Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 31

There’s been an Easter egg sitting on my bench for days. 

Well, it’s not actually an egg – it’s shaped like a bunny. But the term “Easter egg” is kind of like a catch-all way to describe all foil-wrapped novelty-shaped chocolate confections that are produced to be distributed on the first Sunday after the Paschal full moon, juuuust after the spring equinox in the northern hemisphere (you can see that “Easter egg” gets to the point quicker). 

It’s one of the fancier kinds of Easter bunnies. I mean, it’s still one you can get at the supermarket, but it’s the fanciest one you can get at the supermarket. It’s good quality chocolate, so it’s the kind of Easter egg that isn’t all about the presentation, how ever fabulous it is. There’s substance underneath all the bells and golden foil. In short, it’s a good egg. 

Anyway, I bought the egg as a little treat while on a grocery run the other day. My thinking was that it would be a treat separate to dessert. I mean, it’s not that we’re having dessert every night. That’s a little too much for someone who has never had a fast metabolism, which has somehow slowed even further after the “young” from her “young adult” dropped away like a blackened umbilical chord finally breaks off from a newborn’s belly button. 

I guess I was thinking the egg would be enjoyed as something that’s not just mindless eating – something to sit down and savour. It wasn’t something to just go mung ravenously on after a full day at work in that hour of madness where you end up eating literally anything you can gets your hands on and not even realise what you’re doing until you come out of the frenzy and find yourself standing in the hallway, your face slathered in apricot jam. It wasn’t something to be eaten while standing at the fridge door while searching desperately for something else to eat. It’s not as special.

And because it’s a bunny, this egg has eyes, foil ones, but eyes nonetheless. I can feel them bore into me when I consider just scoffing it down. They give me a look that says “really, mate, you’re just going to eat a whole Easter bunny within the space of 10 minutes at 12.27pm, fall asleep on the couch and spend the rest of the day in a cloud of regret?!”.

No, this egg was to be a conscious pleasure, enjoyed slowly when the time was right, I thought. 

But when is the right time, really?

It feels like I should be wait until it’s after dark with a candle burning and while wearing some fancy loungeware (that’s different to pyjamas – loungewear is the stylish comfortable gear you get around the house in when you want to feel like a luxe homebody; pyjamas are the stained, oversized t-shirts or undies you wear when you go bed and actually want to be comfortable enough to sleep). 

But by the time you’ve set everything up, that initial craving has had time to dull. It’s not sure much that you don’t want it anymore – it’s good chocolate, if course you want it! – but that genuine feeling of “yeah, you know what, I really feel like little bit of chocolate” is gone and you’re almost forcing it. It’s still nice, but it doesn’t hit the same.

And, again, those metallic eyes look at me saying “righto, so you need to plan a whole production just to enjoy some chocolate? Live your life for heaven’s sake!”

The problem is that I’m so regimented about the way I spend my days. The shift work I do dictates that I have to be, otherwise my life would be in complete shambles instead of just the partially shambolic existence I proudly maintain. I plan out my meals in advance, I plot my exercise according to a gym timetable and the positioning of the sun when I finish work and I have to book in social encounters weeks in advance. I suppose it’s reasonable that I’m not in tune with what my body wants and that I quash spontaneity because my schedule means if I let my hunger, energy levels and whims dictate my activities, I’d not get anything done.   

But, at the same time, you can’t really schedule in a chocolate craving. It does sap the fun out of things. And you can’t keep waiting for the moment to be entirely right, otherwise the chocolate will go all white and powdery. 

So perhaps I should just go eat it now. 

…but it’s only 9.04am.

Yeah, look, obviously that was a while ago now. The egg in question was eaten but then replaced with another egg on my next trip to the supermarket. Said egg was still sitting in the kitchen until a few days ago, when I put it in the baking section of my pantry. The plan is to melt it down and use it in my next batch of bickies to take into work. I mean, I didn’t eat this one was for entirely different reasons than the frivolous struggle detailed above. To be perfectly hon hon, I haven’t been able to stomach much lately.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 24, 2021

Yeah, look, it’s been a long time between drinks and there’s no illustrations, but don’t go givin’ me any grief, ya hear? I’ve had a bloody gutfull of your attitude.

There’s a weird smell in my house.

I live in a little, tastefully decorated townhouse. It has a small lounge room after the entrance then, behind the stairs, is the kitchen and dining area. The lounge room is carpeted. It’s a dark grey carpet that looks reasonably new. There are no obvious stains. And the carpets – both upstairs and downstairs – were shampooed before I moved in. 

The townhouse – or, as I like to call it, townHOME – isn’t old, but it’s not young either. Kind of like me. I mean, it still stands upright and doesn’t have any major cracks or lines, but it’s not exactly as hip and with it as the new townhouses in the neighbourhood. 

When I checked it out before I moved in, I noticed a faint whiff. It’s difficult to describe. I smelt a bit stale, maybe. Like it needed airing out and a good wipe down. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen, which is perhaps where the age of the place is most evident. It’s the neck of the house, if you will.

The laminate is separating from the chipboard in parts, particularly near the sink. The shelving lining had worn away and had been sealed by some, I have to admit, expertly applied duct tape. And the person who was in before me left a few things behind. Some of them, like bin bags, light bulbs and toilet paper – in this economy?! – were extremely helpful. But there were a few drawers and cupboards that clearly weren’t emptied and wiped out when old mate left. So I figured that once I gave everything a deep clean, I’d be right.

Once I moved in made sure everything was clean. I opened windows. I lit scented candles. 

Occasionally I’d get a faint whiff of that stale smell, but it wasn’t often. And when I asked guests about it, they didn’t notice it. 

Eventually, the smells my life overpowered the pre-existing pong.  

But then the other day I got home from work and was slapped in the face by said odour, which had intensified during its absence. It wasn’t faint. It wasn’t a slight whiff. It was a solid cloud of stench. 

If I were to describe it, I would probably say it was a mixture between sweaty old gym socks that had dried out in the sun and that dank belly button smell (you know the smell, I know the smell, let’s not go pretending we’re something that we’re not). Sometimes, I swear it also has a faint hint of diesel. 

And I can’t for the life of me work out the source of it. 

I sniffed long and hard like a witch from Hocus Pocus who had detected the presence a child. After much nasal inhaling, I had narrowed the stench to part of the lounge room near the stairs. I had a general idea of where the smell was located but not where it was coming from. 

I took all the cushions from the couch, hoping to find a dank sock wedged in there. But, alas, there was none. I stood on the couch sniffing the ceiling thinking there could be a rotting rodent corpse between the floors, but it didn’t smell stronger up there. None of the plants in the room were dying to the point of giving off the smell of decay (but I think they’ve accepted their fate, it’s really only a matter of time for some of them). I sniffed the walls but detected nothing. I even got down and started sniffing the carpet like a dog tracking a criminal, but no mystery puddle of pong was detected. 

There’s no obvious source for this smell that no one else seems to notice. 

This means two things: that there’s a supernatural force in the house trying to drive me mad by producing mystery smells that no one else can smell or there’s something afoot deeper than the surface level that requires skilled tradespeople to address.  

And for either of these two scenarios, the solution is the same: lighting a scented candle as a calming distraction to the problem and pretending that nothing is wrong. I think we can all agree that this is the best way to deal with any problem, right?

Right, so I’m thinking there’s probably a sink/drainage issue that needs to be addressed with some corrosive chemicals. Of course, I’m yet to address this problem as I keep forgetting to pick up the gear when I duck out to the shops.