On leaving the art gallery

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rodinI loathed to leave the gallery. In the darkening light of dusk its magnificence expanded outwards, casting an enchanted aura over its surroundings. Even the parklands opposite where I walked became magic at its touch. Still I walked, stopping every so often to glance backwards, whereupon I beheld with marvellous longing the architecture to which I could return time and again. The consequence of my backward glances, I am happy to announce, was that I was simply very late for supper. Had I been a hero in a love story and the art gallery my deceased beloved—I am sure you have all heard of the poor chap—it would have been lost to me forever.

Good buy Greek deli

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There’s something incredibly comforting about Greek delis—the grubbier a deli is, the more homely I find it. This has everything to do with The Greek Deli being a permanent fixture of my Inner West upbringing and also says everything about mine being a creature of habit, in other words a lamenter of change. Continue reading

Flappers and fidelity

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LADY MARY (smugly, to a baffled Lord Grantham) Your niece is a flapper, accept it.

LADY ROSE (exquisitely thrilled by the fact that she is finally being recognised and accepted for what she is) I am not a flapper!

Meatier than wursts: big long German words

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Linear, Germanic, and impressively gothic in appearance (it’s the ä, the scher and the unfamiliar arrangement of familiar alphabets), the italicised word at the bottom of the page enticed and incited in me what can only be described as a rush of desire accompanied by the urge to gratify it, like a neon sign that blinked Continue reading

The King Is Not Dead

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elvis.jpg‘There’ll never be another Elvis,’ said the old man to the impersonator. But there needn’t be, not when he is survived and granted eternal life by his works, influence, and legacy. Why would we need another Elvis when he is the one and only? The king never died; he is unsurpassable; long live the king.

Can’t buy me love

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‘Tell me that you want those kind of things / That money just can’t buy / I don’t care too much for money / For money can’t buy me love’: these are the words of wisdom sang by Paul McCartney on The Beatles’ 1964 hit ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ which he wrote with John Lennon. They send me soul-searching every time I hear it, and I hear it a lot because A Hard Day’s Night is one of my favourite albums. Continue reading

‘Twas not the fire that burned her

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LADY MARY (with sass masked as cultivated disdain) Lady Edith chose to set fire to her room, but we’re fine.