Fresh off touring with Mr Boyfriend, the final punctuation mark on our months of perpetual travel has been had. This time there was no buoyant Mediterranean sea to be seen, or exciting new cities (for me, anyway) to tour, but a series of down under hotspots so he could finally see where I’m from.
Viewing my part of the planet through the man I love’s eyes was quite elating. In America they seem to view New Zealand as some kind of promised land (hence a bunch of US tech billionaires are now using it as a safety net - that’s if they can’t afford Mars), meanwhile for me it’s always been a snooze fest I can’t quite escape.
But beyond being a bomb shelter for the elite, Mr Boyfriend’s view of my homeland has helped me see things down here differently. New Zealand, for starters, is famously abundant with natural beauty and resources, plus a smoother way of being. Beyond the obvious I could see our quirky sense of humour confusing and amusing him, our beautiful heritage buildings making an architectural impact, and our incredible produce making us both fill our plates at every meal.
In Australia, where I’ve lived for most of my adult life, he observed the positive differences between Sydney and Melbourne (whereas we jaded locals tend to focus on the negatives), how bloody wonderful my friends are to me, and how Sydney is a truly extraordinary place to live with all of it’s frenetic energy balanced out by the beach.
In fact Mr Boyfriend’s father is originally from Sydney. So having been here before, one major observation he made was how Sydney is no longer 25 years behind the rest of the world. Instead, likely thanks to the internet, it’s much more on par with everyone further north - just a little less polluted.
I will say he didn’t warm to flat whites though, so that’s one point down.
Not only has his trip here improved my view on where I’m from but it’s also improved our relationship. So far it’s made more sense for me to cross the equator, time and time again, to see him, but something subconsciously has shifted for me since he’s been south. I guess the effort in someone coming to you is a real statement of love that can’t be paralleled - not even by booking a fabulous hotel in Milos (although that’s a very, very close second).
You might wonder why this is the end of our travels of this vein. Simply put, it’s not really sustainable. Now we know we’re truly committed to each other it’s about focusing on getting me over there: bridging my career, getting a visa, somehow rising above the appalling exchange rate, cultivating a vintage wardrobe fit for Hollywood, etc.
Any other travels on the horizon are more to do with my own farewell tour: Brisbane to see my sister, Byron to see the sea, and the Australian Open for one last shebang as a fam (my poor Dad, father to three girls, loves tennis so early next year we will be indulging him). I.e it’s back to a bunch of domestic flights/long weekends off/the usual.
I’ll say that all of this feels bittersweet. Naturally I’m a tad flattened that I no longer get to be a gypsy chasing love, even if I’m relieved to have a little more stability in my life. More than that, as much as I’ve always wanted to move away (as young as age three I told my mum I was “moving to England” after a Beatrix Potter bender) I know that where I’m from is special (and that the rest of the world is a bit scary). Alas you can’t have it all, although I’m lucky my life seems to come close.
Now, are there any tech billionaires from the Bay Area who would like to swap passports so I can avoid the mountain of paperwork I’ve been procrastinating about?
Read
Sophie Kinsella has been a firm favourite author of mine since I was about 15. Believe it or not, there was almost a decade long lapse in my reading appetite. I used to devour books as an older toddler and young child, Roald Dahl (cancelled?) being a firm favourite.
However I remember changing schools around age 8 and finding it so distressing that I withdrew from a lot of the things I love. It was then I stopped reading, beyond necessary homework, for a good few years - dodging Harry Potter mania and taking months to push through Lemony Snicket.
Go Ask Alice was (ironically) the book that got me hooked again. From there I discovered Ms Kinsella, and it was her words that helped distract me from the operatic highs and lows of teenhood.
Since then I’ve turned to her books in other moments of distress. Last year I re-read Twenties Girl as I recovered from surgery, and a few months later I listened to Love Your Life (about a 30-something copywriter who, tired of internet dating, goes to Italy to do a writing retreat and there meets her new beau… 🤯) as I packed up my flat before going to Europe.
Now I’m revisiting the Shopaholic series, something I’m still a bit embarrassed to admit is my true favourite set of novels (I pepper them in amongst literary fiction, don’t worry). There’s just something about reading about Becky Bloomwood’s fuck ups that makes you feel better about yourself, and as though you have a friend who’s as messed up as you. Right now life isn’t stressful per se, there’s just a lot going on, a lot to do. This kind of escapism only Sophie seems conjure has helped me calm any kind of internal storm in me right now.
Watch
Despite being so seemingly intrepid I’ll admit that I used to be terrified of flying. Even though I’ve quelled the majority of my fears surrounding it now, nothing helps distract me from envisioning my imminent death at 35,000 feet like discovering a new TV show.
On a recent flight I discovered Mayfair Witches, starring Alexandra Daddario (the black haired, blue eyed beauty you’ll remember from Season One of The White Lotus). The plot is based around a young doctor leading a stressed out life in San Francisco, who then finds out she’s a witch and moves to New Orleans to take over the family coven.
It sounds ridiculous, because it is, and is precisely the kind of story I’m into right now. I say that in a land of perfected, star-studded, draining dramas, watch something ridiculous is the best way to be truly entertained.
Wear
As I was writing my book I decided I had to make up my own version of a capsule closet for the prospective reader. Part of this contemporary capsule was lingerie - specifically a set of underwear which makes you feel fabulous - not just suggesting you buy a bunch of skin toned thongs (although this is important for most wardrobes too).
Taking my own advice I have been overhauling my delicates, replacing my many dated sets I acquired during my Agent Provocateur days (I was once their PR assistant, and then Sydney shop girl) with a few new frillies.
Vintage underwear is where I draw the line. Other than a deadstock 1960s basque uncovered in Portugal, I'm not interested in sharing a gusset with a ghost. So when I walked past a little lingerie boutique in my neighbourhood the other day, plastered with closing down sale signs, I went in to see what I could find.
The shop owner happened to have a lovely black and nude, lacy bra and knicker combo, and in my size! I tried it on, went away to think about it, then returned to make my purchase, only to leave swinging the pretty shop bag as I meandered back to my flat. Don’t you just love doing things the old fashioned way?
It’s sad when shops like that close. Their antiquated way of operating is obviously set to fail in today’s impatient, digital age, but I do feel for them, more so having closed my own shop in 2021.
This month I wrote a piece on seeing a sex therapist for MamaMia. If you’re something who’s partial to faking orgasms (that will be over 80% of you), has a complex sexual history, or is simply curious about creating more pleasure, I really recommend reading it.
Until next month x