One of Those


It’s been one of those days. 

We signed the papers to sell the recently purchased Subaru for scrap metal. It’s funny. I didn’t have it for long, I know – but gosh I feel sad about it. Which makes no sense, I know. I mean, look at it. Dings on every panel. Old. Missing the odd mud guard. 

But I liked my car. I liked the freedom it offered, the independence. I liked that it offered relief after driving the Kia disaster zone for two years, and I liked that it felt like finally, I’d landed on my feet when it came to cars. 

Bye bye, Suby... Image by The Naughty Corner.

Bye bye, Suby… Image by The Naughty Corner.

Today was also the kind of day that offered me the best blog fodder I have had in months. My beloved and I had to take everything out of the Subaru before we abandoned left it at the mechanics, and among the stuff we took out was my forearm crutches. I loaded them into my beloved’s car, and later that day I had reason to go out again. It was while I was getting my bag from the passenger side that it happened. 

My crutch fell into the guttter. 

It would have been hilarious if I wasn’t totally over the day by this point. I would have been so excited about it if I wasn’t standing there, watching gutter water drip over my bag after I put the crutch back into the car. I would have been thrilled if not for the bits of gutter scunge that appeared on my crutch as it dried. 

So, you know. I dealt with these outrageous blows in two ways. 

The first? 

Shared my recent ABC Open offering with The Naughty Corner Facebook page. Here it is for you playing along at home. 

The second? 

Put these one. I fucking love them. I reckon I can deal with most crappy days if I am wearing these babies. 

Image by The Naughty Corner. Socks by The (ex) Flatmate.

Image by The Naughty Corner. Socks by The (ex) Flatmate.

Brighten my day, won’t you? Tell me something awesome that happened to you today! Hit me with your best shot… 



It’s Sunday today. I’ve discovered proof that I am indeed not seeing things when it comes to the bulls I told you about earlier in the week. Two sets of proof. The first comes from the ABC. They wrote an article about the phenomenon that has become known as The Bulls of Shorty. You can read it here.

The other proof we found is slightly less highbrow. Here it is:

Image by The Naughty Corner. Poo by the bulls.

Image by The Naughty Corner. Poo by the bulls.

Sunday is generally a great day for pottering around outside. So strong is the pull to do stuff on the weekends that yesterday, on our way out to a friend’s place, I spotted my beloved gazing longingly at Bunnings as we drove past. There was some serious passion in her eyes as the enormous building hit her line of vision. I made a comment about it being a long time since she had looked at me in that way and her reply? “It’s not my fault you don’t sell hardware!”. Point taken. 

One of our pit stops yesterday was at a funky little place called Brown Dog. I’m going to tell you more about this place later in the week, but a very brief review is that I BLOODY LOVED IT. My beloved really like it there too, their food was top notch as was the decor. She got very interior design-focused and commented on everything from the lights to the mugs. Particularly the textures and patterns on her mug. Here it is: 

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

She thought it was a beautiful leaf etching. It’s actually a dribble from her hot chocolate… but I love how her brain works!

The pool that our backyard has become means that it’s less of an outdoors weekend and more of a quiet pursuits kind of weekend. I’m currently being loved up by the man in my life. Have I introduced you to Harry before?

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

The last piece of news I have for you today is that I’ve just ordered a new set of business cards. These cards have a specific purpose – they have the words “You’ve been blog spotted” on them, and I plan on leaving them places (like Brown Dog) to let them know to keep an eye on the blog for when they’re featured. Cool idea, hey. 

Over to you: How has your weekend been? Did you get some puppy loving, or spot some awesome drinking ware? 



The Apocalypse?


I’m told it’s horses. Definitely horses that will signal the end of the world and the second coming of Christ. Not cows. Or bulls. Which seems like a pretty bizarre way to start a post, to be honest. But not if you’ve heard about what happened to my beloved and I last night. 

Imagine it. 

Close to midnight. Popped outside for a smoke. And as you inhale, you hear the crunch crunch crunch of someone walking in the grass. Perhaps the front lawn, or maybe the grass of the park opposite your house. But it’s unmistakable and it’s footsteps. You shit yourself slightly, and plead with your eyes to focus on the source of the footsteps. Your mind immediately recalls every single scary movie and television show you have ever seen in your entire life, and you become certain that you are about to be murdered in your jarmies on the front porch. 

But then your eyes focus. 

On a large, dark image. 

Is it.. is that… Is that a cow?!? 

My beloved comes out to me. I mention the possible sighting of the cow and she takes a look. The beast in question is less than 50 metres away. She spots the dark shadow’s impressive ballsack, outlined in moonlight. It’s not a cow. It’s a bull. 

A sodding great big bull, hanging out across the road from my house. 

Now, we haven’t moved to some country, way out west, woop woop location. We’re in suburbia. There are houses and cars and traffic and people. And across the road from our place, a park. A park that seems to be host to phantom bovine plague. 

I tried to get a picture: 

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Now, I’d forgive you if you took a look at that image and thought, “Bullshit!”. But I swear to god, there are cows in them thar hills. 

Yes. Plural. Because by the time my beloved called the police, there were two. And tonight, there were four… on first inspection. BECAUSE THEN THERE WERE FIVE! But we went out again and now… now there is one. 

What the actual fuck? 

This is udderly ridiculous. 

Nobody believes us, because we can’t get decent photos. They think we’ve got mad cow disease or something. 

But then someone shared this with me, and I started to feel a rising panic. 

Do they come in peace? Are they merely the meat and greet team, welcoming us to the neighbourhood? Or did they hear of the magnificent roast we munched on last night, and set out to seek revenge? 

And again I say: What. The. Actual. Fuck. 


Am I panicking prematurely? Maybe I need to embrace our visitors. Grab their surprising appearance by the horns and welcome my bovine friends. Besides, all is not lost: I know now that a bull’s penis is called a pizzle. I know that they’re very fast moving creatures, and that they have the ability to disappear as soon as a camera is produced. It’s been a learning experience. One that has surely moooooved me. 

And one that has moved my beloved, apparently. I just heard her shout “Bullshit!” at the football, with more commitment and emphasis than ever. 

Your turn. Have you ever had mysterious bovine visitors? Please, tell me you have. Please. 


Waxing and waning


I’m getting waxed tomorrow. Just my legs. This is nothing out of the ordinary for me, I do it fairly regularly. What is out of the ordinary is where I am having it done. 

You will have heard about my friend, whom I refer to as The Bear. So, The Bear has been studying beauty therapy this year, and is totally killing it. I’m so proud of her. And I am *so* impressed by how well she is doing that I am DONATING MY LEGS to her further training. Yep, I’ll be rocking up to the TAFE tomorrow with my hairy pelts, ready and waiting for her to seek revenge do her thing. 

I’ve known The Bear for ages now. And while this totally is isn’t a post to convince her to do a gentle and thorough job, I feel it is only fair to warn her of what might occur. 

You see, I’ve been a guinea pig in the past. 

Another dear friend was studying massage. She needed test dummies, and being quite adept at lying still while someone massages me, I popped my hand up. All went well until I was face up on the massage table, and she was doing something over my face. My friend had created a really zen and peaceful space in the room, and to be honest I did feel a pang of something similar to regret when the plan hatched in my brain. 

I waited until I felt her leaning over my face. I could almost hear the concentration, and the inward giggles almost resulted in a wet massage table. Just when I wouldn’t hold back my laughter any longer, I opened my eyes as wide as I could and shrieked BOO! at the top of my lungs. 

Yep, think Crazy Eyes from Orange is the New Black: 

Sorry about that, Erky. Your massage was awesome, by the way. 

Here is a list of things I have considered doing tomorrow during my leg wax: 

1. Crying. 

2. Naming my leg hairs, and bidding them each farewell as they leave my leg. 

3. Asking The Bear to leave “just that one there”. 

4. Farting. 

5. Farting loudly

6. Farting loudly and blaming The Bear. 

7. Asking The Bear what she does in the woods. 

8. Asking why I wasn’t allowed to wear undies. 

9. Then asking why I had to bring undies (and waving a very large pair of full briefs around the room). 

10. Stripping off in preparation for a Brazilian. 

So, my dear Bear, I feel I have done the right thing by getting all these ideas out of my system before I come for my leg wax tomorrow. I’m hoping that by saying them in a public forum, my inclination towards this kind of mayhem may be slightly reduced, come pluck time. 

And if not? 

You’ve been warned. 

To Tuesday


Oh, Tuesday. 

Much ignored of days, silent follower to the despised Monday and precursor to hump day. A sneeze of a day, a mere cough or chuckle. Generally, unregistered. A “meh”. 


I came across a peculiar feature on a social media app recently: you could save an article to read later. Later. The word promises that you will have a later. More time. So much more time, in fact, that some will be spare, and it is during that excessive amount of time that you will do things like read articles that you saw on social media. 

But what if later isn’t promised? Because the reality is that, well… it isn’t. And I’d hate, hate, hate to think of you saving all these articles to read later, and then not arriving at the promised later. 

So here we go: 

If something is worth saving to do, read, be, say, write – If it’s worth saving for later, why not do it now? Because there is no promise of later

I could be writing to you as one who has spare time. As someone who isn’t tied down to after school sports or the morning rush. But in the instance of saving articles to read later? I’m pretty sure you could do that reading in under 5 minutes, which incidentally is plenty of time for a toilet visit. Multi-task if you must, but if it is worth doing, seize the hell out of that day and do it



My mum’s last day on earth was a Tuesday. Tuesday was the day we awoke to the news that Robin Williams had died. 

If that isn’t reason enough to just do something, then I don’t really know what is. 


Take Tuesday, now that it is almost done. Take Tuesday, and do something. Something you could put off. Something you could put off… but won’t. Because it’s Tuesday. 

And if you’ve left your run too late? If it really just isn’t practical?

There’s Wednesday.



The days that happen


I reckon everyone who has a Facebook account has had the same images and the same statements of shock and sadness regarding the death of one man:

Image by Monty Brinton, at

Image by Monty Brinton, at

And it is shocking. It is sadIt’s horrific to think that there are depths of sadness and despair that can eventually swallow a life up, permanently snuffing out the flame of existence.

The thing is, I wish it wasn’t so shocking. I don’t want us to be so dumbfounded when suicide occurs. I want us to know that this is what can happen, when depression and mental illness spirals out of control. Suicidal thoughts are a symptom of depression. And if you don’t know what it is like on that precipice of life and death, let me tell you:

Hope disappears. There is no more will to live. And regardless of every single spark of brightness around you, there is a certainty that it is not of you. It is not a part of you. The sparks do not belong to you, and the sparks shine regardless of whether or not you are there to see them. There is no light. No hope. No reason. And rather than ending with a moment that changes the world, in your suicidal state, you know that yours will be a simple and silent end of being. A relief, not just to yourself, but surely to every single person you interact with.

I don’t want this to be unknown. I don’t want you to have no idea of what it is like.

Because if you know, then you are aware.

And just like that, a scrap of stigma is stripped away.

We need to talk about this shit.

People often thank me for the more revealing posts I write, about mental health and my own times of total and utter despair of life. And I always reply the same way: Someone has to write about what it’s like. Someone has to be telling the truth and breaking the silence about this. And if I had to experience this stuff, the least I can do is try to force something good to come out of it.

Because, there are people.

There are people now, envying Robin Williams.

Thinking he had the right idea.

Wishing they could do the same.

Knowing beyond a doubt that this is the only answer to the way they are feeling.

And if that’s you, I can’t offer you a solution. Because mental health just doesn’t work that way.

But what I can offer you is this: Just… wait. Give it a day. If a day is too much, give it 12 hours. Still too much? Fine. Just put your plans on pause for an hour then. OK, half an hour. Take half an hour. And if you are inside, go outside. If you are outside, go inside. Change the scenery.

And then, count.

Not happy thoughts, not blessings or good things or any of that. Because right now, they just don’t cut it.

I want you to count what you can see. Grass? That’s 1. A wall? 2. Your feet? 3 and 4. Keep counting until you’ve run out of things that you can see. Then move on to things you can hear.

And as you feel those internal systems slowing down and calming. As you start to catch your breath. As you manage to lift your head, know this: It isn’t over. This is a battle. A battle that you are going to want to lose. A battle that seems to already have been won. No… it isn’t over.

But you did get through.

Now what?

Ask for help. Please. Find someone to ask for help. Your GP. A friend. Your neighbour. There will be someone.

I’m not going to tell you that your life matters, or that it’s a bad choice. But I am going to tell you that there are alternatives. You just need to slow down and put suicide off for long enough to start working out what those alternatives are.

And I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry that you are in this space. It’s fucked up. I know that because I’ve been here, too.

Which proves that you are not alone.

Which proves that survival is possible.

There are days like these. And the more we can talk about them, the better.

Image source unknown.

Image source unknown.

If you need someone to talk to, call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or chat to them online at 

Returning to regular transmissions


And hello to you, from my new home which is freshly hooked up to the internets, thus allowing me to be blogging once again! Oh how I have missed you all! 

So much has happened since I last wrote. 

I left you all after sharing the first part of the recent road trip my beloved and I embarked on, up to Byron Bay and surrounds to see family, friends and attend the Writers Festival. When I last wrote, I had two more posts to write about that particular road trip. You see, I hadn’t told you about my car breaking down in Macksville: 

That's my car, being pushed. Image by the Naughty Corner.

That’s my car, being pushed. Image by the Naughty Corner.

My beloved and I ended up spending a night in a seedy little motel room with questionable plumbing. We got the room with dodgey plumbing because as my car was being pushed across the road, three buses full of pensioners pulled into the motel car park. The car was patched up by morning, and we got home safely. However, the car hasn’t survived and is now back at the mechanics. We are seeking quotes for a suitable funeral. 

I had also wanted to tell you about the things with faces that I spotted in my travels! Meet Birdy Fan Switch, and Smug the Bus! 

Birdy Fan Switch. Image by The Naughty Corner.

Birdy Fan Switch. Image by The Naughty Corner.

Smug the Bus. Particularly annoying when they cut us off. Image by The Naughty Corner.

Smug the Bus. Particularly annoying when they cut us off. Image by The Naughty Corner.

And of course, I had a wrap-up of the Byron Bay Writers Festival to offer you! 

Image by The Naughty Corner.

Image by The Naughty Corner.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

But I didn’t get to do any of these things, because when we returned from our adventures, we had to get straight into packing. Yes! The Naughty Corner moved again! Did you know that a sudden and ferocious bout of gastro is the only acceptable reason to stop packing boxes? Or, that when your bestie comes to visit from interstate, she will absolutely help you pack and unpack and deliver and pick up and do it all without a word of complaint? 

All of that brings us to now.

I have words to say about the passing of Robin Williams, but I am going to write them properly over the coming days. I also have stories of stuff for you, and a tale of red candles.

But what I also missed out on writing about, was the second birthday of this blog.

I had hoped to do some fandangled post relating to the birth of the blog, and I even collected topic suggestions on the Facebook page. But you know what?

The fact that I really missed writing the blog, and that I have really missed my awesome Naughty Corner fans on Facebook – that’s enough of a statement for me. 

In two years, the blog has grown. Words and sentences and statements and quotes. Photos and stories and goals and dreams. Hearts on sleeves and tears in eyes. Laughter. Tears. Honesty. Realness.

Two years on, and I have no real niche. I have no idea of what genre my blog is, and apparently it is very important to have both a niche and a genre. 

But I do have a passion for writing this blog. And I think it’s important to thank you guys for reading. I really appreciate it. I honestly, really do. 

Thanks for humouring me.


Sleep well, and rest your eyes – because my god have I got some stories for you.