My baby’s got a secret

I have something pretty serious to get off my chest, which has been bothering me for some time. And whilst it isn't keeping me up at night (yet), it has begun lurking in the background, occasionally popping its head up to engulf me in a tidal wave of guilt. It is then, that I want to run and shout this confession from the rooftops. So I figure it's time to own up.

Now in publishing this statement, I realise that I risk becoming a social pariah, not to mention attracting derision and ridicule from certain quarters. But I'm afraid its purge now, or forever hold my peace.

I love Starbucks. Actually I love, LOVE Starbucks.

There, I said it. I will now pause while you mentally or audibly poor scorn on me, call me a sell-out, a commercial whore and maybe even delete me from Facebook.

Do do do…


Do do dooby do…..

All done?

Good. Now if you could just let me explain.

I love Starbucks - ohmigod that feels good - because it is a thread that is intricately woven throughout my cherished travel experiences. Minus a few obvious exceptions (although I wonder how high the Kenyan Masai could jump after a venti triple shot?) I have a matching Starbucks memory for almost every stamp in my passport.

I remember escaping the winter cold of London inside Starbucks during many a shopping jaunt to Oxford Street. Taking a sightseeing break at Starbucks in downtown Madrid and eyeing off the dark-eyed boy working the milk steamer. In Lima, Peru, my travel companion and I stumbled across Starbucks on a sweltering hot day and revelled in the icy goodness of a coffee frapp.

Downtown Vancouver boasted a Starbucks on almost every corner, and I spent many cosy Sunday's reading and sipping delicious spiced apple cider, trying to forget my homesickness. In March, I sat in Times Square for hours watching Manhattan buzz by from a Starbucks window and in northern Thailand during May, I practically fell to my knees when the familiar green circle came into view, and I tasted my first real coffee in weeks.

It's not even the world’s greatest blend, you say. I know! But oh the choices! The hit, the sugar, the buzz and even the music! For those who do not deign to enter Starbucks, they often play old-crooner compilations like Frank, Dean and friends - which just adds to the romance. You can be miles away from home in a completely new world, but Starbucks is at once familiar. A beacon of reliability in a world of uncertainty.

Ok that was too far. And certainly by admitting that I've allowed myself to be wooed by Starbucks doesn’t mean that I condone some of the methods their boardroom Dr Evils have used to semi take over the universe. Yes, damn them and their dirty tactics! The lack of social conscience Starbucks as a corporation have shown at times has been quite despicable. There's no denying it.

But for me, walking into Starbucks is like getting a hug from an old friend.

So not all of my friends are going to like each other, I concede that. But how can I fight it? When I sit here at my desk on a random, uninspiring Friday morning and one sip from my grande skim iced-vanilla latte sends me spiralling suddenly into a precious treasure chest of memories?

Today Times Square… tomorrow who knows?

A horse is a horse, of main course?

At the risk of inciting bitter retorts in the comments section (although maybe not such a bad thing seeing you ‘followers’ never bother to comment). I’m disillusioned with Masterchef.

Don’t get me wrong I enjoy the show. Divine food, sexual tension between the contestants and George professing at exactly the same time each episode: ‘I think it needs more salt’. But now people are posting photos of their nightly meal on Facebook, and yesterday I was forced to sit in the kitchen while a family member who-shall-remain-nameless talked me through his wondrous, visionary method for a la carte Eggs de Scramble. I was thinking, turn it up! Do you really deserve a medal for knocking up eggs on toast?

Meanwhile Matt Preston seems to have lost all sense of portion control, but that’s a whole other can of Grain-fed Worms infused with Truffle Oil and Rosemary.

Yes, Masterchef has a lot to answer for.

But what really floored me is news that the Minister for Agriculture & Food in WA has “approved the slaughter of horses for human consumption” (as read in The Age today), and a local ‘gourmet’ butcher will begin selling fresh horse steaks next week.

Now I must stress that when it comes to religious and cultural beliefs, I'm not casting aspersions on the diet choice of other races, where it is wholly acceptable to eat various meats including that of a horse (and by wholly I mean fully as I doubt they eat horses whole). What irks me is that the great Australian bandwagon will soon be in full swing with punters queuing up to try it; because Masterchef has made people think it’s not only acceptable, but trendy.

I apologise to those who think that, as I am not even vegetarian, these comments are hypocritical, inconsistent or both – horses for courses and all of that. But quite simply, I draw the line at eating horse meat. So friends, be warned, I will not take kindly to be being offered some at the next bbq I attend.

After all, Winston Churchill was clearly speaking metaphorically when he said: “There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man.” The inside of a man, not insides!

Lessons in not very much at all

I have never really had reason to be bored. Not for prolonged periods anyway. Something is always going on, coming up or happening next. And generally, when I'm up to my neck in work or a slave to my social calendar, it's dreaming about time off and relaxation that keeps me going.

But an involuntary break - like the one I’m on now - is far from relaxing. I spend nearly as much energy feeling bored and directionless as I could be working. Apparently reviewing all the various holes in your life 64 times a day does not create sufficient mental fatigue as to induce sleep. Not even 90 minutes of hot yoga can do it. Round and round it goes... and like any reasonable over-active brain, it holds both sides of any conversation.
Hugh Grant had no qualms being a lad of leisure in About a Boy. But while he happily settled in to watch the UK equivalent of Wheel of Fortune every afternoon, I can’t even bring myself to turn on the television. Because it’s a slippery slope when it comes to daytime tv... there's no going back. As soon as I utter one sentence containing the words Kerri-Ann, Oprah or Danoz Direct, I'll know I’ve hit rock bottom.

Volunteering has crossed my mind. Whilst not exactly lucrative it would give the soul a squeeze and a sense of purpose. Particularly post-orphanage there are plenty of children’s charities around which I would love to be involved with. But I tend to think that while I’m embedded in my surly what-am-I-doing-with-my-life mood, I might be more a hindrance than a help. They’ve got enough problems already.

The offer of some pub shifts for cash is not one I could, in good conscience, pass up. As well as giving me something to do for a few weeks, it was supposed to help alleviate my financial constipation. A situation that is exacerbated by the fact that the only pastime I seem to enjoy lately is shopping! Ah yes the lure of retail therapy is as powerful as ever. South Wharf, Harbortown, Highpoint… name your two-syllable retail mecca and I’ve been there. But alas when only shifts starting at 9pm Friday and Saturday nights were offered to me, I had to gracefully decline. I mean if I can't spend weekend nights in a wine induced stupor with my friends, then I'll have to start drinking by myself during the day. Hello slippery slope...

What to do?
What to do, what to do...