I’m flying to Europe in a few hours and I’m having some thoughts.

Of course, when I say “thoughts”, I mean, confronting jolts of fear that have aftershocks in my guts. I’m not really scared of flying, but I do have some niggling anxieties I feel as though I should get out of my system now, in the safety of my parent’s house in case they manifest into a brain fart that makes me say something that you really shouldn’t say in an airport unless you want to get escorted out by armed officers.

I’ve obviously got the major fears swirling around in my head – plane failure, kidnapping, air pirates – but it’s the tiny finicky details of Euro travel that have me a little jittery such as:

Getting a yuuuge phone bill: I had perhaps one of the most first word nightmares a few weeks ago about this. I don’t really remember the details but I was in Europe having what appeared to a be great time and, at some point, I remember that I didn’t turn dat roaming off my phone. I don’t recall how the rest of the nightmare unfolded after that but I did wake up with my stomach absolutely knotted with fear, fear of an exorbitant phone bill. Like, no one wants huge out of pocket bills, but I feel this one would be one of the hardest to swallow because the blame lies squarely on you and the only benefit you would get from all this data roaming would be being able to see the most up-to-date posts from your distant relatives who enjoy posting life advice with pictures of those little yellow minions for some reason.

Losing my passport: I am genuinely terrified of this. I’ve had my passport in my travel backpack for weeks. I know where it is, but my head isn’t convinced. I’m just going to check it now.

Inadvertently sparking a international terror incident: What if my coldsore cream is also a corrosive substance? What if the jumper I washed yesterday and dried in the wintery wood smoke tests positive for explosives? What if a Facebook group I liked back in my uni days has gone real extremist in their views?

What picture are they going to use if the plane goes down? I don’t take a lot of selfies, but when I do, they’re always shithouse. My Instagram account is mostly pictures of my Dad being… Dad or Mum being sweet or something about tea. I think the most recent one of me where you can see my face is one where I have a pickle up my nostril. I think, if anything happens to me, I’d like for the picture of me shoeless, wearing a wine-socked dress with an armful of sausages in the Bunnings carpark. It’s on my sister’s Instagram account.

If I don’t get arrested or maimed in a crash or decide to change my identity, I’ll try my best to post old columns regularly. But please don’t hold it against me if I’m too busy being tres fabulous to post stuff.

Catchya!

I love magazines. They’re glossy, have a great smell and the layouts are intoxicating to a former newspaper woman and closeted scrapbooker like me. While I’ve never been in the targeted demographic for the beauty sections of magazines, one segment that always spoke to me was the Weekend In Products section in Elle. Basically, they’d take someone fabulous and ask them to list the products they use of a weekend and display them beautifully alongside their anecdotes.

And because I like to imagine myself as someone fabulous enough to be in a magazine but haven’t yet received any offers, I decided to give myself the Elle treatment.

I found myself in a wee bit of a conundrum because I didn’t want to be naming names brand-wise as I don’t want to be seen to be endorsing anything, but I also wanted to be honest. And, let’s be real, there’s absolutely no chance this post is sponsored, so I’m not being paid to say I use something when I don’t. Also, this isn’t me telling you what to use, because I think it will soon become very clear that I’m no expert in this realm. So please just enjoy this for what it is: a self-indulgent glimpse into my mundane little life.

The subjects Elle interviews are usually super glamorous or edgy, cool women who play gigs or something over a weekend. My weekends are rarely weekends – that is to say, I rarely have a two-day break on a Saturday and Sunday. And if I do, it always catches me off guard and I plan very little for it.

So I don’t really have any sweet eyeshadows or body glitters or anything all that flash on my list of products. Prepare to be underwhelmed.

Soap that claims to be some kind of anti-soap: Dove soap is soap, but it’s not really soap, if that makes sense? The packaging refers to it as “moisturising bar” but it’s in the soap section. I am like 99 per cent certain this is effective as a cleaner of general gunk off my body and I always smell better after I use it, so I think it’s safe to refer to is as a soap product. However, the people at Dove are quick to stress that this won’t dry you out like other soaps. And, look, when I use any other soap, I do feel pretty dry and gross. Also, I know that there’s a big movement for body wash, but the whole notion of body wash shits me for some reason. I’ll use it when I have to, but I feel like body wash is a huge fuckaround with all that plastic and pump bottles and scented bullshit that I can’t actually think straight. Perhaps one day I’ll bash out a more coherent rant but, for now, let me just say that I am anti-body wash.

Roll-on deodorant: This stuff isn’t exactly a roll on, come to think of it, it’s more of a softened incarnation of my soap that I smear across my pits in the hopes of creating a protective layer to seal in my stank. I use the stuff I use because it makes it smell like I’ve just showered and I feel like the soapy goop doesn’t make my armpits as itchy as the spray on stuff. I don’t like being itchy at the best of times, but scratching your armpits looks pretty rank, so I try to avoid it.

Dry shampoo: I have very fine hair and a greasy disposition, meaning my hair gets grotty pretty quickly. I used to be someone who washed their hair every night but, thankfully, those days are behind me. Now that I’ve found dry shampoo, I can go days without having to wash it. Plus, this stuff solidifies the gunk in my hair, creating a volumising effect, which is a real plus. The only downer is the brunette-tinged residue can make my face look dirty if it gets on my skin. I also get brown particles under my fingernails when I run my hands through my hair, which makes me look as if I just dug myself out of a shallow grave.

A facial scrub as a face wash: Yes, I know some people launched some kind of hogwash crusade against St Ives, claiming ingredients in their apricot scrub destroy your face skin. I know there are armies of people on the internet campaigning against this type of stuff. And I’ve read some opinions of dermatologists who are, no doubt, extremely learned. But I love this stuff. I use it twice a day, every bloody day. I’m not grinding it into my face to give myself apricot-scented gravel rash, I’m just lightly massaging it over my skin. I’ve been using it for probably more than a decade now and it’s fine. Now, I say this as someone who, despite being genetically burdened with weird hips, a chunky frame, thin hair and, if my assumptions are correct, a neck that will age to look like a hairless cat with its bones magically removed, I do have pretty good genes for my face skin. If I’m not drinking like a fish and keep moderately active, I don’t really have many problems with acne or my complexion. And as sensitive as I may be, my face skin seems pretty laid back. So I could probably use whatever cheap goop I wanted to. And I like this stuff, so I’ll keep using it, thank you very much.

A micro-fibre cloth: My sister had a stint as a Norwex dealer and I got right into their body washers, but for my face. Just like my “face wash”, I like to go heavy duty with my wash cloths and use the rougher body cloth instead of the more delicate make-up removal cloths. Apparently there’s silver weaved through the fabric ad that gives it antibacterial powers, but I like the way it gets in and rips out a rogue whitehead that pops up on my nose after a few schooeys.

Oil free moisturiser: The Clean and Clear range is like a training bra – it was the introduction to skincare for generations of Australian tweenage girls. Most of them grow out of it, graduating to more sophisticated products as their maturity and income increases. I, however, haven’t followed that path. I started using this stuff after I was given a free sample in a magazine and didn’t really have cause to change. The fact that it suited my teenage budget means that, as a slightly wealthier adult, I can use money I could be spending on fancy face creams on margaritas instead.  I smear this gear on my face, and my neck when I think of it, after my scrub and washer routine. Again, I got really, really lucky in the face skin department but, as a consolation, I do have hairy toes.

SPF 50+ sunscreen: This gear is what I like to refer to as my day cream, because it makes me feel like a fancy woman who has specific creams for certain times of the day. Specially, I use the “sensitive” Banana Boat sunscreen, because I like feeling that I need a special kind of formula for my delicate face. I started using this everyday when I was living in Armidale, the “highest city in Australia”. Now, the “city” part is debatable, but the height is bang on. It’s slightly less than one kilometre above sea level and being that high up means you’re closer to the sun. I stopped wearing it for a while when I was in Sydney, but I’ve added it back to my routine and have noticed that my skin really bloody likes it. I guess its thickness counteracts whatever damage my scrub is supposedly doing to my face, and the added layer of goop seems to be protecting my face from windburn. The packet says it’s non-greasy, but I like to think the slick of it blocks the wind and keeps my face from drying out.

Some body moisturiser with lanolin oil: I’ve got no idea what lanolin oil is supposed to do, but I like that it comes from sheep’s wool because it feels like I’m supporting farmers and being a natural goddess. I bought this stuff because it was running low of my other moisturiser and this was in the bargain bin at the supermarket. It’s also got an Australian-made symbol on it, which feeds into my nationalism nicely. I may actually try to buy it again, so long as it hasn’t been discontinued.

Steroid ointment: I have this really cool thing where I get dermatitis on my left pinkie and ring finger. If it dries out, it gets itchy, red and weeping blisters that are extremely unpleasant. It’s really hard not to scratch sometimes; it’s like a demon possesses me and I can’t stop feverishly scratching until I reach some kind of self-hating climax and suddenly realise how much pain I’m in. It’s quite unnerving, really. My left ring finger seems particularly afflicted and, as a result, has an aged, wrinkled appearance which you’re more than welcome to interpret as a sign I’ll be an unwedded wench for all of my days. Honestly, it makes sense.

If you want to impress your guests but can’t be arsed to put in a lot of effort, this is the starter for you.

I mean, you can always just tip a bunch of that sweet’n’salty popcorn into a trough or give everyone their own personal kabanas to mung on all night. That’s some high impact snackery. In fact, I’d recommend giving it a crack.

But if you’re in the mood for making people think you’re one of them fancy folk, you can’t really go past a bit of baked cheese. There’s something about the oozing and the greenery and the wooden cutting board platter that really gives the impression that you were posh enough to have grown up with heat lights in your bathroom. It looks fan-bloody-tastic.

However, it’s an absolute piece of piss to chuck together.

Here’s how ya do it, mates:

Get yourself a wheel or two of soft cheese. I reckon camembert is getting the way of semi-dried tomatoes and focaccia – it used to be the epitome of class but now has an air of washed-up-pop-star-turned-talent-show-judge. It’s still good, but it’s no longer hot shit. Nope, I reckon you at least need to go for a brie in this case. Make it triple cream too, because if you’re going to hit the cheese, you may as well hit it hard.

Line a baking tray with brown, recycled baking paper, because not only does this make you appear more environmentally aware, serving it in the brown paper has a certain rustic-fance charm about it.

Score the top of the cheeses with a sharp knife, but don’t do those criss-crosses too deep – you don’t want the wheel to lose its shape as it bakes.

Now, you’re going to want some rosemary sprigs, fresh is best, but leaves from a dried spring would be OK too. Just don’t go using that dried stuff you get in a shaker from the supermarket, because that’s going to make your cheese look very low-end. The idea is to add flavour but also an air of garden chic. You want to make it look as if you’ve dashed out to your thriving collection of pot plants and plucked some herbs straight out of the garden. No one needs to know if you nicked it from someone’s overgrown bush down the street after dark.

Shove a few rosemary needles in between the cuts you made in the cheese.

Next grab a handful of nuts – pine nuts, cashews, macadamias, walnuts or chopped almonds would work, just make sure they’re unsalted. Try to avoid tipping the Nobby’s salted nuts in there if you can; save those bad boys for fudgy bickies. Sprinkle these over the top of your cheese in an effortlessly-scattered-messy-chic kind of way.

Lastly, finish this off with a few artful drizzles of honey.

Now just whack this in a medium oven for about 10 to 15 minutes until the cheese starts to ooze and the honey bubbles a little. A bit of browning is good, but keep a close eye on it in case it burns.

Finally, take the cheese off the tray and place on a wooden chopping board, the more worn and rustic, the better. Arrange some crusty baguette slices or some crackers that look like they were made with sand alongside the cheese for dipping, but grab a few knives for smearing once the cheese cools. Do not, under any circumstances, serve with thin water crackers – they won’t have the strength for dipping and they’re pretty fucking dull.

Serve immediately to your guests and let the country club invitations roll in.