Goldie Locks

‘I need a new hairstyle,’ I announced loudly.

‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair,’ the Lord of the Manor responded with overt disinterest… although I suspected he was hiding immediate concerns about  how this new grievance was going to impact on his untroubled serenity.

‘It’s scraggy,’ I complained. ‘I’m thinking of cutting it all off.’

Now, I expected some objection…. But what the Lord of the Manor said next didn’t just send chills through me – but rather great, big, lacerating wedges of ice deep into my spine.

‘Perhaps you just need a new colour,’ he suggested thoughtlessly.



….and once again for those who missed it….


Not to blow my own trumpet… but I am a natural blonde, people.

A Natural blonde!

We’re talking lovely golden locks here. What colour would he rather have me be?

‘What colour do you suggest?’ I asked in a measured tone, though the The Lord of the Manor could be in no doubt the conversation had taken as very dangerous turn as my fangs slowly descended.

He paused to study me for a moment before answering somewhat recklessly, ‘Mousey brown?’


‘WHAT?’ I screeched in utter disbelief. ‘You did not just say mousey brown!?!’

‘Copper?’ He amended quickly, perhaps hoping for a reprieve. He hoped in vain.

‘Copper….’ I repeated breathlessly, my voice lost to the sheer horror. ‘With my complexion?’

It was clear, dear reader, the Lord of the Manor had gone stark raving mad. Absolutely and utterly taken leave of his senses. Insane. Who in their right mind suggests a NATURAL BLONDE dye their hair mousey brown?

…… Someone with a death wish, that’s who!

Mousey brown! I couldn’t believe it.

I can’t believe it.

There are no words, people…

I was speechless….

….. Then, he smiled.

Good one! He got me good.

Blonde on!



When birds fall down the chimney and land in the belly of the wood fire, they scratch and flutter, desperate to get out. So to aid their escape, we draw the curtains to darken the room and open the double front doors as wide as they will go, clearly laying out their path to freedom.

Then we open the wood fire door.

Half the fallen birds will fly straight out. No hesitation. The other half will stay buried in the ashes…. Staring at ‘The Light.’

The proverbial ‘Light’.

I sort of understand that leaving their safe, ashy pit is a leap of faith. After all, how many of us feel ready, right this minute, to fly toward ‘The Light’? But unless the bird takes a chance and leaves the heater, it will ultimately die…..

(….. not really. We get a towel and release it outside. Don’t panic. Let me explain.)

At some time or another we all must take a leap of faith.

So what would you do if you were that little bird, fallen down the chimney and sitting amongst the ashes. Would you stay or fly toward ‘The Light’?

It’s an interesting question. Have fun with that.

Blonde on!

HCB Battle

Hot Cross Buns come in limitless variety – traditional, fruit free, apple cinnamon, Nutella, Jaffa, chocolate-chocolate chip and so on and so forth.

The supermarket sells them under the guise of Hot Cross Bun. They look like Hot Cross Buns. But according to the Lord of the Manor, they are not Hot Cross Buns at all.

‘What are they, then?’ I ask, only faintly amused. We’ve been down this road before circa blog post: The Polar Fleece Feud.

‘Sweet bread,’ he declares.

I snort with derision, biting into my fruit-free delight. ‘The packet says hot cross buns. It’s a hot cross bun.’

‘It isn’t,’ the Lord of the Manor insists. ‘Only traditional, fruit-filled varieties can rightly carry the name Hot Cross Bun.’

So I pull out the big guns……..!

………. Is bread still bread if it isn’t made from wheat?

………. Is Weet-Bix still Weet-Bix if it’s made from sorghum grains?

………. Is milk still milk if it’s made from nuts?

……… And is vegan, meat-free bacon still bacon if it isn’t made from pork?

He blinks at me for a moment, cogs and wheels spinning while I serenely munch my fruit-free Hot Cross Bun.

It doesn’t matter what they’re called, people. Are delicious so enjoy in abundance. Happy Easter to all.

Blonde on!


When Mum came to visit last Monday afternoon (after a huge weekend of family fun) I casually asked if she was well rested.

“Don’t accuse me of resting,” she bit back…… Lucky I ducked!

It was a rookie mistake. Mum’s always been a doer. Always on the go. When we were little, day trips meant walking and walking and walking until it felt like our legs were going to drop off! We’d be begging for mercy before they even turned back – and then we’d have to walk it all over again!

I rarely, if ever, saw her just sitting around and should have known better…..

…… But then something strange happened.

While visiting with Mum yesterday, I found myself getting a little bored while she played merrily on her iPad.

“Why don’t you go for a walk,” she suggested, not even glancing up. “See if you can spot a snake or two out in the paddock.”

Now, I’ve been told to piss off plenty of times, and in many different ways, but I never expected someone – much less my own mother – to suggest I go in active search of a venomous, potentially lethal snake, just so she could be left in peace to play Hey Day!

Hey Day!

Lucky for me, it wasn’t long into my rousing, multi-song tribute to The Sound of Music she had a change of heart.

Payback’s a bitch, Mum… and she looks like me!

Blonde on!

Blog Face

“You have blog face,” the Lord of the Manor declared.

“What is blog face?” I asked with genuine surprise.

“The look you get when you’re blogging,” he stated simply. “Writing about me again, are you? You’ve got that look.”

“Maybe,” I replied with a nonchalant shrug. I hate it when he’s right. Happens far too often.

“Are you going to put a disclaimer at the end so everyone knows I don’t say half the stuff you claim, and that there is a LOT of poetic license going on in that blog of yours?”

“Noooooo! That would be like a magician giving away her secrets,” I objected. “Everyone knows you are the Abbott to my Costello. The Desi to my Lucy. The Robin to my Batman.”

“Hey!” He interjected loudly. “I’m happy to be your Abbott and even that other guy, but I am nobody’s Robin.”

“Oh, you’re Batman, are you?” I laughed. “The main man?”

The Lord of the Manor nodded seriously.

“In that case, I’ll agree to be Kato to your Green Hornet, okay?”

He didn’t dissent.

Phew. *wiped brow.

That was a close one.

Blonde on!


“We’re twins,” The Lord of the Manor declared, scanning my outfit with serious displeasure. We were both wearing pale blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Harmless enough, I thought. Some couples see matching outfits as a demonstration of their attachment. Some even do it on purpose! Not us. No Siree. We must NEVER go out dressed the same.

“Change your top,” he requested.

“Why should I change?” I countered. “It doesn’t matter that we’re both wearing white t-shirts.”

“Fine then. I’ll go change.”

Bemused, I watched him go, but promptly put him on the spot when he returned (now wearing a black t-shirt) as to why we couldn’t go out wearing similarly coloured clothes.

“You’ve seen people wearing those brightly coloured Ken Done woollen jumpers?” He began.


“Well.…. they look like idiots.”

“We were hardly wearing electric green tracksuits circa 1982,” I flounced before a wicked smile crossed my face. “You’re thinking of ‘Kath and Kel’ from Kath and Kim, aren’t you?”

When his lips pressed together, my smile widened.

“So when we dress the same, you think we’ll be compared us to certain characters and laughed at.” I started backing toward the wardrobe. “So…. if I go put on a black t-shirt too…. People will think we’re Danny and Sandy?”

“Stop it.”

“Or if we both put on red, people might think we’re Mr and Mrs Claus.”

“I’m not joking. Cut it out.”

“I know. I know,” I jumped up and down. “You go put on a green t-shirt and I’ll wear pink, and let’s see if we’re mistaken for Kermit and Miss Piggy!”

And just like Kermit, The Lord of the Manor dropped his head and sighed. Pity he wasn’t wearing green. Really did look just like him!

Blonde on!