Originally published by he Clifton Courier, March 18, 2020

The other day I could have potentially poisoned a whole bunch of people.

I was making a batch of gingerbread bickies for an afternoon tea, which was being held in honour of a sunbeam in human form. She’s the kind of lady who appreciates and encourages baking, so I of course didn’t want to rock up with a packet of Tim Tams I’d bought for half price from the impulse buy bin right by the registers at the supermarket. I wanted to put in a bit of effort. And, ever since my gingerbread underperformed at the Clifton Show, I’ve been dying for external validation for my bickies.

So I decided to whip up a batch.

Everything was going according to plan. I’d sifted the dry ingredients. I’d melted the butter. I’d made sure to add a little extra love to the mix (in this case, “love” was “ground ginger”). And then came time for the egg.

I’d recently visited Mum and Dad, who, despite being empty nesters, often have full nesting boxes thanks to the chookies up the back.

And as much as I go home to soak up their company, I also don’t say no to a free carton of farm-that’s-not-actually-a-farm-fresh eggs. They’re just better than the ones I get at the supermarket. They’re more wholesome. The yolks are always yellower. And they’re often way bigger.

That was the case with the batch I’d recently brought back with me to the big smoke. One was so big that, when I stacked something on top of the carton in the fridge, it cracked – because it was too large to be protected by the standard-sized carton.

Not wanting to waste one of these golden eggs, I tipped the goo into a small container, sealed it and kept it in the fridge.

So, naturally, that was the egg I chose to add to my gingerbread mix.

But it wasn’t until I was well into mixing it all together that I realised: my trip back home wasn’t the weekend just gone; it was the weekend before that.

That means that egg hadn’t been in the fridge unshelled for just a few days, but for a good week.

I’d never been one to forgo a taste of raw mixture for fear of uncooked-egg-related illness, but given how long this egg was in the nude for, I did pause before licking the bowl. I mean, I ate the raw scrapings anyway, but still.

While I was waiting for the potentially tainted bickies to bake, I did some research. And the general consensus from the first page of Google results was that you should only keep a cracked egg for two days. After that, you should bin it.

This did nothing to relax me. I messaged the group, explained situation, and asked whether or not I should bring the bickies. The only responses I got back were in favour of my bringing the potentially dodgy baked goods.

By the time the afternoon tea came around, it had been a few hours since I tasted the raw mixture. And I felt ok, so I tentatively opened the container of bickies for the taking, adding a disclaimer which went something along the lines of “Waring, risky biscuits”.

Unsurprisingly, there were very few participants willing to literally risk it for the biscuit and I ended up taking home nearly as many bickies as I’d brought.

Now, in case you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to have a super fun combination of anxiety, the tendency to catastrophise and an overactive sense of imagination, let me paint a picture for you.

On the way home, I began to worry that I’d poisoned a few folk. Maybe they’d have a slightly runnier stool next bowel movement, but maybe they’d have their entire lives thrown off course because of my foolish egg choices.

Then I began to fret, hard. My stomach churned. I felt my pulse quicken. My checks felt flushed. Was this egg-related illness catching up with me? Or was this a panic attack? Or was it both?

I knew, thanks to nervous Googling, that symptoms wouldn’t show up until about 12 hours after ingestion. And it as I looked at the time, I realised it was nearing 12 hours since I ate the raw dough.

I began to worry about the other people who ate my bickies. Were they ok? Were they writhing around on the floor? Would they die? Would I be held responsible? Was I going to prison?!

I then cursed myself for not just getting a packet of Tim Tams. Everyone loves Tim Tams for heaven’s sake.

But the hours I’ve spent in a psychologists’ office kicked in. I forced myself to let out some long, slow exhales. I decided to go to sleep and, if I woke up feeling violently unwell, I’d cross that bridge when I threw up on it. If I woke up feeling fine, everything was fine.

And, thank heavens, it was.

* Note, I actually wrote this column a week ago**, but decided to leave it a week later just to make absolutely sure no one had been struck down.

** That note above was something I added to the printed version. This note is in direct reference to the delayed digital version. It’s been about a month and all seems to be well. I mean that, of course, strictly in terms of people not getting gastro. Because we all know that if I were to say “all seems to be well” I’d be a fucking liar. 

Sometimes I dream about being a homeowner.

I mean, that’s a long way off because I still have a lot more savings to accumulate and I have the unshakeable feeling that I have to do go out and chart my own course as the uniquely different, individual person that I am… by spending two years in the UK* like at least a third of all Australians my age.

* LOL, the coronavirus took care of that for me

Unless all the hours of watching Antiques Roadshow pay off and I find a very, very rare knick knack some collector would pay a whole lot of dollars for, it’s going to be a while until I can pretend to be in a episode of Buy Herself (it’s a show about women shopping for houses they’re paying for on their own, so it’s like a female empowerment House Hunters, which really ticks a lot of boxes for me).

So until this happens, I have plenty of time to nut out a list of features I’d like to have in my dream house.

Of course, from years of watching House Hunters, I know there are things most people look for (which need to be said aloud in a thick American drawl): granite counter tops, all new appliances, a double vanity in the master bath, a master suite, updated cabinets etc – but I have my own little wishlist. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

One big sink that a whole frypan can sit in without tilting: Ok, I don’t understand why this isn’t a standard thing. A lot of houses have double sinks where each basin is just that bit too small for an oven tray or a frypan to sit in flat, meaning they’re never able to be fully submerged all at once. This means “leaving it to soak” isn’t really an option for what are often the dirtiest pieces of equipment in the kitchen. I say to heck with the double sink option, just make it one big vat – a trough, if you will.

A camera pointed at the oven and stove to make sure that I haven’t left it on: I have had far too many instances of fretting that my oven and/or stove has been left on while I’m out of the house and it would be super helpful if I could just check it from wherever I am. Kind of like a baby monitor, but for an anxios scatterbrain instead of a new parent. And, actually, while I think of it, I’d like to have a kill switch I could activate remotely to make sure I could turn off anything that could start a fire. On that note…

A key that remotely locks all the doors from anywhere: Same deal as the oven, but this could also mean I wouldn’t risk revealing my position should I be inside the home and wanting to pretend I’m away when faced with an uninvited visitor popping around. I wouldn’t have to sneak to the door, I could merely click a button from under my covers and get on with my sweet, sweet isolation.

Flyscreens: I don’t care how traditional your wooden Queenslander is and how much screens could interfere with the character of the place. Any house that doesn’t have flyscreens over the windows and screen doors is not fit for Australia. I don’t know any of them personally, but I can say with confidence that the early settlers would have frothed the option of keeping blood-sucking mozzies and disease-spreading flies out of their homes. To live among the insects is an itchy insult to their memory.

A microwave that has a silent switch: I’ve written about this before, but I’m hoping that by bringing it up again, someone will actually do something about it. I’m hoping to inspire the youth of today who will become to microwave innovators of tomorrow. Reach for the skies children, aim for careers in technological industries. But, please, remember me and my simple request when you reach the top.

A vacuum cleaner that doesn’t stop working once it comes into contact with long hair: I’m sorry, I know there’s a lot of love for Dyson vacuum cleaners, but my housemates have one and every time I go to use it, I have to take apart the sucky bit to free the spinny bit rendered immobile because it has been bound with me and my housemate’s long, strong and, even after all that, still kind of silky, hair. Surely the big brains at that vacuum nerve centre could come up with some kind of solution for this.

* Also, in case the title gave you a craving for the opening banger for Barbie YouTube series, here’s a link that should whet your whistle. And here’s a two-minute version of the theme song which I only just realised existed.

So I was supposed to be going off to a quaint as fuck Tasmanian bed and breakfast a week from now, but what with everything that’s going on right now, it looks like I’ve got a bit of a stay-cation on my hands.

And, look, that’s fine by me.

I mean, staying five nights in a bed and breakfast by myself was me dabbling in a bit of social isolating before it become cool/a public health initiative. I was planning on checking out a few things, but I was mostly just looking forward to reading, drinking tea and sipping on wine.

Which is definitely something I can do at home.

And I’m pretty lucky: the house I live in has two decks and a big old backyard with a pergola that I’m sitting under now as I write this very blog post. Even though it’s relatively new-looking, it does have a lot of charm. There’s a whole lotta garden I can lounge in, looking all wistful. I’ve got a pretty good set up here.

When I’m not looking at my newsfeed, I’m filled with a sense of calm at my being a bit of a pre-pandemic hoarder. As an anxious person who keeps an eye on specials, I tend to always have a few spare essentials on hand. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there are things I strategically invested in as the situation unfolded (see the first and second items on this list) but there’s a lot of stuff I just kinda… had which will really come in handy now that I’m holidaying at home.

Here’s a list of things that is making me feel calm about the prospect of self-isolation:

A four-litre box of red wine: This is for when supplies are really, really low. But then, let’s be honest, I’m expecting to find this just as drinkable as the more socially-acceptable bottled wine I have in my hosue. I generally tend to drink my red wine with ice and this dilutes the nectary liquid by quite a bit, altering the taste and the potency slightly. So even when I do get down to the backup supply, I fully expect to be in quite a comfortable position. But grabbing this box did prompt a bit of self-reflection, I must say. Exactly 10 years ago, I would have bought a box of Fruity Lexia just to have on-hand in case of a layback emergency. Now, a decade on, I am back to buying boxed wine. Am I really that different to Last-Decade Dannielle? Have I come so far that I’ve gone fill circle? Should I start listening to LMFAO again? Really makes ya think.

Four new novels I added to the aggressive pile of books I have been meaning to read: I think this right here is an example of panic buying. I had 13 books in the pile before this whole virus thing exploded. It has been leering at me for months, giving me the metaphorical stink eye for ignoring it. It is silently judging me for watching TV or scrolling on my phone instead of filling my empty head with word. It taunts me. There would easily be two months’ worth of intensive reading in that pile and, yet, I still felt I needed more. But, to be fair, I’m pretty happy with my choices. I went with:

• Normal People by Sally Rooney
• Boy Swallows Universeby Trent Dalton
• NorthangerAbby by Jane Austen
• Lady Susanby Jane Austen

Mulled-wine-flavoured tea: This is going to be great for when I want to be drinking wine but probably shouldn’t. I can drink it hot or I could brew it, put it on ice and pretend to be having a sangria jug in a holiday location.

Drips and drabs of kooky flours: I usually have two to three half-opened bags of alternative flours to trick myself into thinking that I’m being healthy. You know, spelt, rye, wholemeal – real whacky kind of stuff. I’m pretty keen to turn this flour into unnecessary baked goods I pretend to love at first but quickly grow to resent and eat only out of spite.

A bag of chicken chippies: These were on special about a fortnight ago, so I obviously bought a jumbo bag of them. I’m not an idiot.

Three generic puzzles and a custom puzzle of my brother-in-law drinking wine: The three generic puzzles came to me after my parents’ cleaned out my Grandma’s house after she died. Grandma loved her puzzles and had a decent store of them in her house. If only she’d have lived to have seen them become so damn popular. The puzzle of my brother in law was perhaps one of the greatest Christmas presents I’ve received. It’s exactly the kind of weird and unnerving I want to be leaning into while holidaying alone in my own house and going nowhere.

Oil paints, paper, and brushes: The art supplies shop was having a 50 per cent off sale a few weeks ago and I decided that now was the time to give oil painting a crack. The idea is to produce a body of work that documents my descent into madness and make so much money from my isolation that I no longer have to work again and can afford to retreat to soul-crushing solitude full time.

An obnoxiously-loud typewriter: This is obviously going to be used to write my great Australian novel, which will no doubt spew out of me in three days, giving me enough time for painting my mental instability, staring at the ceiling and obsessively cleaning all the glass surfaces in the house. The only problem is that I’ve only got one sheet of A4 printing paper, so I’m going to have to write my entire novel on the same page and hope that people will be able to tell which layer is which. I suppose I could order an emergency ream to be delivered to my door, but I do kind of like the idea of writing a masterpiece that is completely illegible.

My long history of not watching shows other people have watched:Because I prefer to waste my time by scrolling through my phone or re-watching familiar series instead of keeping up with the current trends, there’s many, many things I could be watching during my time alone. I like to think I’ll start with The West Wingand Cheer, but I’ll probably end up watching 72 hours of House Huntersinstead.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 4, 2020

I don’t just do things for no reason.

I play with my hair a lot. It’s usually because I’ve recently washed it, it feels all soft and I want to get lost in its silkiness to escape from the coarseness of my day-to-day life.

I do a lot of clicking of my fingers and drumming of my nails on hard surfaces, but’s not for no reason either. It’s because I have a song in my head and I want to share it with the world. I’m also super annoying and I want to assert my dominance through sound.

I put my honey in tea before I add the milk, because I want it to completely dissolve and be dispersed evenly, so that each mouthful has a balanced ratio of honey, tea and milk. The honey will dissolve better in heat, so adding in cold milk before the honey is not in my best interest. Yes, it’s finicky and controlling, but it’s the laws of chemistry. I can’t go around flouting them and expecting to be rewarded with an optimal cup of tea. That’s not the way the world works.

So when I tell my housemate I keep my esky behind the driver’s seat for good reason, I mean it.

My housemate has borrowed my sweet, sweet ride a few times now, and each time, he removes the esky (note: I actually just had to add the word “esky” to my Microsoft Word dictionary because it kept telling me it was a spelling error) from behind the driver’s seat. But he didn’t return it to the exact spot in which it was purposefully stored.

I’m guessing it’s because he thought it was only there because it just happened to be there.

So I had to explain to him that this was not the case.

I could put it in the boot. There’s ample room in there, even with my swag, towels, emergency picnic rugs, one-person tent, backup green bags and a mini, lunchbox-sized esky in there.

But I prefer it to be right behind the driver’s seat, wedged between the back passenger seat.

For one, it’s an ease of access thing.

I like to put my everyday green bags in the esky so I can quickly grab them when I head into the shops to purchase my extremely necessary grocery items. If the esky wasn’t there, the bags could end up sprawled all over the vehicle. I’d probably forget they were there and run into the shops bagless. This would mean buying another green bag, which I’d chuck in the unknowable void of the back seat, only for it to be forgotten, thus continuing the cycle.  And on and on and on it would go until I’m drowning in a sea of items used to contain other items for a short amount of time (with a renewed sense of sympathy for turtles).

So, yes, the esky has to go there.

But there’s also another element to the esky placement: security.

I have rather short legs. It’s a bit of a family thing. Us Maguires aren’t known for our height (in fact, I don’t know exactly what we Maguires ARE known for, and part of me thinks it’s best I remain in the dark in this regard).

So when I drive, my seat is quite a bit closer to the steering wheel than your average Joe (or Jo, come to think of it).

This means that if someone else tries to drive after me, they have to push the seat back to operate the pedals without snapping a shinbone. But the esky placement prevents that. Pushing the seat back requires a bit of reorganisation in the back seat.

So this means that if a sneaky person attempted to nick my vehicle, they’d be slowed down by my strategic esky placement. I like to think that this would give them a few seconds to reconsider pursuing any further criminal action and give up. Or, in the worst-case scenario, they’d chuck the esky out of the vehicle in their haste and leave it behind for me.

But while that’s all obvious to me, I have to remind myself there are some poor, unfortunate souls out there who don’t think like me.

And so, instead of just saying, “because I know what I’m doing, ok?!” I have to explain myself. It’s quite efficient to explain myself via newspaper than having to go through those multiple times.

Perhaps I’ll tear out this page and tape it to the esky. In which case, please, whoever is reading this, return the esky to where you found it and, if you wouldn’t mind, please don’t steal this vehicle. I’d really appreciate that.

So, yeah, there’s a lot of shit things about being a woman.

And I’m saying that as a straight, white, middle-class woman living in modern Australia, mind you. So as far as women go, I have it pretty easy.

There’s the whole “am I gonna get raped by someone at this party?” thing. There’s that whole “you’re mother’s sick, it’s your job to cook, clean and keep the family from falling apart ” thing. There’s the whole “science actually doesn’t know that much about female bodies, so just deal with what you’ve been dealt with” thing. There are many, many things that are shit about being a woman. And this is just some of the shit I – a woman who has it pretty easy – have encountered. There’s female genital mutilation. Sexual slavery. Being unable to leave the house without a male guardian. Horrific stuff. I could go on forever.

But it’s International Women’s Day and there’s much to be celebrated.

So to remind myself that there’s more than the horror and the bullshit and the, “yeah, mate, it’s on November 19, you have plenty of time to organise an event”, I’m going to think about some of the good things about being a woman. Because it’s not all shit. It can be fan-effing-tastic.

So here’s my list of the things I like about being a woman right now:

The prerogative to have a little fun, fun, fun: I’m talking about everyone’s girl Shania bloody Twain and her absolute banger Man, I Feel Like a Woman. Obviously this deserves to be on the list.

Wearing sandals to work: For some, the unwritten laws that govern the office realms forbids men from wearing anything beyond a jaunty pair of loafers. Women can get away with tethering tiny boards to their feet with a few straps of leather. It makes for a much cooler day in the office. And on that note…

Skirts: Especially the twirly ones. It’s great not having to restrict yourself to the constraints of trousers or jeans.

Bitch diesel: I have a friend who likes to call rosé bitch diesel. And it feels like a uniquely female thing to tap into: drink a bunch of rosé and carry on like an absolute pork chop.

Spontaneous outbursts of sisterhood: I mean, a prime example of this is the whole drunk girl in the bathroom phenomenon, where two drunk strangers become instant best friends over a spare hairtie, but you don’t have to be all sloshy to partake. It’s the passing “oi, that’s a great skirt” from a lady walking by or group of rando girls bunching together to form a shimmying scrum to block off creepy dudes on the dance floor. There are a lot of times when women are just instinctively nice to each other, which is lovely as fuck.

Being able to pretend your cycle makes you a mythical being: Ok, so because a menstrual cycle is rooooughly the same length a calendar month and a month is about the time it takes for the moon to go from full to half to none, the link been the moon and a bleeding uterus is often drawn. And you can opt the heck out of all that if you want. Most of the time I do, because I’ve got bills to pay and emails to send and half-strength coffees to consume from reusable cups. But sometimes, it’s fun to pretend you’re more than just a fertile human being, but some kind of lunar child, with a strong and unbreakable bond with that massive milky-white rock twirling around our planet. The whole history of females being witches is horrific, and I don’t want to downplay the truly effed up things society did to women because they thought they were colluding with the devil, but that belief that women hold mysterious and, at times, dark powers can be fun to play up to. Like, maybe you are a divine spirit who can brew new life in your guts, you know? And on that note…

Stevie Nicks: I mean, men can enjoy Dreams just as much as anyone else, but there’s something about having long hair and wearing tiny shorts when you dance around to this song that taps into some ancient feminie mystic. Even if you’re never going to go out and buy a fucking crystal, it still stirs something sensually primal inside you, igniting some kind of womanly fire in your soul.

Sex and the City: I mean, sure, it’s got its problems, but fuck me, have it’s fun to watch with some cheap wine in hand. Crack open your box set, whack in a DVD and sip from your big fancy glass. You very quickly get all sassy and start feeling all fabulous and you can’t help but wonder if women really can have it all.

Nora Ephron: She taps into this 90s New York feminine vibe that I can really, really get around. She’s honest and raw, but in a way that’s fancy and entirely aspirational. Again, this is all coming from the lens of a straight white girl, but good heavens, it’s a delightful world she makes you believe in. You know, like autumn leaves and books and tea and bug sloppy jumpers and romance and Meg the heck Ryan. Read her books, watch her movies and, shit, do read some of Carrie Fisher’s books too. You’ll know what I mean. 

Friends: Sure, men have friends, but when women really connect, it transcends the definition of friendship to something the English language cannot fully articulate. You talk about your feelings, both the emotional and the graphically biological kind and it really binds you in a, in my experience, really uplifting kind of way. To quote the great Kris Jenner, “I love my friends”.

Talking about pap smears: I mean, getting pried open and scraped internally isn’t a fun experience, but shooting the breeze about it with other people who have also been through it is a bit of a laugh. I don’t know, maybe it’s just having something to bond about, but it’s fun going into the intricate details with your friends. “My cervix was tucked away to the left the last time!” “I always need the long speculum, even though I’m pretty short!” “I was super hungover and was pretty sure I stunk of old beers”. Such fun. See also: talking about your cycle; talking about going off the pill; talking about dating apps etc.

Not living in the fear that you have a secret child you didn’t know about: I mean, it’s hard to say how anxious I’d be if I were born a man, but if I had the same levels of near constant frettery, I would be shit scared that somewhere out there was a child with half my DNA. Like, with the exception of some horrific abuse situations, you’re going to be aware of any child you’ve parented. You’re not going to be surprised by a kid knocking on your door telling you that you made ‘em.

The connotations surrounding female masturbation: There’s all these sensual, self-care kind of associations when it comes to women masturbating. By comparison, male masturbation is very rough – you think of ejaculating into a crusty sock or a dick being jammed into a pie. It’s all so perfunctory, with an impatient focus on getting to the end, already. But for women, it’s more more tender. Female masturbation is all about exploration and connection and empowerment. I mean, this way of thinking is quite new in terms of modern history and I know we have a lot of women to thank for getting us to this point, but I think that’s just lovely.

* A friend of mine used this phrase the other day, and it was too good not to turn into a shitty illustration. 

While you’re here, if you feel like doing something for the sisterhood, now’s the day to do it. Be kind to your fellow woman. Lift up those underneath you. And, if you can, chip in a few dollars to some causes that do great things for women.

Here’s two causes I’ve dug up:

Women’s Legal Service Queensland: This service offers women free assistance in areas like family law, domestic violence and some areas of sexual assault. You can donate to them here.

Days for Girls: This is an initiative that makes reusable, washable period products for girls in developing countries so they don’t miss out on days in schools. I did a story with some people in Rotary who were doing some work with the initiative when I was working in Armidale and I thought it was a brilliant cause. You can donate to them here.

Ok, so I’d originally set out to write a short, sharp little blog post about a handful of mundane but extremely important features I’d want in my dream home, but, of course, that got a little out of hand.

It’s now a long article which I’ve been able to stretch into a column – and perhaps may even be able to extend into a two-parter – which means I’m holding back on that A+ content until I’ve forced the fine readers of The Clifton Courier to endure it. This left me scrambling for something else to fill this Sunday slot.

So I’ve decided to fall back on my ultimate fallback option: an annotated tabography.

Now, tabography is a word I’ve just made up to describe a list of tabs I have open in my phone’s internet browser. I’ve Googled it to check it doesn’t have another meaning and it seems to be only used for a handful of business names. There are only three tweets with the tabography hashtag on all of Twitter, so I think it’s fair to say that I can assign a meaning to the word with wild abandon.

Essentially, you’re being treated to a look into the wild west of my world wide web, something I’ve already done in the past, in case you’re interested.

I like to open a new tab every time I use the internet on my phone. There’s no way I could operate on a one-tab basis; that would mean losing the valuable information I worked so hard to obtain in the past. I mean, you just never know when you might need this information again, you know?

My browser currently has too many tabs to count, so there’s no way I’m going to be able to go them all and maintain your attention – even if you have the will of mind to have made it to this point. But I will list the most recent ones and explain their existence to you, you lucky, lucky reader.

Here’s a glance into my internet hoarding:

A recipe for wholemeal fig and walnut bread: I made a vow earlier this year that I would bake a different kind of bread each month. I made a garlic and honey loaf in January and would have missed the deadline for February had it not been for the saving grace that is the leap year. I spent hours and hours crafting this bread which came out looking like a dried cowpat. Thankfully, rustic chic is totally in right now and so as soon as I place it on a wooden chopping board, it looks very high end.

A Google search for Enoggera dam: It came up in conversation and I’d never heard of it, even though it’s only 14 kilometres from my couch. There’s a scene on a movie I saw as a kid where these high schoolers on a road trip ask a random person on the street for directions and that random person on the street turns out not to be very helpful. One of the cool high schoolers says “hello dickhead, don’t you even know you way around the neighbourhood”, which is a line that my sisters and I quote quite often (dragging out “O” in “hello”, the “ead” in “dickhead” and the “ood” in “neighbourhood” for a stoner-ish emphasis), despite forgetting the rest of the movie. It turns out that I am the dickhead, who doesn’t know the neighbourhoooooood.

A Google search for “Hello dickhead, don’t you even know your way around the neighborhood?”: Holy shit, I found it. After all these years and several half-arsed searches, I have the answer. The movie is called National Lampoon’s Senior Trip. And now I understand why I didn’t find it before –because I was spelling “neighbourhood” the correct way, with a U. But the Americans don’t do that whole U thing and so the quote would have been misspelled. I mean, this might seem pretty underwhelming to you readers, but this is huge news in my house.

Old Toowoomba ads: This is a very important YouTube playlist that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to delete. This has ads from way back to 1993. It’s a goldmine. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have the Kip McGrath ad or that weird Christian ad where there’s all these youths in brightly-coloured t-shirts and jeans saying things like “he made you and he loves you” and “god made me, god may everything”. If anyone has a copy of that ad, I’d really appreciate a link in the comments section or a VHS tape I could pick up at a public location. Willing pay at least $2.40 for the tape.

A Google search for “those bastards in Sydney just don’t bloody get it”: When your words fail, Bob Katter’s might do the trick.

A story about the researchers recreating voice of a 3,000-year-old mummy: This is the most glorious recording I’ve ever heard. It’s so delightfully underwhelming, especially considering all the work that went into it from a bunch of intelligent experts. I mean, they recreated a damn vocal tract using 3D printing, medical scanning and an electric larynx and what they ended up with sounded like that sounds like a less-animated Scary Spice remembering her ex boyfriend, Stephen. If you haven’t heard it, I heartily recommend a listen. It’s almost as mood-enhancing as that horse dancing to Fleetwood Mac.