds me that I need a pair of shoes.

When I pack, I always have a plan. I plan my outfit right down to the underwear and make sure it’s all folded together, so when I pick up the tshirt, I have got it all. T shirt. Shorts. Undies. Sounds easy right? Invariably when I am away and pick something up, I find I forgot something. The trouble is, it is not just about making sure you have the right things. It’s about making sure you have enough of them. 5 days away. 5 outfits. A couple of outfits for evening incase you go to a nice eatery, and a couple of spares. Of course, you need shoes/trainers/thongs for said outfits so the pile that was so well organised suddenly looks like a large mountain.

Now the fun part. Toiletries are their own saga. I try to be practical. I decant shampoo into tiny travel bottles. I feel smug for precisely three minutes. Then I realise I have forgotten my hair serum, face serum, nighttime moisturiser, daytime moisturiser, backup toothpaste, and that weird-but-essential foot cream I only use on holidays but would obviously die without. Before I know it, my ‘liquids bag’ looks like a mobile pharmacy with commitment issues.

I have tried vacuum-seal bags. I have sat on them, knelt on them, rolled them like a sushi chef, only to find they reinflate at the worst possible moment—usually just as I am zipping the suitcase shut. I once burst a compression bag with my knee and sent a pair of underpants soaring like a victory flag across the room. Not ideal when sharing a hotel with strangers or in-laws.

Then there is the hand luggage. Designed to hold your essentials. Except my definition of “essentials” seems to include a novel I’ll never open, three chargers I can’t name, an emergency rain poncho, a first-aid kit, and snacks that could feed a small rugby team. Add a travel pillow the size of a beanbag and suddenly I’m waddling through the airport like a sherpa preparing for Everest Base Camp.

Let’s not forget the “just in case” items. The umbrella (just in case it rains in the desert). The fourth swimsuit (in case the other three spontaneously combust). The mini sewing kit (in case I decide to mend a shirt on the plane like some sort of airborne tailor). Rationality exits stage left.

Packing shoes is like playing Tetris with oddly shaped bricks that smell faintly of regret. Do I need five pairs? No. But what if I end up dancing? What if I go somewhere sandy? What if my stylish boots give me blisters and I need my ugly-but-comfortable sandals to walk to the chemist to buy blister cream that I forgot to pack? These are the spirals I descend into at 2am.

And don’t get me started on rolling versus folding. Everyone has an opinion. “Roll everything!” they say. “Fold everything!” say others. Meanwhile, I’m over here doing a little of both, like a packing centrist, praying I’ve made the right call while silently blaming my jeans for existing.

Of course, once I arrive, I will wear the same two outfits on repeat, forget I packed jewellery at all, and discover I’ve brought no socks. I will stare at the bulging case and wonder why on earth I brought a woolly jumper to Bali in December. Then I’ll head to the nearest shop and buy yet another sarong and toothbrush, because somehow, I always forget the toothbrush.

The return trip is a whole new challenge. Things never go back in the same way. The laws of physics seem to change. I’m sure my suitcase shrinks. And now I have souvenirs. A snow globe, a bottle of local wine, a t-shirt that seemed like a clever idea at the time. I consider wearing seventeen layers on the flight home just to get everything to fit.

But here’s the thing: despite the chaos, the sweating, the zippers that scream in protest, I’ll still pack the same way next time. Because I live in hope. Hope that I’ll finally crack the code. That I’ll find the magic method. That I’ll one day become one of those travellers—the ones with the sleek carry-on and serene smile.

Until then, I’ll keep whispering to myself, “You’re only going for the weekend,” while stuffing in another scarf. Just in case.

Confessions of a Travel Blogger

I’m a writer as those of you who read the website know. I have written and published 2 books. I’ve ghostwritten a third. I’ve had 36 articles published and also spent time working freelance for a celebrant. The most fun I have with my writing is writing about life. Yes, you read that right. Life. Life is relatable and I can guarantee that somewhere along the line, I have written about something you have experienced.

One thing I thoroughly enjoy is writing about travel. I may not get on an aeroplane every month and head to some exotic location. I may not head to far flung places, but I head somewhere. Every time I travel, I post an entry on my website talking about the trip. I look at where we are going, how far away it is and the journey. The weather that is expected versus what we got! I also do a day-to-day diary of the trip. What we did and what we saw.

Recording the trip is more than a travel blog. Recording the trip is a memory. Recording the trip is a dad/daughter memory and they are irreplaceable.

Confessions of the Traveller

 

I travel. I like to travel. Don’t misunderstand me—I’m not jetting off every week to far-flung destinations with a passport in one hand and a cocktail in the other. My adventures are usually closer to home, the kind of road trips that are three to six hours’ drive away. About every six to eight weeks, Dad and I pack up and head somewhere new. Sometimes it’s three days at Q1 on the Gold Coast, sometimes five days at Burrum Heads, or maybe a week down at South West Rocks. Wherever it is, we go.

Travelling, for me, is refreshing. It’s about the change of scenery more than the distance travelled. You could be doing exactly the same things away that you do at home, but the difference is what you see when you look up from your book or pause your podcast. At home, you glance out at the same walls, the same street, the same familiar garden. Away, you look up and there’s the ocean rolling in, the mountains unfolding, or the sun setting over a place that isn’t part of your daily routine. That shift alone is enough to clear the mind.

Dad and I can happily spend hours reading, listening to podcasts, or simply sitting in companionable silence. But when you’re doing those things with the sound of waves as your background music, or with a breeze carrying the scent of salt or eucalyptus, it becomes something more. It feels restorative, almost indulgent.

Travel doesn’t need to be extravagant to be meaningful. It’s about creating little pauses in life, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary just because you’ve placed it in a different setting. Those small escapes remind me how vast and varied the world is, even just a car ride away.

And when we come back home, bags unpacked and routines resumed, I find that I carry a little bit of that fresh perspective with me. Until, of course, the urge stirs again—and Dad and I are off, chasing the next change of scenery.

Confessions of the Chronic Series Binger

Now in our house, we don’t have regular TV. It has never interested us, so we have never had Foxtel. We do have the free to air channels but being honest, we’ve never watched them. I do however, have a couple of streaming services on the iPad that I share with dad.

We have “The Daily Wire,” that is a political show featuring articles and podcasts daily. We have “Amazon Prime.” Apart from the benefits of free shipping that this gives, it also is the home of the series ‘Reacher.’ If you have never seen it, Alan Ritchson embodies the character of Reacher. He’s great. We also have Stan. I used to ‘stream-hop’ between Netflix and Stan, but Stan is my preference. This is where the ‘Confession of the chronic series binge watcher’ comes in.

Stan has my favourites. In no particular order:

  1. ‘The Handmaids Tale’ – Elisabeth Moss as June Osbourne living in a male dominated society where women are reduced to their reproductive abilities.
  2. ‘The West Wing’ – Martin Sheen, Allison Janney, Bradley Whitford, Janel Maloney, Richard Schiff and more in a fictional show about the President of the United States.
  3. ‘Doctor Who’ – What can I say? I have loved “Who” since I was three and would hide behind the settee from the Daleks.
  4. ‘Sherlock’ – Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as the Holmes and Watson duo are a joy to watch.
  5. ‘From’ – If you like a few scares and a bit of a strange story, this is for you. A town that you can’t Monsters in the woods at night that come looking for you and can talk to you, getting into your thoughts.
  6. ‘Hannibal’ – If you have watched Red Dragon, you will know who Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are. ‘Hannibal’ is violent and bloody (as you would expect), but you cannot look away. Hugh Dancy, Mads Mikkelson, Gillian Anderson and more round out this cast.

When you have this many series at your disposal, it’s sometimes hard to choose! I’d watched ‘The West Wing’ fairly recently, so I chose to rewatch, ‘The Handmaids Tale.’ I’m now working through ‘From.’ After that, a ‘Hannibal’ rewatch is on the cards.

Don’t get me wrong! I do watch new stuff too, but quite often, the new stuff never seems to match up to the good old days of television. Nowadays TV and the stories they show have changed. Rather than telling the right story with the right characters, it’s turned into a woke story with mindless woke characters! I mean, who wants James Bond to be female!!!! I digress….

But that’s  me. A serial series binge watcher. Who knows. From my writing, you may have found a new series that you might like…..

Confessions of a Daughter turned carer

I contemplated whether I wanted to do this ‘Confession,’ but ultimately, I decided yes. If my words help one person, its done some good. Here goes. For those who don’t know the story, the abbreviated version is, I lost my husband in 2019, and the day he died, I moved into caring for my mum who was terminally ill. 

Caring for a parent is not a job you see in the paper. You don’t apply for it. You don’t have an interview or training for it. However, I had thirty years nursing background, I was a daughter and without realising it at the time, I was about to step into one of the most precious times of my life.

Caring for a parent is a strange life reversal. You have needed your parent your whole life and now they need you, but in a much more intimate way. There is a surreality about watching the person that once stood beside you, walking you through life, now needing you for the most intimate of care. Can it be heartbreaking? Yes. Is it exhausting? Yes. But it can also be something both humbling and beautiful.

Love is not about grand gestures when you care for a parent. Love is about making sure your parent has everything that they need within arms reach. Love is cooking their favourite meal. Love is curling up beside your parent on their hospital bed and watching the NRL. Love is buying their favourite puzzle book and chocolate. Love is lending your iPad with a movie on it they long to watch. Love is about telling mum that Dads doing the ‘stir fry shuffle’ while cooking (in joke for us!) But aside from that, it is about basic needs. It is about washing and dressing someone who spend their early life doing the same for you. It is about ensuring that enough pain medications are available to maintain comfort. It is about managing wounds and catheters. It is about giving everything you have emotionally and physically, even when your own tank might be empty!

Caring for a parent can be all about laughter too. My mum and I have never laughed as hard as when we cleaned her wardrobe. She sat in the bed as I made three piles of clothes.

  1. Clothes to keep.
  2. Clothes to give your daughter.
  3. What the hell were you thinking when you bought this?

(There was a 4th category of “the label is still on, and you’ve never worn it!”)

When you care for someone, you discover new talents, as well as old ones from years ago. Who knew that more than 6 years after quitting nursing I would be changing catheters again? Who knew that my internal body clock would automatically wake me at 2am – the usual time that mum needed something.

People comment that “you’re amazing,” or “I could never do what you do.” I smile at those people and want to tell them that, it’s life. She’s my mum and I would never not care for her. I don’t consider it a calling or something noble, she’s my mum and that’s it, end of story. Caring has changed me. It has made me tougher. I don’t put up with crap anymore. I have seen how short life is, not only in my nursing career, but with my husband and mum. Life’s too short for bull****.

So, that’s the story of the daughter turned carer. Since the loss of mum, it has become daughter and dad! I have continued living with my dad and our life together has been concerts, trips away, cinema trips and making new memories. Caring for one parent gave me the ultimate gift – quality time with both, a gift that is priceless.

Confessions of a Closet Control Freak

When you open my closet, it’s not a chaotic explosion of colours and textures like you might expect. No, with me, it is different. It’s organized chaos—meticulously planned and obsessively maintained. Each item has its designated place, carefully arranged in blocks of colour that soothe the eye (and mind,) rather than overwhelm. Some might call it control; Some call it OCD. I call it precision management.

My journey into the realm of closet control began innocently enough—a quiet quest for order in the middle of life’s chaos. It took root when my husband was ill, and from that point on, it grew. In those unpredictable days, the last thing I needed was a frantic search for a shirt or pair of socks in the middle of a medical emergency—and we had more than our fair share of those. I needed everything in its place, ready to go at a moment’s notice. What started as a practical necessity slowly evolved into something more—a quiet form of control in life. One that never left me.

Little did I know that this quest would evolve into a full-fledged obsession, a testament to my need for structure in a world that often seems determined to defy it. It is not just about the clothes—it is about the sense of calm that comes from knowing exactly where everything is. Dresses and blouses occupy one end. Pants and skirts follow suit. Then everything else is hung in blocks of colour. Black, grey, red, blue, green, pink, it’s all there.

Shoes: I don’t have many shoes; I live in my Converse trainers. But what I do have, occupies their own dedicated space, meticulously lined up like soldiers on parade. Let us not forget the accessories though—handbags are my only accessory and are arranged by size and occasion, ready to complement any ensemble at a moment’s notice.

But behind this facade of order lies a deeper truth—a confession, if you will, of the control freak within. It’s not just about tidiness; it’s about exerting control over an otherwise chaotic world. In a life filled with uncertainties, my closet is a sanctuary of predictability—a place where every item has its purpose and every space is meticulously curated to reflect not just my style, but my need for control.

Yet, for all its meticulous organisation, my closet harbours secrets—little reminders of imperfection amidst the illusion of order. There is the occasional impulse purchase that doesn’t quite fit into the colour scheme or the seasonal item that refuses to conform to its designated storage space. These anomalies serve as reminders that perfection is elusive, even in the most meticulously curated of closets.

And then there are the rituals—the six-monthly wardrobe audits and seasonal purges that keep my closet in pristine condition. Each item is scrutinised for its utility and aesthetic appeal, with the ruthless efficiency of a seasoned curator. Pieces that no longer serve their purpose are ruthlessly discarded or donated, making way for new acquisitions that promise to enhance rather than detract from the carefully curated collection.

But perhaps the most revealing aspect of my closet control is its reflection of personal growth and evolution. Over the years, my closet has evolved alongside me—adapting to changes in style, preferences, and even life circumstances. What once seemed like an exercise in control has become a testament to adaptability and self-discovery—a visual narrative of my journey towards a more balanced approach to life and its inherent uncertainties.

In the end, my closet is more than just a collection of clothes—it’s a canvas of my life, of who I am. Am I just the shorts and t-shirt girl that walks around the supermarket? Or am I the girl that slips on a dress every now and then shocking the world!

The trick is to remember that behind every perfectly aligned hanger and neatly folded item of clothing lies a confession—a testament to the closet control freak who finds solace in the art of precision and the pursuit of order in a world that often defies it.

Confessions of the Second Chapter

What is a second chapter? Are we talking about the second chapter of a book or something else? For me, it is the something else. For me, it’s the second chapter of life. Allow me to explain

One of the final wishes of my late husband (and the only one I am ever going to share!) was that I live my life for me, doing whatever I want and allow love into my life should it appear. However, life ‘after Mark’ was not a typical one. The day he died (August 2019), I stepped straight into caring for my mum who was terminally ill. I continued that care until her passing in February 2021. After that, I carried on living with my dad while renting out my old home.

For me, the true beginning of my second chapter unfolded on the day I informed my real estate agent that I wouldn’t renew the renter’s lease; I was selling my house. It felt cathartic, a necessary release that allowed me to move forward. I have never been overly sentimental; I understand that memories aren’t held in bricks and mortar. Yet, it was a ‘physical link’ I needed to sever. Mark had suggested selling it ‘after him,’ but I hadn’t until then.

Two open houses, 6 offers and a bidding war later, the house sold. I got what I had asked for it and was ready now for the next rung up the ladder. It was time to look for my new home, one that Dad would live in with me. We searched together and eventually stumbled on a little 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom home in a suburb called Nirimba. It is a relatively new suburb that is being built up gradually. Coming soon to the suburb is a pub/music venue, a town, and a “parklands” with a lagoon pool (A bit like South Bank – my aussie mates will know what I am referring to.)

I signed a contract on the 7th of June and by 12th June I was ‘unconditional’ on that contract. I had no financing to worry about as I was a cash buyer, and my buildings and pest inspection had been done. Now it was time to wait out the rest of the 30-day contract before final settlement on 7 July.

So, there you have it. Confessions of my Second Chapter. Confessions of how life is starting over for me, almost six years after Marks passing. Don’t misunderstand me, I have ‘lived.’ But by buying this house for dad and me, as well as for my future, I feel that I can say I am achieving what he asked me to do – sell the house, find myself a beautiful place and make it my own. To really live.

Confessions of a woman with no filter

You know those people who say the first thing that pops into their head? Yeah, I’m one of them. As I said in my last “confessions,” I am not a typical woman. I am one with no filter. Let me confess!

Once upon a time, I would try to weigh my words, to carefully navigate the social minefield of “what not to say.” But, as life went on, I realised something important: filtering is exhausting. I was done. I gave up the mask, the filter, the polite facade. Welcome to my unvarnished world, the world of “take me as you find me!”

Confession #1: I say what I think. No rehearsals.

I have an internal dialogue running 24/7, and occasionally it slips out before my brain catches up. Sometimes it is funny, sometimes it’s brutally honest. But it is always authentic.

One time, at a dinner party, someone told me they “just love being on social media because it’s so positive and uplifting.” I couldn’t help myself. I blurted out, “Really? Because it mostly looks like people competing to prove they have better food, better holidays, and better lives than the rest of us.” But hey, it was my truth!

Confession #2: I have no patience for nonsense.

If you are one of those people who enjoys small talk about the weather, I apologise. I really do. But for me, “Nice weather, isn’t it?” is the conversational equivalent of finger painting—fine for kids but a bit juvenile for adults. I want to talk about real things: feelings, ideas, dreams, fears.

Confession #3: People either love me or avoid me.

There is no middle ground with someone who doesn’t filter. Either you are drawn to the raw honesty, the unpredictability, the refreshing lack of pretence—or you run the other way. And honestly, I am okay with that. Life is too short to pretend to be someone I’m not just to keep everyone happy.

One of my close friends once told me, “You say things that everyone’s thinking but won’t say.” I took that as a compliment. If my bluntness can help others feel less alone in their own unspoken thoughts, then I’m doing something right.

Confession #4: I embrace awkward silences.

Because often when I say what’s really on my mind, people don’t know how to respond. They blink, they hesitate, and then they awkwardly laugh or change the subject. I used to feel self-conscious about this, but now I see awkward silences as a badge of honour. They mean I’m being real, not fake.

Confession #5: Being unfiltered means being vulnerable.

There’s a misconception that people with no filter are just rude or insensitive. Thats not true.  It takes guts to lay your thoughts bare for everyone to see. It’s terrifying to risk judgment, rejection, or offending someone. Every time I speak without a filter, I’m opening a little window into my soul, and that’s scary.

Confession #6: I wouldn’t change a thing.

Despite the occasional social mishap, and the awkward moments, being unfiltered is who I am. It’s a badge of authenticity I wear proudly. Life is messy and complicated, and pretending otherwise is exhausting. I’d rather be the woman who says what she means and means what she says.

So, if you ever find yourself sitting next to me, brace yourself. You’re in for the full unfiltered experience. No sugarcoating, no hiding behind polite smiles. Just raw, honest, sometimes brutally funny, sometimes painfully truthful conversation. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a little freedom in hearing the truth out loud too.

Confessions of a Not-So-Typical Woman

 

I suppose I should start with a confession: I am a not-so-typical woman, apparently. My dad tells me this. Mark would tell me this. Deep down, I have always known it. But what do I mean? Let’s work this through.

I do not like shopping. There, I said it. I find wandering around crowded malls under fluorescent lights a form of punishment best reserved for people who commit serious crimes. 

If I need clothes, I go online, order three sizes of the same thing, and hope one fits. I return what doesn’t. Efficient. Minimal small talk. Zero risk of being trapped in a changing room with mirrors angled so cruelly that even supermodels would cry. My late mum adored shopping and could spend hours in the Sunshine Plaza, walking round and round. I would go with her, but I had my limits. Eventually you would find me sitting outside a shop waiting for her! 

Now makeup? Let me tell you about my makeup bag. I have had the same one for years. The only lippy I own is a clear lip gloss. I have mascara that I rarely wear. The only thing that gets a daily outing out of my make up bag, is the concealer – it is a requirement that is used daily!!! Don’t get me wrong—I admire women who have makeup routines. I really do. Winged eyeliner? That’s art. A bold red lip that doesn’t smudge during a five-course meal. Witchcraft. But I can’t do it. Every time I try, I end up looking like I have been crying.

Let’s talk heels. Why are they still a thing? Why are women still voluntarily strapping stilts to their feet and pretending to be comfortable? I last wore heels before I started nursing over 30 years ago. I will admit to wearing a pair in 2013 to go to a ball, but I walked in bare feet from the hotel to the venue, putting them on when I got there.

You know what I do love, though? Flat shoes with arch support. I get excited about sneakers. I own three pairs of converse trainers in varied colours and love them. I have been known to squeal over a well-padded insole. I may not be sexy, but I can walk without pain or discomfort!

People assume all women want to talk about skincare. Not me. I have no regime. I wash my face with whatever soap is in the shower and moisturise only when I remember—which is usually when my skin starts making a noise like sandpaper. My “serum” is tap water. My “night routine” is collapsing face-first into a pillow and hoping tomorrow brings better lighting.

I don’t cry at rom-coms. I don’t want a spa day. I don’t want to “treat myself” with candles and bubble baths. I want to treat myself with a clean house I didn’t have to clean, and a meal I didn’t have to cook. That’s my self-care.

Now, let’s talk about emotions. Society loves the idea that women are emotional creatures, constantly riding waves of feelings, weeping at sunsets, and journaling our deepest thoughts in notebooks with glittery covers. I’m more of a bottle-it-up-and-then-have-a-mini-breakdown-while-folding-laundry type. Hahahah!

As for houseplants? They used to die. Every single one. I do not care what the label says—”low maintenance” or “almost impossible to kill”—they come to my home to die. I used to be the Grim Reaper of greenery. This is one area that has changed, I will admit that. Things are alive now.

And yet, despite all this, I am still very much a woman. A whole one. Not a malfunctioning version with missing parts. I’m not broken because I don’t bake or contour or decorate with fairy lights. I’m not less feminine because I prefer documentaries or a good action movie over dating shows, or because my idea of a great night involves pyjamas, snacks, and not talking to anyone. I’m not skinny and never have been. I’m at the point now where life is way too short and it’s time to live it.

What makes me laugh is how surprised people often are by all this. As if there is some universal checklist for womanhood that I did not complete. Well, I have made peace with that. In fact, I like it. Being “not-so-typical” is far more fun. I don’t have to compete with idealised versions of femininity. I get to write my own version.

And in my version, women are allowed to be odd. And grumpy. And practical. And powerful. And funny. We are allowed to reject expectations, rewrite the rules, and laugh when we break them.

So, yes—I confess. I am not the woman you expect. But I am exactly the woman I need to be. But there is a twist to this story….

I’ve just moved into a new house, and you know what I want? I want a floral doona cover. I want a feminine bedroom. My Christmas tree this year has a silver and hot pink colour scheme. Has this new house given me a new ‘feminine’ lease of life?

Confessions of Dealing with Tradesman

It’s that time again: home improvements are calling! Whether it’s a new deck, a swimming pool fence, repairing a shower door, updating the fencing, revitalising the front garden, or installing a new air conditioning controller, (or all of the above in the case of my rental!) the list can feel overwhelming. Recognising what needs to be done is just the first step; now it’s time to take a leap of faith and hopefully get a competitive quote from a skilled tradesman.

Obtaining quotes is crucial, no matter the job’s size or complexity. A quote gives you a clear understanding of your project’s cost, allowing for effective budget management. Multiple quotes enable you to evaluate different tradesmen’s ability, materials, and pricing, helping you make an informed choice. Having several quotes provides leverage for negotiation on pricing, timelines, and project specifics, ensuring you get the best deal.

However, getting that elusive quote can sometimes feel like a game of chance. Picture this: you call a tradesman to fix some outdoor tiling. He promises to show up at 10 AM with a quote. By midday, you are still waiting. When he finally arrives at 2 PM, after a day of delays, you ask for an estimate. “I’ll send you a quote tonight,” he says. But night falls with no quote, and a week later, you are onto finding someone else.

There can be challenges when getting quotes and working with tradies. Here are a few things I’ve learned over the years. Clear communication is key to conveying your needs; misunderstandings can lead to inaccurate quotes or unsatisfactory work. Tradies may often try to ‘bluff’ a woman thinking their knowledge is less for this work. Girls, if you must get a tradie in for a quote, talk to a bloke and clarify what you should be asking for. You look knowledgeable and trust me when I say the tradie will be impressed.

Remember that quotes can differ significantly, complicating your ability to assess a fair price. Some tradesmen may overlook potential expenses, resulting in unwelcome surprises during the project. Building trust is vital, as you are entering a contractual agreement. Any doubts can make the process more daunting.

Despite these challenges, you can streamline the quote process with a few strategies:

  • Start by asking friends, family, and online communities for recommendations to find reputable tradesmen.
  • Provide a thorough description of your project, including expectations, materials, and specific requirements to ensure exact quotes.
  • Aim for at least three quotes to compare prices and find the best fit.
  • Always ask for written estimates, as they serve as a legally binding record of the agreed terms.
  • Discuss timelines and ensure all agreements are documented in a formal contract to protect both parties.

While securing quotes can be a daunting task, employing these strategies can simplify the process. Accurate and competitive quotes are essential for the smooth execution of your home improvement projects. With thorough research and effective communication, you can ensure your project is handled by skilled tradesmen who will bring your vision to life within your budget.

Confessions of Navigating with a Man

 

Navigating with a man can be quite the adventure, full of unexpected twists and turns, much like a plot in a sitcom where hilarity ensues with every wrong turn. A simple trip can often turn into quite the excursion! Let me tell you about navigating with my man.

“I’m a bus driver, I know where we’re going,” was one of his sayings. Roughly translated that means I don’t need a navigator. Now I’m a scenic route kind of girl, but he always had a love for the quickest route. He had a need to ‘just get there.’  I resorted to just sitting back and letting him get on with it. But when you have been ploughing on down a highway for what seems like years, it is time to butt in and question where we’re going.

“Are you sure this the right way?” I would venture cautiously, making sure that I used no negative connotations. He would always tell me he knew exactly where he was going. Sometimes he did, but sometimes we went to the magical land of Detourville. This mysterious place is characterised by back roads and obscurities that neither of us were able to recognise. In Detourville, every turn of the road took us on another adventure. But the twist in this tale is that he either ‘knew exactly where he was,’ or the other favourite was ‘I intended to go this way.’

Of course he knew, as I usually did, that both statements were untrue. It is time to “navigate” your way out. As I got my phone out and inputted directions, I would see a sense of relief on his face, a half-smile. The correct route is now in place. As you finally arrive at your destination, he would say “I knew exactly where we were.” I would look at him and we would both burst out laughing. We knew what mattered was time together. In reality, we didn’t care if it took twice as long to get there.

Here is another one for you. Imagine this. You are driving down the highway. You are in the passenger seat; your husband is driving. As your chatting you are gesticulating with your arms. You lift your left arm to demonstrate something, and your husband turns off the highway.

You ask him in the nicest possible way, why the bleeding hell he’s just turned off? He replies in his northern brogue, “cos you told me too.” Now, I laughed. Not just laughed but laughed hard! You can just imagine the rest of the conversation can’t you! The worst part was, it was an exit that didn’t go straight back on the highway, so we had some navigating to do to find it again.

Navigating with a man who ‘knows exactly where he’s going, thank you!’ is like being in a comedy. You have unexpected plots. Amusing dialogue. Twists and turns and yet, you always find your happy ending. Do note though readers…. always expect the unexpected!

Confessions of DIY: The Myth that is a 5 minute DIY job

 

Ah, the blissful optimism of embarking on a “quick” do-it-yourself project. We were armed with determination and everything we needed; and were about to set out to conquer the home improvement. Little did I know, I was about to dance with the devil of the 5-minute DIY job.

The saga began innocently enough with a simple task: hanging something on the wall. “It’ll take five minutes, tops,” Mark assured me. After all, he had the hammer and everything he needed…or did he?

Minutes 1-3: The Setup  

So, there we are. He is ready with the relevant tools, and I have the item to go on the wall.

Minutes 3-5: The Discovery  

Alas, fate had a cruel joke in store. The 5 minutes is almost up as he realises that he has no rawlplugs.

Minutes 5-60: The Intermission  

“We’ll need to go to Bunnings” he says, filling me with an inane sense of dread. I know that every-time we go to Bunnings we come back with things we do not want and a tool he does not need!

Minutes 60-100: The Twist  

Back at the house, we are ready to go again. The twist……the drill isn’t charged.

Minutes 100 – 120: The Breather 

The decision was taken to have a breather as the five-minute job (and it really should have been 5 minutes) was frustrating the hell out of me (and him, not that he would admit it!).

Minutes 120-125: Success.

The final five minutes of that couple of hours were successful. The item was hung on the wall. My husband’s comment: “see it did take 5 minutes to hang it.”

Lessons Learned  

I learned very quickly into my marriage that 5-minute DIY was a myth. I realised it was something that could not and would not ever happen. But you know what? We always laughed about it after.

But until then, dear reader, heed my tale. Beware the allure of the 5-minute DIY job, for it is a siren song that lures the unsuspecting into a world of things you think you are capable of. May your tools be sharp and your resolve unwavering—for in the end, the truest DIY victories are those hard-earned, even if they take a tad longer than five minutes.

Confessions of Sending Texts to the wrong person

 There are so many scenarios in that you may send a text to wrong people. You mean to send a text telling someone to meet you for dinner but forget to send it. You mean to send a text to someone asking them to do something for you but send it to the wrong person. So here is my story. It is the story of how a text was sent to the wrong person and how I believe that my husband invented sexting!

My late husband Mark and I were notoriously close to my dad’s youngest sister and her husband. We would spend many nights there having a takeaway, a few drinks and putting the world to rights, so it was not really any surprise when Mark and my uncle started heading off to Italy each year. My uncle was going for many things and needed a co-driver. Mark asked me if I minded. Seriously……? I got a week’s peace and quiet! I was fine with that!!

So off they went. This one particular year, the trip was longer than usual. About 5 days more than usual. Still ok, but by the end of the first week we had started to really miss each other. As my uncle and Mark were sat at the cafes having breakfasts and coffees, my uncle would be texting my aunt and Mark texting me. As the trip went on, the texts got, shall I say, a little “saucier!”

As it was reported to me, Mark had hit send on the latest text and just turned white. All my uncle could hear was “oh no, oh no.”  Mark revealed that the text was incredibly saucy, and he had typed in excruciating detail about what I could expect when he got home! I am not going to tell you what it said, I will leave that to your imaginations! 

Upon further questioning my uncle got to the bottom of it. Mark had hit send BUT sent it to the wrong person! The person that he sent it to, was in hospital. The person that received it had just gone through major knee surgery. I know, it is killing you isn’t it. You want to know who got it?

What do you do when you realise that your mother-in-law just received “that text”? Not just a wrong text, but the sauciest text that you have ever sent! Well, he called me quickly and confessed what had happened so I could call my mum to explain. While Mark was mortified, my mum was in absolute hysterics. I am sure that in some ways he indirectly aided her recovery. My mum has an ability to laugh off stuff like this which I was secretly quite glad about. This story went round for years and still does occasionally.

So, you can see, I am convinced that Mark invented sexting!

Confessions of a People Pleaser

 

What is a people pleaser? Is it someone who prioritises others’ needs? Someone who craves approval and likes to be liked.

Someone who struggles to set boundaries? Someone who agrees with everything? Or someone who adjusts their personality to fit in with others? The truth is, it is a bit of all of that.

Now, take a moment to look inward. Can you honestly say that none of the above applies to you? Alright, here comes my dose of brutal honesty.

Do I prioritise others? 99% of the time.
Do I like to be liked? Let’s be real—who doesn’t?
Do I set boundaries? Not always. I’m terrible at saying no!
Am I agreeable? You bet—I’ll go along with plans 99% of the time.
Have I changed to accommodate others? This one is a 50/50.

So, there you have it—I will admit it. I am a people pleaser. Now, the big question: is that good or bad? The answer is both.

On the positive side, people pleasers are often kind, generous, and eager to help others. There’s a genuine desire to connect, create positivity, and build meaningful relationships. But on the flip side, it’s a slippery slope. The constant giving can lead to stress and burnout. We neglect our own needs, often to the point of exhaustion. And the worst part? Others can take advantage of our willingness to please, sometimes leading to manipulation. One of the most insidious side effects of being a people pleaser is the toll it takes on our self-esteem. Constantly prioritising others can leave us questioning our own worth, making it easy to lose sight of who we truly are.

In the end, being a people pleaser isn’t inherently bad, but it’s crucial to find balance. We can help and support others without losing ourselves in the process. It’s about setting boundaries, valuing ourselves, and knowing when to say no without guilt. Only then can we offer the best of ourselves, without sacrificing our own well-being in the process.

Confessions of the Writers Dilemma

 

 

When you sit down and write, some days it just flows. It did for me the other day. I came up with titles for my next three months blog posts and my fingers were on fire. It sparked something and I just couldn’t stop writing. I am not talking for a couple of hours – I couldn’t stop writing all day! But every now and then, it goes the other way. It’s as if someone has disconnected your brain from your fingers and nothing is working.

It had been like that for me with a piece called “Morale in the 506.” My love of history and the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment usually drives me headlong through any idea I have. This time, I hit a stop, and I didn’t know why. I had been working on it since March 15, and it just seemed to be taking forever.

I stepped away from it to give myself a break and to get a head start on my blog posts for “Life Talks.” I then produced a new idea for the website, “Confessions.” But it is time to get back to ‘Band of Brothers’ content. Every time I watch “Band of Brothers” I spot something new, something different. Maybe that’s the key. Head to Max streaming service on my iPad for a rewatch and get some new inspiration.

It took almost three months to finish this piece. In the end, I am not sure why really. I finished it as best as I could and posted it. This is the first time ever I have had to stop and just say enough is enough. Maybe I was overthinking it……Maybe I just need to take a deep breath….

Confessions of Doing Nothing

Doing nothing sounds like heaven for some people. For others, it is the opposite. They have an inability to just sit….and do nothing. I suppose I would say I am happily in between – easily pleased and can cope with either end of the ‘do nothing’ spectrum. But in a world that is run by productivity (and some might say, a little drunk on it at times!) there is something scandalous about doing nothing.

I’m not talking about laying on the couch, phone in hand and scrolling social media; I am talking absolutely nothing. Lounging. Staring. Becoming at one with the couch. Think about it, it starts innocently, the minute you put your keys down after work. Then you take your coat off and sit on the couch. (Note the thoughts running through your head about laundry, answering emails and prepping dinner.) Before you know it, hours have passed, and you realise you are just ‘being.’ It is not glamorous. It is not social media worthy. It is just the art of doing nothing. You know what? There is nothing wrong with that.

I have heard it said that “busy is a badge of honour.” Throw that busy badge away. Moments of idleness, of nothing, are not just good for a person. They are necessary. Wait until someone asks you what you are doing, and you reply, “nothing.” Watch the panic in their eyes until they realise that you are enjoying rare time – doing nothing.

Doing nothing naturally pairs with the fine art of being a couch potato. There is a quiet dignity to it—like answering a tribal calling. True couch potatoes know their exact blanket-to-body ratio, achieving peak comfort with mathematical precision. We couch potatoes have mastered the complex science of snacks too: which ones to pick, which ones are too messy to be worth the hassle, and exactly how much we are willing to share (spoiler: very little). See? Who knew there was an element of science, mathematics, and even diplomacy involved in simply sitting on the couch? A couch potato also has a relationship with the remote control, one like no other. It is as if the remote knows what is needed, that it belongs to the couch potato and no one else.

In life there is something that ranks higher than ‘doing nothing.’ Welcome to JOMO – the Joy of Missing Out. That glorious time in life when saying, “no thanks” to invitations, firmly trumps saying “yes” and filling the social diary. (Saying yes all the time might indicate you are a people pleaser, but more of that on another Confession.) Having a great life at social occasions is perfect for some people. For me, I relish the quiet satisfaction of a good book, my PJs, and a glass of wine!

If we’re honest though, doing nothing can be hard work. You must tune out the endless noise that is modern life. You have to ignore a ringing phone and the apps that beep their way through your life. You have to silence the internal critic that accuses you of being a time waster.

But doing nothing is not time wasted. It gives your mind space to breath, and your soul and innermost thoughts time to stretch out. It reconnects you with life and just ‘existing’ without demands, well, its a nice state of being.  

Confessions of a Serial List Maker

 

Here’s the thing. I make lists. I am sure I am not the only person in the universe who does but I have lists for everything. That is lists plural, not list singular. Here’s just a few of them.

Things booked: Allowing me to keep up with appointments, parcel delivery, days/nights out, new books, taking the car for a service. You get the gist. It is a bit of everything. But here’s the thing. All of these things are on my iPad calendar, so why the **** do I need them on a list as well? Organised or OCD?

Posts ready to go on the website: To be fair, this is a good list to have. One glance and I know everything that’s done, when it’s due to be posted, and what to work on next.

Writing ideas:  Another good one to have. I have an idea, I list it.

But on top of those, I also have a list for ‘emails to return.’ I also have one of my ‘House rental.’ Add into that, the notebook beside my chair, the notebook in my computer bag and the pad that sits in my handbag…. lists everywhere. For a while I even had a pad beside my bed for when I had crazy writing ideas in the middle of the night. I’m confessing it all!

In the chaos of these lists, scattered across calendars, notebooks, and pads, I do find a strange comfort. Each list serves as a map of my days, a testament to my organized chaos. It’s not just about keeping track; it’s about finding reassurance in the tangible reminders of my life’s intricacies. From appointments to creative sparks ignited at odd hours, every item penned down stands for a moment captured, a task acknowledged, and a thought preserved. So, as I glance across my array of lists, I smile—a testament to the quirks that define my journey through days filled with lists plural, not list singular, each marking a chapter in my uniquely organized narrative.

 

Welcome to “Confessions of….”

New to Madhatterpress, this fun page will be looking at a bit of everything. Making lists, doing nothing, a writers dilemma and to kick it all off….

 

“Confessions of Selling my House” 

It is time to sell the house. It has been rented out for five years and now it is time to say goodbye to it. My late husband and I didn’t have long enough there to make good, solid memories. Every memory we did make surrounded his illness, which means for me, that farewelling this house is easy. I have no emotional attachment to it.

Now for the confession. Doing “adult” things like this was much easier when Mark was around. He took care of things, and in a way protected me from having to do anything. I was out at work, and it was just a case of “sign this, sign that.” He dealt with it all. Now, it is time for me to ‘adult up’ and get with the program. (So, to speak.) So, here goes nothing. First step is to find three agents and get three valuations.

  • One came back sounding and looking very professional.
  • One came back looking good, but it had taken me some chasing up in order to get it. I wanted someone I could rely on. 
  • The third came back as over-confident; a brashness and over familiarity to it that I didn’t like.

I went with the ‘very professional’ and chose the agency that had been looking after the property since 2020. They were offering me the best deal. Their presentation to encourage me to choose them was bespoke, well presented and sent to me late at night on final completion. It was followed up with a phone call the next day to see if I had any questions. Everything that they told me would happen, is happening. I havent had to chase them up and they are asking the right questions.  

Agent chosen, now it was price time. I had been doing my research online, checking the Narangba house prices regularly. I’d been looking at comparable properties and layouts and seeing those that offer similar to mine. Price settled. Now it’s ‘put it on the market’ time. It is tenanted until the end of July, so is on the market now and we shall see how it goes.