In the world of make up, I would be classed as a minimalist. I've tried being one of those artistic make up people who use lots of fancy schmancy products that enable them to change the way their face looks, but I've had no success. None. Zilch. So, these days my make up regime is very simple. A bit of foundation, sometimes a bit of powder, eye liner, mascara, lipstick, sometimes a bit of blush and, on the rarest of occasions, eye shadow. So, what is my bathroom drawer doing holding all this "stuff' that I never use? And surely there is a better way to store the little make up that I do use? Hence, my epiphany and my make up organiser was born.
Rain is predicted. Heavy rain ... and strong winds. A rather large storm cell, in fact, and we are booked into the city for the night to tour the sights of Vivid Sydney 2016. A night in town. A dinner out. And Vivid. Perfect ... except for the rain.
I'm in trouble. Serious trouble. Trouble with a CAPITAL "T" ... apparently. I don't get in trouble very often, so this is a new and not all that wonderful experience for me. So, I suppose I need to explain my plight.
A fishing shed is a dream to behold for those drawn to angling as their preferred past time. In FNQ, such a dream is no longer a dream. A sister, a brother, an almost-brother-in-law and a dog are living the dream, fishing the waters of the Tully and Hull Rivers and the Pacific Ocean around Dunk Island whenever the urge hits. They are in search of the biggest catch. The catch to talk about for almost ever. The catch to get the heart racing and the line singing. "THAT" catch.
A day at the races is a rare event in our social calendar. Rare, like once-every-5-or-6-years rare. So when MLP came home suggesting joining a table at the Haweksbury Cup with mates from his work, we donned our best and mixed with the throng.
Anzac Day. Alarms break our sleep at 4am. Lights flick on. Homes come to yawning life. Cars loaded with young and old drive out, lights on, towards the closest cenotaph and ceremony. Then the quiet wait begins. The wait for that tinge of light just before the dawn. That tinge of light that led the ANZACs to the wrong bay on that foreign shore in 1915. Then martial commands break the quiet, feet move in unison and, as the dawn breaks, the solemn act of respect and remembrance begins.
Easter is one of those times of the year for friendship and sharing. This year, MLP and I went home for Easter. Our real home. The Gold Coast. Stayed with friends. Shared food and wine and all things Easter. Home … ahhhh.
Middle Head is a looong way from our current abode in Sydney's far west. It's in the harbour, almost directly opposite The Heads, North Head and South Head. The ones that form the harbour's mouth. The ones that Cook sailed passed and that Governor Phillip rowed a long boat through to found this nation and this magnificent city. Well, his lackies rowed; I'm sure he did not one single iota of rowing.