Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 3, 2017

I’m mildly concerned about my table manners.

As someone who currently lives in a situation that sees them mostly shovelling food into their face in front of their desk at of or on their couch in front of Come Dine With Me*, I’m rarely tested on my dinning etiquette.

* As you might have guessed by the admission that I often eat alone while watching four losers cook underwhelming meals and humiliate themselves all for the chance of winning 1000 pounds, I don’t have too many friends within an easily visit-able radius. And one of the actual friends I have here also loves that show to the point of expressing interest in hosting our own Come Dine With Me week. Make no mistake, it is an excellent program. I am willing to publicly and loudly put my support behind it. I hope it never ends. 

The other night I was digging into some hummus and, without the standard carrot sticks, crackers or crusty bread to dip into it, I just used my finger. I reasoned that this was the cleanest way to enjoy my favourite form of blended chickpeas, because fingers are a totally carb-free, fat-free, dairy-free and sugar-free means of shovelling hummus into my mouth.

It was abhorrent, but there was no one around to call me on it so I happily continued.

My parents used to be sticklers for table manners in those all important primary school years, but somewhere along the line they stopped rousing on me and my sisters for not using our knives and forks properly.

Perhaps it had something to do with them trying to avoid upset at a table with three girls going through puberty seated around it, or perhaps it had something to do with the ABC news hour syncing up with our dinnertime. Either way, we became a little slack.

It’s not that I don’t know how to wield cutlery appropriately, it’s more that I find myself being a little too casual when it comes to food.

I’m still mocked for that one time in high school when I picked up my slice of carrot by stabbing my longish fingernail into it and raising it to my mouth like my finger was a fleshy fork. That was one time, guys.

However, the other night, I realised that not only am I too casual, but I’m also a little vindictive.

A friend and I split a homemade*, Nutella and strawberry-stuffed doughnut for dessert and things quickly got out of hand.

* It wasn’t “homemade” but “restaurant-made”. I hate how restaurants insist on using this term. Unless the items have been brought over from someone’s house or that kitchen is also a residential dwelling, then anything with the tag “homemade” is a lie. And I know replacing the tag with “this wasn’t mass produced by a commercial supplier who plugs it with nasty preservatives” would be cumbersome, but maybe “made on site” would suffice? 

I knew my friend was lactose intolerant (although that doesn’t stop her eating chocolate, because she’s not a moron) so I naturally claimed the glob of ice cream as mine. And like Mufasa told Simba that everything the light touches belonged to him on The Lion King, I applied that same principle to the melted ice cream. Everything with the sweet, milky liquid coating it was mine for the taking, I reasoned. It didn’t want her falling ill from eating dairy, after all. I was just being a good friend.

So I savagely claimed what I told myself was mine, hacking at that deep fried delight like it was the faceless serial killer I sometimes imagine myself beating the crap out of when I need to apply more vigour to my jogs*. It was an absolute frenzy. Luckily, Nutella is too thick to fly at my face like blood, because otherwise I would have been covered in it.

* This is not a clinically tested truth, but imagining you’re stoping an attack with your sheer ire at the patriarchy does wonders for one’s physical output. Sometimes I’m wearing out-of-character combat-style gear, sometimes I’m kneeing a bastard in the face, other times I’m being straight out savage. My weapon of choice is usually a torn Sunkist can that I use as bad-arse flaying device to teach big jerks a lesson without killing them. I like to imagine emergency staff praising me while I shake it off. I’m kind of like a female Bruce Willis type person in these visions – I’m not out to be a hero, I’m just at the right place and the right time with just the right amount of fury and moral inclination to do the right thing. Long winded, yes, but I promise you this makes you run faster. Or at least feel as if you’re running faster. Perhaps I may conduct an experiment on myself.  

Not a particularly dignified way to conduct oneself.

But even though I may have been conquering that doughnut like a modern-day Alexander the Great, so too was my friend. Neither of us had the sense to cut the doughnut in half before tucking in. As such, there were no clear boundaries, so technically we were not invading each other’s territories.

She was staking her claim on the Nutella-soaked parts of the dessert, as I found the choclatey goo a little too much.

And while this meant she seized the last morsel of doughnut, I directed my assault on capturing the last of the melted ice cream and scraping up the decorative chocolate drizzle.

We both won, but I was in no way honourable in battle.

So what can I learn about from these horrific accounts of poor table manners in a bid to improve my conduct? In the case of the doughnut, the only solution I can think of is not sharing a dessert. In the case of the hummus, I recommend having amble dipping accompaniments on hand at all times.

Buying more bread and eating a whole dessert to myself? I can do that.

Sometimes when I’m in public bathrooms, I worry about the sounds I make.

And I’m not talking about those sounds; although that is a concern of mine, it is entirely another issue altogether.

I’m talking about the sounds I make when I think I’m alone.

Because when you go from the public realm to a more private space, your thought process changes. Once you step into the toilets, something happens. Suddenly you’re not thinking about spreadsheets, coffee filters or manila folders (this is what I imagine working adults think about. Considering I write about viral cat videos for a living, I have no idea what a normal working adult does or thinks about). Instead, your mind interprets the privacy allowed by cubical walls as a cue to go deep down into your subconscious.

Standing up from your desk or stepping away from an overcrowded bar can prompt your brain to think it’s break time and therefore it’s ok to bring up some of its favourite memories. And its favourite memories, it would seem, aren’t the ones about your friends or family or that time you drew a really satisfying G.

No, the memories your brain seems to enjoy putting on repeat again and again like a videotape with a recording of an Olsen twins movie on it at a house of four girls are the cringe-worthy, painful, confronting ones.

You know the memories I’m talking about. They’re the ones that make you really uncomfortable that you are successfully able to repress most of the time by distracting yourself with work or friends or the Instagram feeds of Texan couples who flip houses for a living.

But when you’re in the toilet without your phone, you’re stripped of all those handy diversions. All you have are those blank cubical walls and your infernal memories.

And most of the time I’m off to the water closet (fancy term I know, but I can only use the word “toilet” so many times and even I’m not bogan enough to call it a “bog trough”) my brain decides there’s no need to put a time delay on my thoughts going to air. When I’m in a public situation, my brain is often forward thinking enough to review my reactionary thoughts, decide whether they are appropriate to voice and either allow said thoughts to be verbalised or swallowed down to join the fiery ball of the others burning an ulcer of repressed emotions into my stomach lining. This also applies to sound effects. But when I’m by myself, the crew that handles this job must go out for smoko because unfiltered reactions to the thoughts being projected on the imaginary white sheet in my mind come pouring out.

So with the combined conditions of the recalled cringe material and the shutting down of the sound filter, I find myself audibly gasping, groaning and sassily exhaling. I also have been known to verbalise the comeback I wish I had have said at the time or voice commentary on the past scenario, depending on what past indiscretion is being broadcast in that particular moment.

This is generally fine when I’m at home, because the only person who is around to hear it is usually me and I’ve already won myself over, so hearing that kind of crap doesn’t faze me.

But I when I’m in a place where others might hear me, I worry. Because chances are when I say something weird, someone is going to be taking a dump next to me.

And the trouble is that sometimes I’m so absent minded that I forget to keep track of whether I’ve said anything aloud in the first place.

So maybe I’m thinking about that time I was chatting to a fellow at a bowls day, a couple of schooners in, and was surprised by how young he was. In my mind, he looked to be in his 30s but he was actually younger than me. Instead of swallowing my initial shock and saying something like, “you have a more mature look about you,” I blurted out a horrendous, “geeez you’ve had a rough couple of years”.

That graceful social interaction was almost two years ago, and yet it still prompts a verbal reaction from me when I think about it. Sometimes the noise is akin to the sound you would make when you’ve paid $14.70 for a piece of pie and the waiter places a tiny sliver of a Sara Lee classic apple in front of you; sometimes it sounds like I am gargling my own shame in the back of my throat; and sometimes I let out an involuntary “who says that?!”.

But when I find myself in the cubicle, I worry if I have just thought those sounds/reactions or if I’ve actually whispered them to myself.

And whispering to yourself in the toilet isn’t normal. At best it’s neurotic, and at worse it sounds like you’re muttering incantations in your cubicle during a Moan Myrtle style breakdown.

So to cover up the potential dunny don’t, I employ the same technique for the accidental fart noise. I try to make the same noise again in a bid to make it clear to whoever may or may not be listening that the first noise came from the same source as the second noise and was not a faux pas.

This of course means that I spend most of my time in the ladies’ room breathily humming to myself.

And it’s dawning on me that perhaps this isn’t that great either.

I think I need to invest in some adult-sized nappies or avoid consuming anything within two hours of leaving the house.

Or maybe I should just never leave the house?

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, April 26, 2017

My friends and I are planning on holding our second Fake Hen’s Weekend.

For those of you lucky enough to be past the age where every second friend of yours is having getting married, hens parties aren’t what they used to be.

They used to be trashy nights out during which the bride to be wears flammable accessories and a group of normally-respectable women sip drinks so strong they’re just a notch below metho out of phallic straws. This gaggle of 15 or so sloshy women would drag themselves from bar to bar and ruin every other patron’s night by screaming “sheeeeez gettin’ marrieeeeeeed” into the faces of strangers after demanding they buy the group a round of errotically-named shots.

And while those events are not yet totally extinct, the hens party has evolved over the past decade.

Now, hens parties go for entire weekends. They are destination getaways in small coastal towns or somewhere in hilly wine country. They are three-day events. They tend to involve more antipasto platters. And they tend to steer clear from the trashier aspects of women partying together.

They’re fancy as fuck (even if most of the guests usually aren’t so fancy). Participants expect more, and we’re often so bored in our own mundane existences that they’re also more than willing to shell out more. Standards are high.

It’s true. Someone I know went to a hens party recently where a lass, most unimpressed at the quality of her salami exclaimed, “I know fine meats, and this is NOT fine meat”.

Yep, the cubes of Bega and sliced kabana of our youth is no longer going to cut it.

Perhaps this has something to do with the rise of Instagram and the tendency for everyday nobodies to cultivate carefully-constructed personal brands on social media who don’t want to be shamed by being photographed wearing a cheap polyester pink sash with a fruit tingle in their hand.* Perhaps it’s because females tend to have more disposable income and less family obligations in their late 20s then generations before. Or perhaps it’s because we’ve finally realised how fabulous a big wheel of brie really is.

* Yeah, I’m aware of how long that sentence is. I don’t bloody care. You don’t come to this blog expecting something short, sharp and succinct. It’s not my jam. Even when I “cut a long story short” my stories still end up as long rambling messes. 

Don’t get me wrong, the plastic odes to the male anatomy still make an appearance, but that’s no longer the main event. And at my last hens party, the entire group was sorely disappointed when the stripper was actually trying to be sexy instead of being the Harry Potter impersonator like we actually ordered.  

I can’t speak for every hens party in south east Queensland, but the ones me, my sisters and my friends go to are more like the slumber party marathons we used to have as schoolgirls, only with waaaaay more vodka.

And while we probably do spend far too much on dips than we reasonably should be in this current financial climate (I live in Sydney, so I’m all too aware of the high cost of living), the time we’re forced to spend together is the real drawcard of the hens weekend.

Because when you rent a holiday house with less than a dozen close mates far away from your homes, you don’t have the option of heading after one night. You don’t have the proximity to partners, or other obligations, to distract you. All you can do is spend time with the people around you. And this takes us all back to when we were kids and we could just get ourselves around each other.

This results in way more burps than would be usually projected publicly, mooning strangers off yachts, frank admissions of our most appalling secrets and the overall feeling of being connected to other human beings. And because we are a bunch of gross, over-sharing sickos, me and my little posse bloody love the hens party.

So we’ve started having hens parties when there is no hen. Because we don’t think we should have to wait until someone proposes to one of us to have a three-day slumber party. As lovely as it is when it actually happens, we don’t need a fellow to decide one of us is good enough to marry to get together.

Which is probably a good thing, because if you saw the way we acted on a hens weekend – fake or not – you would see it would take a very special man to marry one of us.

Sometimes my mother’s voice just pops into my head unexpectedly.

Yesterday morning, as I forced an unholy amount of egg on toast into my mouth I heard my mother’s voice say, “you don’t need to eat it all at once – slow down and enjoy it”.

Instead of heading her advice, I instead heaped up my fork and crammed even more of that buttery goodness into the gaping hole that is my mouth.

My mother was in another state. I didn’t have to follow her advice. She’s not the boss of me.

“Well, maybe this is how I enjoy it,” I retorted back to my mother/myself, while sitting in an otherwise empty kitchen. “Maybe I enjoy eating everything at once because for a brief moment it feels like I really do have it all when in fact all I have is a growing HECS debt and a deep seeded fear of commitment.”

Of course I never say that to Mum, because my mouth is always too full of food to reply. It’s so full that a rogue moment could give me a jaw cramp. (Don’t laugh. It has happened before. If I had a dollar for every time I yawned so hard I pulled a muscle in my jaw, I would at least enough to buy an overpriced novelty doughnut. And they aren’t cheap guys.)

But after that first whopping mouthful, I started to slow down and take smaller bites. Even without being there, hassling me, she impacted my behaviour. And whether I liked it or not, I did enjoy that breakfast for longer.

Sometimes my mother’s words, though uttered years and even decades ago, can crop up in my thoughts and cloud the rest of my day.

Sometimes it’s lovely, like when I remember that time she told me she thought of me as Jo from Little Women (yuuuuuge compliment BTW – Jo is clearly the best sister because she doesn’t just get married to some peasant bore like Meg and she doesn’t just up and die like Beth. Granted, Amy does end up in a pretty sweet sitch in the movie, but all of Laurie’s money can’t change the fact that she married Jo’s sloppy second).

Sometimes it’s sad, like when I remember her reacting to me being a shit sandwich jerk of a teenager, because then I think about how many times I must have hurt her feelings.

As I was showering later that day, I had a thought about what my parents wanted me to be. I was thinking about John Barton, the perfect schoolboy from Looking for Alibrandi (I read an article about him recently because that book is now a quarter of a century old, in case you needed another reminder that time is slipping though our fingers, your youth has faded and you will soon be forgotten) and about what pressure he was under to be a great politician.

And I wondered what my parents expected of me. Like, after pumping so much food, parental effort and money into me, what were they expecting in return? The older I get, the more I realise how much bloody work it would take to bring another person into this world. Like, imagine how much water went into keeping me clean and fed for a second. To put that into perspective, apparently it takes nearly 2500 litres of water to produce one single hamburger. I’ve eaten countless burgers in my time. A lot of resources went into getting me to where I am today. Not to mention all the emotional energy I would have drained from both of my parents. I would have been a huge hassle.

I know if I munted up my cave of wonders (see previous works for a translation) and allowed someone else to live in my damn body, I’d want something to show for it. My mother had to get her spine fused after she gave birth to me for heaven’s sake, surely you’d want that investment to pay off eventually?

But then I remembered what Mum always said when me or my sisters asked her what she wanted for us: “I just want you to be happy” she would say, each time.

Be happy? Are you serious? That may sound simple, but it’s a very broad concept. The overall feeling of happiness is reliant on a number of things coming together.

That means I not only have to forge myself a stellar career, but I need to build and maintain fulfilling relationships, exercise regularly, be creative, have plenty of sleep, fill my body with plenty of nutrients, get plenty of vitamin D, connect with nature and have a bedroom with the optimal temperature for slumber. As I have impossibly high standards, I would also have add in other junk like brewing the perfect cup of tea and ensuring all of my magazines remained unbent. And let’s not forget all the novelty knick knacks I’d need to both collect – cheaply – then artfully arrange. Be happy? Good lord. That’s a lot of work.

Soz beb.

Wouldn’t you prefer me to be a cynical blogger who complains about everything even though they have it quite good? Because I can do that.

But, rather than retorting all this to my mother (because that would go beyond the realm normal talking to oneself and would absolutely alarm my housemate), I instead hopped out of the shower, put on my comf pants, ate some of my leftover Easter bunny and thought about how lucky I was to be born to a mother with such expectations for me.

And whether I liked it or not, I was happy.

I guess the stretch marks and school fees were worth it then?

Let me just preface this with the fact that I’m running on about four hours of sleep.

I’m feeling tired, lazy and just shithouse in general after last evening’s outing. I met a friend for a beer and ended up having essentially three dinners, which was fantastic but I am paying for it now (being able to get a ripping bloody massuman curry at 2am if the first big tick I’ve allocated to the Sydney lifestyle. As much as I love filling the empty void inside me with gravy-soaked hot chips from Charcoal Chicken on a cold Toowoomba night, I have to say that a flavoursome curry pips it at the post).

I honestly haven’t the energy to be entertaining in written from this evening – I was barely able to make myself a piece of toast just now.

But I like to be regular with my posts. I do try to uphold some standards of professionalism and despite wearing pony shirts and second-hand jazz shoes to work on the reg, I think I should at least be able to keep to a schedule.

So I’ve gone through the few rogue Word docs on my desktops which contain half-arsed attempts at writing columns. These generally are made up of a few spur of the moment rants I’ve farted out when the muse consumed me, but gave up on because they were either too shit or I thought up something better. These abandoned attempts at cohesive humour litter my desktop, sadly taking up space as they wait to be given attention. They are the equivalent of those people you know you could at least get a spirited fingerbang out of, but you’re kind of too good for them. However, you keep them around because you know one day you might just get desperate.

So here is my equivalent of swigging some room-temperature goon punch, assuming the starfish position and saying “yeah righto mate, you’ll do”.

It was a piece I wrote after going to the shops for just one item: a squeezey bottle of honey. I used honey quite a bit you see, as it’s a substitute for honey in my tea. I don’t think it’s any better for me than sugar, but I started off using it for that reason – something about it being a bit more natch and some bullshit about kick-starting the metabolism. Now I just like the taste.

Anyway, I ran out and was needing a cuppa like a junkie fangin’ for their next hit, so I trotted off to the supermarket. Afterwards, I thought I could turn that into a column. It turned into basically being a “here are funny names for vaginas” joke. And I canned the column because I thought I was above listing humorous euphemisms for female genitalia. I thought I was better than the cheap laugh for vag names. I thought I was a writer of great intellect who did not need to stoop down to such levels. Turns out I’m not. So here, enjoy this long-winded, unpolished build-up to a vag joke:

I just went to the shops and bought some honey.

That was the only thing I needed. Just a singular malleable plastic container of honey. So obviously I didn’t need a plastic shopping bag for it.

But I had to get it from the grocery shop through the shopping centre, up the street and into my house. I wasn’t going to hang on to it in my hands while I walked and I couldn’t fit it in my tiny, tiny handbag.

So I shoved it in the front pocket of my shorts (high-waisted because I’m a little bit indie and the rigidity of the denim around my middle feels like the appropriate coverage of my sloppy, sloppy rig).

As I walked out, I realised it looked like I was making a statement.

What this statement was, I’m not sure.

It might have been a statement about how I like my tea. Strong. Hot. Nothing fancy. Milk. Honey. Bam. Perhaps this could also be interpreted as a description of myself. Perhaps, that was me thinking a little too metaphorically for 9.26pm on a Monday.

Maybe it was proudly proclaiming that I’m a strong advocate for not pissing all over the earth (figuratively. I mean, literally is fine too but do try to do it somewhere thoughtful – like don’t do it by someone’s window, go by a excluded bush so no one has to drink in your wee stench through their nose holes). It could be a stance against the evils of plastic bags and a show of solidarity with turtles who I have never seen, but I have probably saved countless times from suffocation due to my noble refusal of the heinous sacks of capitalism.

Maybe, people would think I had stolen the honey, in a brazen attempt to save money and stick it to The Man. Because honey belongs to the bees, not major corporations and consumerism is a boil in the armpit of humanity.

But really, the only thing I could think about was that I now had a new euphemism for my vagina: the honey pocket.

I mean, Cave of Wonders is my favourite by far, but the honey pocket could just be a close second.

Aaaaand then I was going to steer it into a tasteful list of other vagina names, but it’s very hard to make “meat curtains” palatable. I’m sure there is a way to do it, but I honestly don’t have the mental capacity to do so right now.

So I might just leave it there, inviting you to leave your names for your own love tunnel in the comments section if you’re that way inclined.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, April 12, 2017

I’ve suddenly realised the reason I was put on this earth.

Some people are born to be doctors. Some dedicate their lives to launching humankind to new frontiers in outer space. Some people knit numbers out of their vaginas to make people feel more comfortable about vulvas (although I feel like storing wool up there would be anything but comfortable for the poor dear and the whole exercise would have resulted in the creation of the world’s first thrush scarf… so good on her?).*

* Obviously this part didn’t make it to the print version. I’ve sprinkled a cheeky pap smear reference in my column here and here, but even I admit that this line could have gone a little too far.

I’m making it my life’s mission to bring the word “drongo” back to regular use.

Scoff all you want, but this is important. Drongo is a delightful word that can used as both an insult and a term of endearment. It’s got that classic Aussie twang that I would like to preserve for future generations. But it seems to be dying out, like the name Daryl or Cheryl or Keith. Seriously, how many baby Daryls have you come across recently?* Australia’s bogan culture is at risk of being abolished and it’s up to each one of us to maintain it into the future.

* Two years ago I heard word of a baby Trevor, but that’s not the same as “Daryl”. Plus, since that Tame Impala dropped I feel there may be a few ironic Trevors dropping out of wombs.

And because I’m a long way off being in a position to name a baby Keith, I’m trying to keep “drongo” alive (perhaps it’s a good thing I’m a long way off parenthood, as bestowing a child with the name Keith purely for the LOLs doesn’t scream parental responsibility).*

* That being said, I would totally name my son Bruce if I was confronted by one at this point in my life, but I think I would do the same in the same circumstances five years from now.

I have very little influence, but prolonging the life of “drongo” is how I’m choosing it utilise it.

And I’m not the only one who tries to bring words back from the proverbial grave.

My friend, who has both a law degree and a science degree, wears sensible shoes, is always tastefully-dressed and is an all-round reasonable person, still uses the term “fergalicious”.

The word was bought into existence by RNB singer Fergie, who you might know as “that blonde girl from the Black Eyed Peas”, back in 2006. At that time, Fergie coined the term in a fit of self-reverence, defining it in her hit track Fergalicious as, “make them boys go loco”. As such, we can gather that this blend of this woman’s stage name and the word “delicious” means “physically appealing to heterosexual males”.

Admittedly, a few people did use the word conversationally, but this was 11 years ago. Now, the term is practically extinct. I don’t even think Fergie herself would use it. But my well educated, mostly-sound-minded friend does.

The other day she told me she was stepping up her diet and added, “I’m going to be next level fergalicious”.

And while I can’t see this word sticking, her commitment to bringing about its resurrection is admirable. I get it, because I too like the idea of trying to get words to spread. Tying to “make fetch happen”, so to speak.

My father has a bunch of words in his vernacular of colourful phrases that I grew up assuming everyone knew.

One such phrase was “cluedy poots”, which doesn’t so much have a definition as it does a contextual relevance. It’s something you say when you’ve done a half-arsed job at, say, putting a fence up and it manages to remain upright. “Bloody cluedy poots” you say in a sarcastic but cheerful tone before cracking open a XXXX Gold.*

*I mean, you can drink whatever you like, but you really need to make it a Gold if you’re going for authenticity here. In fact, if you really want to play it by the book, you should also be wearing dust covers over your boots and a sloppy Akubra that you’ve sewed together haphazardly with mismatched thread. 

Since discovering the term was something Dad made up with his mates and was not a widespread slang word, I’ve been trying to get it to catch on. I guess I like the idea of people following my example (to a certain extent, otherwise society would cease to function).

Another friend has started referring to garlic bread as GB.* It was a codename him and his family used for the delightful buttery treat when speaking around his garlic-bread fiend of a niece. But he now uses it in everyday conversation. I have followed suit.

* He says IC instead of ice cream too. This guy is a genius. 

When my brother in law goes out to buy Mexican food, he’ll say his going “burrito bashing”. And he’ll suck long and hard on a “thicko”, which obviously is slang for “thickshake”. Of course, I have already explained these terms to the poor fellow who sits at the computer next to mine at work and encouraged him to use them freely.

And now I am passing these words on to you, dear readers, in the hope that some of them will catch on and be passed on like burning torches to generations to come.

Except fergalicious, of course. That belongs in 2006.*

* Sorry, sweetheart. I mean, you keep using it because it is hilarious, but no one else can pull it off. And just because the word “Fergalicious” is dead, doesn’t mean you don’t embody the very essence of the word. 

I have a new hobby.

It’s not the kind of interest that I would openly put on my resume to make me appear like a well-rounded potential employee, but I have become very passionate about it. It appeals to a number of pre-existing interests I already have: food, eavesdropping and judging people. This new hobby is a wonderful combination of the three and, I’d wager, a very useful way to spend my time.

It’s analysing the supermarket receipts of strangers and determining what sort of person they are and whether I would be mates with them. It’s kind of like an extension of my childhood hobby of pouring over the fridge section of electrical store catalogues. I would study the contents of the display fridge to determine what kind of people that particular fridge would belong to. Yes, in case you were wondering I was a chubby, kind of weird kid. But boy did I know how to have fun.

Anyway, this new hobby came to life after I found a crumpled receipt in the hallway of my apartment building. I was going to throw it in my rubbish bin, but after smuggled it back into my room I realised I was on to something. Now I realise that going through someone’s rubbish denotes certain prowler qualities, but it’s much more academic than raiding someone’s garbage bin.

I like to think of myself as anthropologist, rather than a stalker.

But I guess there’s a fine line, and I’m happy to strut along it.

Anyway, here’s what they got:

Perino fresh tomatoes (a two for $6 deal) – I tend to judge people for buying their tomatoes in plastic containers, because it seems like an unnecessary use of plastic. Perhaps because I’m used to buying my tomatoes from a guy who has an honesty box outside of his house who packages them in recycled plastic bags and empty pot plants.

Fresh salmon with the skin on (half a kilo) ­– These people care about their bodies, but not so much their wallets. Which is good, in a way. Because when you live in a society with a public healthy system, it’s easier on all our wallets if people don’t eat like a chubby loner seven-year-old kid at the food table at a party… that brings back memories.

Anyway, this purchase alone leads me to assume that this person is of the female persuasion because bad bitches love salmon.

I should know, because I also love salmon and also consider myself a bad bitch.

Ice cream 1.8 litres – I did a bit of research and realised that this icy treat was A2 ice cream. At first I thought it was some wanky dairy alternative ice cream but upon further investigation – AKA a quick glance at their website – they pay farmers a premium for milk. So I support this mystery shopper for their choice. Sure, it was on special and maybe that’s what made them buy it, but there’s something about farmers getting paid a decent amount for their produce that really gets my non-existent dick hard.

Lamb rump – right, this person is simply bloody luxe about their meat. And this is important because bad bitches need their iron. Being fabulous takes energy, the kind of energy that you can only fuel by feasting on the flesh of inferior life forms. Sometimes, “inferior life forms” can be animals lower on the food chain, sometimes, it can be the haters. Of course I’m not suggesting cannibalism is the only way to get a little spring in your step but I will say that Hannibal Lector had a certain flair that was hard to match. But in the interests of avoiding prison/eternal damnation, I would suggest eating the metaphorical flesh of your foes by evoking a little imagination when roasting a leg of lamb. Kind of along the same lines of the Eucharist except with a heavy dollop of sacrilege.

Alas, I digress. Form this purchase I can tell this person loves a good roast and therefore has a deep appreciation of gravy. I can make this assumption despite the lack of Gravox powder on the list because all good gravy lovers have a stash in the pantry at all times. I know I do. gravy powder is perhaps the first thing I add to the pantry when I move into a new place. Because being without gravy is like being dropped into the wilderness with Bear Grylls – you’re surviving, but you’re not really living.

Chobani mango

Chobani raspberry

Chobani blueberry – I noted that each of these yoghurt tubs were on special. This is clearly someone who values their dairy products but likes to shop around. They are opportunistic and economically-minded, and therefore would be an excellent influence on me at the moment. I appreciate their commitment to calcium, because as women, we need to think about our bones.

Osteoporosis looms for us all, and while the source of our strength is primarily that burning fire in our gut driving us to crush the patriarchy, a bit of yog certainly helps.

Yellow nectarines – Another ringer. Yellow nectarines are miles better than the white ones. They have more colour, more flavour and generally fill your intestinal track with sunshine. This person is no fool.

Lindor bag, assorted – This is a person who knows how to treat themselves. But the fact that they’ve gone with an assortment rather than one singular type tells me they’re indecisive. They don’t know what they’re looking for in life. They still are making their way in the world. I can also tell that they didn’t want to limit themselves to just one type of chocolaty treat. They kept their options open. This may mean that they were wanting to mimic the post-breakup Elle Woods chocolate eating scene from Legally Blonde, but I think it’s deeper than that. I think it’s a fear of commitment.

And when you combine an in ability to make a single decision, a crippling fear of commitment and a desire for treating oneself, I think we have a person going through the mid-20s crisis.

Bosc pears – According to my extensive research, boscs are known as the “aristocrats among pears” and is apparently an excellent choice for pear-related deserts.

This person is obviously a foodie, and this leads me to hope that we may one day watch Ratatouille together while gorging on hearty, rustic treats. I assume that this sasspot also has some fabulous crockery in her kitchen cabinets

Rockmelon – Look, I really want to like this girl. But this changes everything. Because while the rest of her grocery list is something I would wave flags and throw glitter over, this truly disturbing addition rocks me to my core.

Because rockmelon says: this person is a monster who feeds on the flesh of the rankest melon known to man. They probably have no soul and an intricate web of investment properties on negative gearing. DO NOT TRUST HER.

Maybe this isn’t the best way to go about screening for friends.