reasons to be cheerful - cyprus club bricks

I've never been inside the Cyprus club, but I am often hypnotised by their wall...

58 Stanmore Rd, Stanmore

anxiety #242 - how do you eat a lobster?

I should probably start by letting you know that I've never actually eaten part of a lobster, let alone a whole one, and it's not because I'm too gripped by fear to give it a go. I've just never had the opportunity. It does, however, seem an incredibly daunting meal.

Firstly, I'm hesitant about any food that is so messy to eat, grown adults need to wear bibs. Is it really such a slippery hazard? If I order a whole lobster, will I really be given a bib? I'm generally a pretty neat eater, not one of those people who flick spaghetti sauce on their shirt or drip melty icecream from a cone. Surely I don't need to wear a bib... do I?

The tomalley (the dirty lobster liver) makes me a little nervous, because of the possibility that it could be contaminated with mercury. I understand, however, that despite the fact some consider it a delicacy, I can just avoid it. Unless it's in disguise, there's not too much drama there.

Most of all I'd have trouble shaking the constant nagging feeling that I'd missed a bit. Nature made lobsters so their delicious goodness would be tricky to get at, and there are lots of little trapped bits that a beginner could overlook. After all the build up to actually eating a lobster, did I end up getting into all the legs? What about the little bits in the tail flippers? It would be just too sad to leave the table thinking maybe I'd left my first ever lobster half eaten. Why even try to eat a lobster if I'm going to leave any behind? Is is possible to employ some kind of lobster-eating coach?

So many unanswered questions. So much uncertainty. If you are also worried about eating lobster, help is available at this informative website...

reasons to be cheerful - footpath gardens

The neighbours might complain and the council threaten to remove them, but I like footpath gardens. They have a nostalgia for when people actually knew their neighbours, when homes weren't restricted by their front gates.
It seems like a nice street to live in.

anxiety #172 - a crimson lake pencil...

...or more to the point, where is my Crimson Lake pencil?
I came across a sweet pencil brooch by Neil Thomas and it made me think about my favourite Derwent colour, Crimson Lake.
It's an important day in a young design student's life when they get a set of Derwent pencils. A gleaming row of pure colouring potential. You realise that finishing assignments will be so much easier. How could you have been living without Deep Cadmium? Wouldn't pictures now have a greater depth when rendered with Kingfisher Blue, and Burnt Yellow Ochre?
But the colour for me was definitely Crimson Lake, a deep red, leaning slightly toward purple. It's strong and powerful, yet warm and luxurious. I imagine that similar to Alain de Botton's views on why people are attracted to different styles of architecture, we have favourite colours because psychologically they represent characteristics and strengths we want to possess. They remind us of everything we could be. My Crimson Lake pencil was quick to become one of the shortest in the box.
There are a few gaps in the Derwent box these days. Things go missing during moves and assignment all nighters, but the only pencil I ever need is the number 20. When I realised it was gone I searched through innumerable pencil cases and tins, but it seemed hopeless. I'm sure it's living in some drawer, or at the bottom of a shoe box in the shed, it'll turn up when I least expect it.
In the meantime, if you see a spare Crimson Lake, could you send it my way? I know it's only a pencil, but life's felt a a shade more dull since it went missing.

N.B. I apologise if this post is, as one detractor called it, "dicky". Sadly, it's just how I am...

marrickvillains rolling

sweetest bikes in the inner west...

anxiety #358 - public transport woes

I caught a crowded bus the other day, and when the person I was sharing a seat with got up, I scooched over to the window seat. The seat was disconcertingly warm and I immediately started to worry. I knew that inevitably when I stood up someone else would scooch over to the window seat. At that moment my greatest fear became the possibility that the person who took my seat would think it was my butt that made the seat so warm. Sure, it would have been a stranger who would probably not give it a second thought, but I couldn't handle my posterior being wrongly accused.

I missed my stop...

at home

A moai in the garden.

I don't remember it being as cold and misty on the Marrickville isles as it looks in the picture.