Home and Away

To celebrate my 21st birthday with my Mother (yes, I'm still, over a week later, celebrating it. Awesome), Mr. Bobby and I were treated by the former to a lovely lunch in a pub in the Northern Beaches. I'd love to show you some food porn but unfortunately by the time I thought to snap some photos my plate of scrumptious salad was half destroyed. Silly fork.


Post beer and such, we drove up to Palm Beach for which Bobby was quite the excited little boy slash fully grown man. In the car, I had to listen to him sing the Home and Away theme tune about a billion times. Okay, according to Bobby, clarification is needed here: It was probably more like three or four times. It was JUST AS PAINFUL. Apparently, because he's English, the fact that the show is absolute rubbish remains an unrealised fact. But what can I say, we're all different G-man, aren't we? Anyway, it was sprinkling and windy and, all in all, not the most pleasant kind of weather for which to be hanging out on the beach, hence we left rather promptly. It was, however, really beautiful. The clouds created such a dramatic atmosphere. It's a pity I'm not The Flame (geddit? Because then I wouldn't have been so cold? No? No, me neither really.)

Batdance

Last Tuesday marked the first birthday of this blog. Check out the first post over here if you don't believe me. And I'm still banging on about the merits of pay-by-the-kilo shopping. Not that much has changed really, has it?

Last Thursday, meanwhile, marked the twenty first birthday of yours truly. Now therein holds some progression. No longer will you see a whiny, drunken and cigarette-puffing Emma collapsing on surprisingly tolerant friend's doorsteps with bleeding legs. Those lovely, lovable friends needn't even give me another thought until 2028, when I will likely have a midlife crisis resulting in similar, if less excusable, antics. Yep, I'm t-w-e-n-t-y-o-n-e. I'm MATURE. Finally, I can legally drink in the US of A, have sex with a porcupine in Japan and drop an exploding shit bomb on John Howard’s doorstep - just for oldtime’s sake.

I watched closely and put on my most threatening face as my very closest friends (some more so in proximity rather than the intimate sense of the phrase - I‘m looking at you, Marissa) marked the 17th September in their diaries/iPhones/blueberries, in preparation of celebrations by way of a themed nighttime picnic on my living room floor. The essential and amazing theme for the night’s escapades was Animal Hybrids. We accomodated for all those wanting to be a lion but were just unable to stop neighing - they came as liorses. And those others that had the purrfect cat ears but really truly oh so much wanted to wear their yellow muu muu? Oh, little camelats, they did have fun. Our living room was their jungle. Get ready for a plethora of photos.

P.S. I totally only recently learnt that I've been pronouncing 'plethora' incorrectly for the better part of my twenty one years. Apparently it's plethora. Not plethora. So... if I use it more than I should, it's because I'm practicing. Plethora. Plethora. See? PROGRESSION.

Bat mask made using some cardboard and the glasses that Dom gave me at our last vintage sale. Bat around the neck from the $2 store.
Top was a donation from my Mum. Bat wings are made out of an umbrella from the op shop. Skirt is an op shop dress all pinned up.
Shoes are old and belt is from a charity shop in England. OH, and my WATCH was a birthday gift from Mr. Bobby. AMAZING.

P.S. If you consider yourself a close friend but didn't receive an invite, more likely than not, it’s because I hate you. Just kidding. Or maybe I’m not? No, really, I am. My lovely house is old and fragile, and wouldn’t have taken the strain of more than the surplus of seven to those who already reside there.