the final wave

The last time I saw my neighbour, Steve, was the day before we left for our Europe trip. He was outside watering his garden, and I gave him a quick wave as I walked past with the dogs. We didn’t get to talk, although I’d said we’d catch up when I got back. It felt like there would always be time for that.

While I was away, I sent him a message asking if he could take in a parcel left at my gate. Instead of Steve replying, his son wrote back to tell me that his dad had passed away suddenly.

My favourite memory of Steve was last December when he set up one of those laser light projectors that scatter colours across the house and garden, just to surprise the girls when they came outside after dark. I wondered if that might become a new neighbourly Christmas tradition. I guess not.

Since he’s been gone, the street has felt different. I still look over when I play fetch with Anakin, expecting to see him in his backyard or working in his shed. Now the shed door is closed, the windows are covered, and a stillness lingers where there used to be life. It’s a reminder of how easily familiar moments can slip away.

pop martian

I saw a news segment about the Labubu craze, and the reporter said this obsession might be linked to mental illness. Rude, but not entirely wrong.

I’ve self-diagnosed myself with this sickness. Blind boxes are psychological warfare: tiny cardboard slot machines. Pop Mart knows exactly what they’re doing with the limited stock and surprise releases. Yesterday I was at the store when they dropped the Exciting Macarons series and later won two raffle draws for the chance to buy the Pin from the Love series. Of course, I bought a Powerball ticket to see if the lucky streak would continue.

The dopamine hit is addictive: the suspense, the reveal, the little victory. The joy is pure, uncut serotonin. And like any good addict, I keep chasing a bigger high. I tracked down the Forest Fairy Tale Labubu, which was available only overseas. I got my sister-in-law, my enabler with reseller contacts, to lock it in, and then had my cousin smuggle it in from Vietnam like contraband. 

Maybe it is a kind of neurological disorder. But at least it’s cheaper than my Hermès habit.

cabra to caviar

Back in the day, my taste buds refused to travel. My world began and ended with Vietnamese and Chinese food, mostly in Cabramatta. If you wanted to eat with me, you were driving to the southwest, no exceptions. I even had friends from the north making pilgrimages just so I could stay in my comfort zone.

Then I met Dave. On our first outing, he convinced me to try sashimi. Raw fish! For someone like me, that was practically bungee jumping. But one bite of silky salmon and suddenly the universe cracked open.

Since being with Dave, lI’ll try almost anything: Spanish, Indian, even fusion experiments that look like art projects. Cabramatta will always be home base, but he’s shown me that the best bites are waiting outside the familiar. And because he’s an overachiever, he hasn’t just taken this little Cabra girl beyond her suburb, he’s whisked me all around the world to Michelin-starred fine dining.

heels to hills

I used to live on wheels and in high heels. I drove everywhere and saw walking as a punishment. If friends suggested a hike, I’d meet them at the top, in my car.

Then came Dave, and walking didn’t feel like exercise; it was just being with him. I didn’t notice the distance on those early dates as he led me through the city, keeping me entertained with quick wit and constant banter.

Shoes became tools. Legs were no longer just decoration. The girl who once drove while others walked learned that love puts comfortable sandals on your feet, and gives you someone worth following.