My son is ridiculously careless. He’s the youngest of four children, and he seems to think he’s invincible and gets a kick out of pushing the boundaries. I’ve done a lot of reading on the psychology of children and how their position in the family impacts their personality. It seems like my son has taken all the stereotypes of the youngest child and maximised them to impossible standards.
For example, he just bought the biggest piece of junk of a car that I’ve ever seen. He said he likes the fact that it could blow up at any moment. When I asked him to at least get the car checked out by an expert car mechanic near the Brighton area, he laughed at me and said that would defeat the purpose of buying that car to begin with. I have a headache just thinking about it. This child will truly be the death of me.
Because I know that he absolutely won’t get his car serviced, I think I might have to steal his car and do it myself. He often goes out on a Friday night and doesn’t come back until Sunday evening, so as long as I can find a mechanic that works on the weekend, I should be fine. The only issue will be if my son realises that the car is running smoother than he’s used to. He’s a smart boy, despite always making stupid decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he becomes aware of the change in the quality of his vehicle pretty quickly.
One thing I know my son’s car really needs is a tyre repair. Brighton roads can be really tough on cars and it makes sense that they experience some wear and tear. Except whoever owned this car before my son, drove in locations a lot harsher on the tyres than Brighton. God, I wish my son wasn’t so dumb and actually chose the safe option for once.
I have never been so embarrassed in my whole life! When you pay money to stay in a hotel, you expect the amenities to be decent. Especially when they boast themselves to be a 3-star location. At a minimum, I was expecting maybe a pool, TVs in the bedrooms, and running hot water. Then again, I was only expecting these things because they were advertised on the website. I was even expecting commercial window tinting, but instead, the building across the road got an eyeful every time I got changed. I am so embarrassed. I only realised when I was walking in the lobby one afternoon and I noticed someone from the middle across the road complaining to the desk clerk that they could see all the residents getting changed. I felt like hanging my head in shame.
Yesterday I ordered room service and after an hour’s wait it turned out that they forgot about my order. I called them and it turns out they sent my food to the wrong room. They suggested that I go knock on the door of the room they sent my food to and ask for it. There’s no way I was going to do something like that! The people in that room would think I was totally insane.
I hate to become the typical kind of ‘Karen’ who asks to speak to the manager, but I’m afraid this time I had to. I went down to the lobby and kicked up a storm. I even started giving them names of the top-rated commercial window tinting services around Melbourne so they could give them a call and sort out their windows. It’s almost as if the manager was in shock to hear me have these complaints but he did say he would take on board my feedback. I hope he does sort out the window tinting issue soon as I’m sure there are many other guests who wouldn’t be happy to know that they’re flashing the neighbourhood.
Recently images were leaked showcasing the inside of my favourite celebrity’s home. Her home is stunning and got 50 million likes on the most popular social media site in the world. I’m obsessed with her kitchen, bathrooms and laundry in particular. I had no idea that anything could be as extravagant as the inside of her home. I knew her house (or should I say mansion) would be absolutely incredible, but this is beyond anything I could have ever imagined.
I have decided that I am going to replicate the inside of her home to the best of my ability. Yesterday I sat down with one of the most talented bathroom designers in Melbourne, who luckily also renovates kitchens and bathrooms. The bathroom designer was very upfront with me about the cost of the project, which would be close to nearly half a million dollars. I told her that I’d take out a loan for the project, as long as she could guarantee that she could replicate what she saw in the photographs. She guaranteed that she could.
Now, I know you may be reading this and assuming that I’m crazy. I’m not crazy, I just know what I want. I want the life of luxury that comes with being famous. I want to spend time in my kitchen (with a chef cooking my meals) and feel a wave of pride over my surroundings. Frankly, I want to begin my kitchen renovations. Melbourne is a great place to live in, even though it’s not Los Angeles or New York. My favourite celebrity has homes in both cities, of course, but I’ve only seen inside her New York home. I would love to see the features of her Los Angeles home so that I can replicate that too. Seeing as I’m already redoing my bathroom and kitchen, I would replicate the living areas of her LA home. I’m going to contact the paparazzi that leaked the photos and ask if they can do the same in LA.
My son, Hamlet, is becoming so paranoid. I swear, I make the slightest assertion about anything and the boy thinks I’m trying to control him. It’s all escalated since I commenced a long-term stay at his house right after I told him I was moving back to England, and it’s fair to consider that there might be a period of adjustment needed. I did sort of spring it on him, I suppose.
Still, I’ve sprung plenty of things on him before – the gift of life, anyone? – and he’s never gotten all funny about it like he is now. I’ve been trying to do nice things for him, like keep that lovely car of his away from the beach. Doesn’t he know what all that sand and sun can do to a leather interior?
I even went to the trouble of tracking down the best European car mechanic in the area, which Hamlet evidently hadn’t been bothered to do himself, but he was having none of it. He said he thought I was deliberately interfering with his daily beach sojourn, all because I myself dislike the beach.
Well, that may be all too true, but why should I disapprove of his liking for it? If my only son wants to waste his life engaging in such an inane pastime as going to run around on a pile of sand and swim in shark-infested waters like a lunatic, who am I to stand in the way? I mean, I certainly don’t feel it’s what he should be doing with his life, and I’d much prefer he used that snazzy little car to do other things. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to spend all day trying to book a car service near Seaford in order to keep him away from his beloved beach.
Plenty of mothers would do that, mind you, and I wouldn’t blame them one bit. But me? I’d never stoop to that level, or try to bribe my son with the promise of an all-expenses-paid air con regas. It’s simply not my style. I’m just here to offer a bit of motherly direction and support.
It’s that time of year again. This is, it’s time to start planning the annual 21-hour drive to visit my family for Christmas. It seems it’s my lot in life to take on this gruelling task year after year, without fail.
Why should it always be me who has to do it? To be fair, all four of my siblings live up in Queensland near my parents, and it was technically my decision to set up shop in Victoria. Still, I’ve done this seven years running now, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask for them to come down here just this once.
One year in eight: that’s all I’m asking. But they won’t do it, and then I won’t see them, and then I’ll feel bad for not going up. It’s a catch 22. I just wish they’d chip in somehow – like, maybe they could split the cost of the fuel with me. Or they could pay for the suspension repair I’m going to have to pay for in a couple of weeks, ahead of the long drive.
You know, given that I have to give up two days of work for each leg of the journey, as well as for the duration of my stay, I think it’s only fair that my family pays a significant portion of my car’s running costs. This is just occurring to me now, as I’m writing it. Maybe this is my ticket to finally getting the air con fixed. I know there’s got to be at least one auto electrician in Underwood, where my parents live… maybe I can feign that the unit conked out on my way up. The truth is that it’s been out of order for months, but it’d be a white lie.
I mean, car air con repairs aren’t exactly the cheapest thing in the world, which is why I’ve been putting it off. And given that I’m going to be driving to Queensland in December with no air conditioning, I think it’s the least my family could do.
The beach is my favourite place in the world. Not that that’s anything out of the ordinary – I’m pretty sure there’s not one person alive who doesn’t feel the same way. Well, maybe there are a few, but they’re not the kind of people I’d associate with. You’d have to be a major curmudgeon to have anything bad to say about the beach!
I’m a bit disappointed that Jock can’t come with me and the kids on Friday. Mostly, I’m disappointed for him. After all, he probably hasn’t been to the beach for months, and now he’s missing the chance to go there on a date with me, no less. I realise that some people might not count an outing with kids in tow as a proper date, but I’m afraid that’s just the way it is with me. If anyone has a problem with that, they probably fall into the curmudgeon basket too.
Anyway, it’s a shame about Jock not being able to come, and all because he has to take his car for a log book service. Near Adelaide, apparently, the traffic has been pretty crazy, so it wouldn’t cut the beach time too short to get his car to the mechanics in the morning and pick it up in the evening. I do appreciate the thoughtfulness; it’s true that the kids are going to want as much time at the beach as possible, and obviously I do as well.
Still, I feel bad for Jock having to miss out. He didn’t seem too bothered, but that’s probably just him not wanting to make me feel guilty. I must admit, it’s a little weird because he initially said he needed a brake pad replacement, and then the next day he said it was a car water pump repair. Now, apparently, it’s a log book service, which is why it’s going to take all day… should I be suspicious?
I don’t think so. I can’t imagine why anyone would lie to get out of going to the beach. Unless… could it be that he doesn’t want to go to the beach with me? I have some sleuthing to do, it seems.
My friends and I have well and truly messed up. We went away over the weekend to this really nice house in regional Victoria, and all got a little bit rowdy. We didn’t throw a party or anything against the house guidelines, but the twenty of us in the one house having drinks may as well be a party within itself. It was a really fun weekend and nothing went wrong, up until the last hour that we were there.
With one hour to go, my friend smashed the glass table top by knocking the rubbish bag full of empty bottles into it. It was an absolute disaster. Things were going so well. We had just completely cleaned the house and it was all perfect. There was no trace of our misdoings, only for the table top to be ruined in the last hour. We desperately needed to somehow pull off a glass repair within the next hour or we would be screwed. Obviously, achieving that proved virtually impossible, and therefore we got caught.
Rightfully so, the owner of the home we stayed at was fuming. I mean, it’s not like it was a whole glass balustrade or anything, but it turned out that the table was a family heirloom. This was obviously devastating for them, but it was a questionable decision on their part to put a family heirloom in a home they rent out to random people. As expected, we were responsible for sourcing and paying for a glazier. Close to Melbourne, that would have been more manageable, but out in the country it was a bit of a challenge. That, however, was the price we had to pay for our misdeeds. Fair enough.
I must admit that I do feel really bad about what went down. None of us went to the house with the intention of breaking anything, but I guess it was bound to happen due to how careless we are. I don’t think we’ll be invited back any time soon.
I’ve always dreamed of having a high-concept, statement bathroom. I can’t say why, exactly, but this has been a cherished dream of mine since childhood. Back then, I wanted wall-to-wall dolphins and whales, preferably with 3D icebergs of translucent blue plastic studded with glitter. The concept has developed over the years, past various maritime themes through to what it is today: a steampunk engine room.
Now my chance has finally arrived. Last week, I found out that I’d won 35 grand in some weird sweepstakes thing a friend had talked me into entering. It’s the ultimate sign from the universe that now is the time to renovate my bathroom to my heart’s content, and realise my lifelong dream.
It’s so exciting. I’ve been scouring the internet and putting together mood boards of custom bathrooms, as well as collecting colour samples and making sketches to communicate my vision. Sometimes people who aren’t into steampunk can get a bit confused about the finer points of the styling, so I don’t want to leave any room for error.
While I’ll admit that it might be a little offbeat for your average bathroom designer based in Melbourne, I can’t see why it should be all that different to a regular bathroom in terms of logistics. I mean, sure, there might be some hard-to-source fittings involved, like the brass toilet with decorative industrial bolts, or the shower screen made to look like a time machine. Then there’s the lighting. But there must be a way of securing those things, surely, for 35 thousand beans.
There had better be, or this whole thing will be for nothing, in which case I’ll probably just spend the money on custom millinery, and perhaps a home entertainment system. For the love of god, don’t tell my mum that. She’d be horrified if she knew I was being so frivolous with my winnings, but fortunately for all concerned she doesn’t know about them.
I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’m friends with a sentient car. It didn’t happen by choice. Certainly not. I was just at the cafe, enjoying a cup of coffee while working on my stupid bestselling sci-fi series. I can’t believe a couple of books that I wrote with such little effort took off, and now there’s all this pressure on me for a conclusion to the trilogy. I can write the book easy enough, but that doesn’t mean I’ll enjoy it.
Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. So there I was, working on my third novel, when I heard somebody behind me mention that they are looking for an auto electrician close to Milperra. I had actually just gone to see a really good auto electrician, so I turned around to provide assistance. When the words were already halfway out of my mouth, I realised that this person wasn’t a person at all. It was a sentient car, sitting in the booth beside mine. Naturally, I was appalled by this. I had no idea they served sentient cars in that cafe!
But I was already halfway through giving some advice, and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, so I told him that I knew a mechanic who might be able to help. And then this sentient car had the audacity to move around to my booth, sitting across from me! At first, I was completely lost for words. I tried to tell him where he could get an auto electric service, but instead, I simply said that there was a good mechanic near me. Of course, that was of no use to the sentient car, as there was no detail in my words. Nothing that he could look into, based on that.
Finally, I managed to explain what I really meant by it. We started talking, and slowly I began to realise that maybe this particular sentient car wasn’t so bad. He’s almost like a person, like me!
It was a pleasure to meet Samuel C. We’re getting lunch and going bowling later this week.
Space. The final frontier. Well, it’s not really the final frontier, is it? After all, we’ve barely explored the ocean of our own planet. Personally, I think we’re more likely to have cowboy duels in space than we are underwater, so I’d call the ocean the final frontier. But that’s not really the point.
Space. The second-to-last frontier. It’s mysterious, big and really, really dark. Unless you’re near the sun, then I suppose it wouldn’t be that dark. I’m getting side-tracked, though. Let me get to the actual point here.
I know it’s been a roundabout way of getting here, but I just wanted to talk about how my boss has assigned me the impossible task of the office fitout. Melbourne has plenty of offices and plenty of space, but I doubt it has many space offices. This is a big task I’ve been given, and to make matters worse I’m expected to do it while at home. All I want at the end of a long workday is to come home and feed my thirty-seven cats, then go to bed. I don’t want to stay up designing an office while Mr Cuddle-Bunny complains about my laptop’s light. Not ideal.
Hey, I have an idea. Maybe I can find a Melbourne office design business that will make the space office for me! After all, Mr Sharp didn’t say I couldn’t get help. He did forbid the rest of the staff from helping me, but he said nothing about outsourcing some assistance.
I can’t believe he’s given me this task just because I put too much toner in the printer, causing it to malfunction, explode and almost destroy the entire building. It was an honest mistake.
Well, the joke’s on him because I’m going to make the best space-themed office, and I’m not going to put any effort into it. I just hope it won’t be too expensive.