Sunny Cairns

I went to Cairns the other week.

I packed my apricot face exfoliator, a clay-conditioning face mask, ylang-ylang bath oil, lavender scented hand-cream and a bunch of bananas.

When I got to the airport, I was told:

But how could I fit my apricot face exfoliator, clay-conditioning face mask, ylang-ylang bath oil and lavender scented hand-cream into a bag with a sealed area adding up to no more than 80 centimeters?

Confused and angry I squeezed my face wash out into my hand and walked through the security gates with my hand clenched firmly.

Apparently I wasn't as stealth as I'd thought - the sticky clump of face wash in my hand was spotted. Luckily, as a customs officer loomed towards me, my grandma and her hip replacement* walked through the security gates and set off all the alarms. It was my only chance, so I made off into the duty-free perfumes. I'd find grandma later.

* A (fairly) Scientific diagram of Grandma's hip

But my troubles weren't over. When we finally got to Cairns we were greeted by garbage bins.

Sigh. I thought of my bananas.

So I read the fine print, which informed me if I failed to make a declaration of my bananas:

Well, I didn't want to be caught. When this happens, my face usually goes all hot and red, and yes, I have been known to cry. Also, I didn't want to be fined $220 on-the-spot cause I'm saving for a motorbike and if I went to jail for a bunch of bananas it would be pretty disappointing because I wouldn't be able to ride my motorbike for 10 years and by then perhaps I would have grown out of the desire to even have a motorbike!

But I wasn't about to throw my bananas into the bin. So I ate them, one by one.

And then I walked through customs and out into sunny Cairns with a sticky hand and a belly full of bananas and enjoyed my holiday. (Albeit without my clay-conditioning face mask, ylang-ylang bath oil and lavender scented hand-cream.)

Fin.

Timtams

A Curly Disguise.

I was reluctant to walk down King street last night as I was heading to Gould's. You see, it's a musty second-hand bookshop that I feel perhaps is not somewhere to be seen on a Friday night. Conveniently I found myself in tow of a lady and her huge head of curly red hair. So I walked very closely behind her for the most part of King. Who needs a moustache and hat?

What does one wear when...?

Now tell me, what does one wear when going to see an old lover for the first time since the break-up?

A bear suit*?
- No. You'll probably overheat in the fur with all the emotional stress.

A skirt? Show a bit of leg?
- No. This translates as: "Look at me I'm fine, I don't need you, got my legs out, well actually I don't usually wear a skirt, but you know that don't you, I just wanted you to see what you're missing out on. Oh! - forgot to shave my legs..."

What about a hat? Perhaps something funny to break the ice, like a flamingo?
- No.

Okay Okay. Guess I'll just wear my comfy coffee-stained jeans, connies and the grey t-shirt that's fallen down the back of my bed.

(*Please note: I dressed up in Jon Klassen's bear. Neither the bear nor I were harmed for this little stunt.)

I really wanted a bacon butty this morning.

When I got to the supermarché to buy my bacon, they only had the round bit (not the streaky part aswell). My morning was turned upside down. I ran out the shop and down the street, I passed my hairdresser boxing in his trackpants, but I kept running, I stopped outside the courty to catch my breath where I stared down at the pavement for some minutes. After said minutes, I pulled myself together. I went to blackstar and grabbed an espresso one sugar and a takeaway brisket pie two sauces, which I ate in the sun on the brick wall out the front of my house.

Frypan