For more pieces like this one, sign up to my weekly newsletter, The Earnest Spoon, here. I am dancing to Alex Cameron in my once-pristine hotel room. It is still clean – I am not a gremlin – but the floor, once vacuumed to the point of appearing more leather than carpet, bears witness to… Continue reading I am dancing to Alex Cameron in my once-pristine hotel room
I am sitting in the back of my parents’ Hyundai eating potato salad with my bare hands. I am on day two of the worst hangover of all time and I am insatiable. I wanted a 99 but Circle K thwarted me again. Why is the world so against me indulging in some soft-serve sugar?… Continue reading Day 41: Potato salad fingers.
I don't know why I continue to willfully underestimate the power of a mini brioche roll to fix all manner of physical, emotional, or imagined ills. I mean, hangover = gone. Inexplicable grief caused by a global pandemic = vanquished in a bite. Randiness = butter will suffice. They are heaven shaped into pudgy faux-baguettes… Continue reading Day 27: Never underestimate the magic of a mini brioche
In the midst of bleak January, five adult children and their two childlike parents packed themselves into two cars, packed all of their belongings into one suitcase and seven bursting ‘knapsacks’* and jetted off for some sunny R&R. Here’s a relatively accurate account of our travels, filled with artistic licence and a flair for the satirical.
I would like to premise this by saying that whoever invented the belief system that cycling is in some way “easy”, or a natural skill effortlessly imbibed by humanity should have been promptly examined by someone proficient in diagnosing psychosis. Those who have since perpetuated this myth with ridiculous expressions – obvious example: “it’s like… Continue reading Cyc-lying: Bike Myths Debunked by a Seasoned Wayfarer
For months - actually, who am I kidding, years - I've toyed with the idea of beginning a blog (probably one of my least favourite words in the world). Stringing clumsy sentences together on conceptual whims, hanging bundles of ideas out to dry on the flapping, flailing washing line of my mind. I was always… Continue reading Me too, the first.