I turned 30 last month. I finally admitted, under duress and in the face of unyeilding mathematics and biology, that I’m not a kid anymore.
This post is essentially my confession: confessions of a fortnight misspent in Melbourne’s dens of iniquity and raw fish.
It’s the last day of my 20s. The title of this blog has been unashamedly borrowed from Douglas Adams and here I’m going to borrow another of his deliciously pithy phrases: Don’t Panic.
Angel Islington is one of the pretty pale blue properties on the Monopoly Board. It’s nestled in near Euston Rd, Pentonville Rd, Kings Cross Station, Chance and Jail. For years I idly wondered, whenever I landed on this cheap little property, what angels had to do with it. These were the days before Google, obviously.
Sunshine, sunburn and skinny dipping — it was the polo weekend!
Bibbity bobbity beau?
This week, my clothes were given new homes — some more salubrious than others.
Some helpful tips, from my smug and wise 2014 self, to my 2015 self.
And I am a freaking typical Libran.
Dear Santa, define “good”.