— reinstating cakespeditions with my dad (remember those?), my partner-in-crime for searching out and glorying in the magical treats that Canberra has to offer (full review of the above to come). Realising how lucky and grateful I am to have these one-on-one moments with my father.
— “If she is a writer of colour, compare her skin to food: chocolate, caramel, coffee, raisins, tater tots, brown bread. If she is white don’t worry about it; your readers know what that looks like.”
— walking around Lake Burley Griffin with friends, sometimes getting horribly sunburned, sometimes losing the battle to finish the ice cream before it melts onto our fingers, sometimes finding flocks of black swans but staying many many metres away because they can be aggressive little buggers when they want to be.
— finally reading Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell.
— wishing that the story of the elves and the shoemaker was instead the story of the elves and the me-who-wants-this-cake-waiting-freshly-baked-in-the-kitchen-in-the-morning-please-and-thank-you.
— taking far too many screenshots of everything, always.
— poached eggs on toast (and requesting butter and vegemite alongside, because #mandatory).
— still coffee, always coffee.
— this song, which my brother played for me during our road trip to Lake Eyre (the one where it took us three days to get to Lake Eyre and then one day to drive the 1,500km back because we are insane and stopped for only half an hour for lunch between leaving Maree at 8am and getting to Melbourne at 1am). My brother described it as one of his favourite break-up songs, and I will never forget, I will never forget, I will never forget the stars blazing against the dark black night in the empty yet seething outback as I pressed my face against the window and, over the course of two minutes and forty-six seconds, felt my hands tremble and the breath catch in my throat.
— actually, I need to re-watch the magician to recover. Excuse me a moment.
— the dizzying, breathtaking blurring of art and reality at In The Flesh at the National Portrait Gallery. (If you’re in Canberra and haven’t yet been, it closes early March. Go now.) A part of me still can’t believe these babies weren’t real; you could see the intricacies of faint veins under their skin and almost feel their breath. Incredible.
— the joy and strength of shared secrets, held deep within hearts and minds.
What matters to you this week?