Other ramblings

How to enjoy #RHOAKL

It is a Sunday night. I know, you have to go back to work tomorrow. You haven’t made your lunch yet. The baby’s just done an explosive poo and it’s reached the hairline this time.


Fortunately, we are just 48 hours away from the third installment of the Real Housewives of Auckland. An opportunity to see how the other half live, and simultaneously realize the other half are batshit crazy, and you don’t want to live that way anyway.


Angela realising Karen’s invisible dagger-pulling was a total stitch up


Unfortunately, and this is a real tragedy, the crippling onslaught of bad think pieces about reality TV are surely just a few virtuous tippity-taps away.


They will all be painfully identical, self-righteous, and quite frankly, exhausting.


Here are my tips for dealing, before you get sucked in by Sally from the opposite pod, who will tell you that watching RHOAKL makes you a bad feminist, a bad human, and that you should be at home reading Proust for the good of womankind.


1.) Compare and contrast


Think about which series’ get the most criticism. How many takedowns of the Bachelor, or the Real Housewives have you seen as opposed to, say, Pawn Stars, Duck Dynasty, or Outback Truckers? I’ve seen my fair share of each show, and I can categorically say there is nothing and I mean NOTHING more mind-numbing than watching some Hawaiian shirt-wearing dudes going through storage lockers to see what they can find.

That is the whole show. That is what they do.


For extra thrill factor, watch 42 minutes of truck drivers getting stuck in places.


Why then, does everyone start sipping on the Haterade when it comes to shows more likely to interest women? Well, that’s because things that interest women are stupid, silly! Crafts? Fashion? Romance? HOW RIDICULOUS. HOW VAIN. HOW VERY BAD.


Trucks? Hunting? Hawaiian shirts? YAY WOW VERY GOOD.


Never forget, to quote Selina Meyer (see point 3), “fundamentally, people hate women,” even women. There are people likely to spend their entire lives theorising about what women should and should not do/watch/be/wear, thinking they are being helpful. They are not.


2.) Don’t apologise.


Do you ever hear guys frantically explaining away their series link of Road Cops, Gold Coast Cops, Highway Cops, Robo Cops, Undercover Cops, Cops with Dogs, Cops Gone Wild, Keeping up the the Kops, Cops Take Miami and every other incarnation of reality cop TV? Do you ever hear them, forehead veins pulsing, shrieking “I’M JUST WATCHING IT IRONICALLY” “I DON’T ACTUALLY LIKE IT” “LOOK HOW PATHETIC THEY ARE HAHAHAHA” “I AM A GODDAMN INTELLECTUAL!!!”


No. That’s because men are, on the whole, completely unapologetic about the things they like, and you should be too.
Look, we get it, you are a smart lady, you have a good job, you (to quote Bachelor US season 20 quasi-villain Olivia) “do smart people things”. You just want to watch some people who are more good-looking than you go on dates, or talk about a cake but not eat it, or say the word pussy 100,000 times. Like what you like, stop feeling so bloody guilty about it.


3.) Be realistic about ‘role models’
My favourite shows of all time are Parks and Rec, and Veep. Shows about sassy, independent and funny women who run the Pawnee Parks and Recreation department, and the free world respectively.

Screen shot 2016-08-28 at 4.47.16 PM

Sometimes I read books. Sometimes I read the newspaper.


I can enjoy these things, AND reality TV, because I am a multi-faceted human being, capable of enjoying more than one type of thing. Shocking, I know.


Why can’t we look up to the real female role models on TV? Well, sadly, that’s because the Popes, the Knopes and most of the other fabulous ladies in between ARE NOT REAL.


How many of us would be flawlessly impressive we had cameras following our every move? Would you be UN material if you had sunk half a case of good old Lindy-Loo (or whatever Anne Batley-Burton has hiding in her cavernous champagne cellar) and weren’t allowed to go and get a cheesy kebab to soak it all up? No, no you would not.

Screen shot 2016-08-28 at 12.58.28 PM

“I would bloody love a mixed iskender Richard”

Most people are pricks at least some of the time, including you and me, pretending otherwise is completely pointless.


4.) You are allowed to escape
“But think of all the problems in the world!” bellows Sally, who’s not eating this week because of child poverty.


I’m not sure about you, but I think about the world’s problems a lot.


I think about homelessness and whether I should devote more of my time to others. I think about racists. I think about whether it’s fair to have children who will live in a world where they can’t buy houses or breathe the air or watch a TV show without Sally’s kids telling them they should be thinking about Malala Yousafzai. I think about Malala Yousafzai. I think about cancer.


It’s depressing as hell. Sometimes I need a break, and that’s ok.


5.) Elitism Is For Eggs


Is that person telling you they are too good for reality TV super-rich? Did they go to a private school? Do they have the money to pay for nannies so they can go to an independent play about global warming instead of watching whatever will distract them from their kid’s latest yoghurt mural? Free to air TV is accessible, Narcos is available if you have the money for Netflix, and a computer, and the internet.


When a Sally wannabe opens their big mouths, ask yourself if they are the type of person who would storm into a party and loudly declare they’d rather be dissecting the lyrics of Radiohead’s ‘Nude’ than grinding to 2003 club classic ‘Get Busy’ by Sean Paul. If they are that person, ignore them.




Think women are disrespected because of reality shows?




Women are disrespected because of assholes.


Under almost every online article about women on reality shows, there’s some backwards-hat-wearing Kevin saying “Can’t beleve any1 cares about dese whores”, “This is why females get a bad name”, or even worse, claiming that, I dunno, years of athletic training and dedication by one group of women is a non-achievement because another group of women went on a TV show.

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A thing that someone actually said

Are you going to be an asshole? No. That’s what Kevin wants, AND Sally. Kevin and Sally are married.
I hope these handy tips will help you live your best life, and ignore the purveyors of bullshite´ that would have you have less fun for the sake of their own righteousness.






Other ramblings

I have a theory


Robby, Jordan, and another cassowary

I have been watching the Bachelorette, and have noticed some things. This is unusual. I watch the Bachelorette to not notice things, because every episode, of every season, is comfortingly the same. There are a few important elements of the Bachelor/Bachelorette franchise that will linger for an uncomfortably long time, growing a friendly grey cloud of mould, while the rest of the world floats on by.

Every season, approximately 75% of the contestants will be accused of not being there for the right reasons, a figure that is grossly under-exaggerated.

Everywhere, and I mean everywhere, is the perfect place to fall in love.

Bachelorette du jour could take the guys to a blazing fire pit of human body parts and would still wistfully exclaim that it was the perfect place to fall in love.

Every meal, every delicious, glistening meal on every date, in every country will sit untouched for the duration of the scene, and likely, the rest of eternity. But there is a difference this season, and let me tell you, it is a game changer.
When I first saw Robby, something about him looked familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it, until I remembered a big hardback book I had as a kid about animals of the rainforest. It was in that book that I first learned about cassowaries. I recognised Robby, because Robby is a cassowary, and so is Jordan.
Let’s start with the hair, because quite honestly, it seems remarkable that of 26 guys she started out with, Jojo has ended up with the two whose hair most resembles a kind of prehistoric horn. The cassowary’s horn thing is called a casque, it supposedly indicates age and dominance, and it looks exactly like Jordan and Robby’s hair. Casque’s can grow up to 18 centimetres in height. Is it simply consequence that third and fourth place getters Chase and Luke had inexplicably stiffly coiffed flippy hair bits that were big but not quite as big as Robbie and Jordan’s inexplicably stiffly coiffed flippy hair bits??


At first, I was content to dismiss my Bachelowary (working title) theory as a striking resemblance, until I started reading more about cassowaries.

I present to you four more examples of compelling evidence.

  1. Mating

According to the Smithsonian National Zoo, during the cassowary mating ritual it is the male who takes the passive role while the female can take up to three different mates. The Smithsonian says, and I quote “the male begins courtship by circling around the female and making a low rumbling sound.”

Practically any conversation, at any time on the Bachelorette can be interpreted as nothing more than a ‘low rumbling sound’ see point 4, and circling is practically mandatory.

Furthermore, “once the female has laid her eggs, she leaves the male in search of another male with whom she may repeat the courtship process.”



  1. History

Cassowaries are prehistoric creatures, it’s believed cassowaries began to evolve around 60 million years ago. This fact goes some way toward explaining why both of the guys are so extraordinarily boring. Underneath those fresh tans and chinos, Robby and Jordan are at least hundreds of thousands of years old and have simply run out of things to say.

  1. Physicality

Both the Bachelorette finalists are former athletes Robbie, a swimmer, and Jordan, a football player. Allegedly.

Given that cassowaries are famed for their physical strength and agility, it is likely Jordan and Robby’s past occupations are simply a slick cover story, designed to shroud their true identities as the world’s second heaviest bird species. Jordan could, in fact, be two cassowaries stacked on top of each other.


  1. Communication

In the penultimate episode, Jojo questions Jordan about their future. The conversation goes as follows.

Jojo: “In your mind, what does the next year look like for you?”

Jordan: “Um…that’s a tough question to answer…it kinda depends…I don’t know what it’s going to look like…100%”
Correct me if I’m wrong, but that is the exact answer a cassowary, that is planning on returning to the forests of New Guinea to forage for fruit and invertebrates instead of marrying a human woman, would say.

In fairness, that completely half-arsed answer is still preferable to the noise a cassowary usually makes, which sounds like Satan rallying his demons for the rapture.

My final, and most terrifying (but perhaps not surprising) piece of information, is more of a public service announcement to all men and women considering entering into a reality TV show relationship with a cassowary.

Cassowary, when provoked, are deadly.

Type ‘world’s most dangerous bird’ into Google? Cassowary

‘Scariest bird’ Cassowary

If you thought you’d envisioned all the possible worst ways to die, you can go right ahead and add having your jugular slashed by a gargantuan bird foot to the top of that list.


Look, I’m not saying either of the Bachelorette finalists is dangerous, but have you ever seen a close up of Robby or Jordan’s feet?? No, neither have I.

To sum up, Jojo, trust no one. Guys, don’t get one of those dumb haircuts. It makes you look like a big, scary bird.




Other ramblings



First published in May issue of Fishhead magazine

This year the Oxford Junior Dictionary, aimed at seven year olds, decided to ditch some words. Not enough pages apparently, so they got chopping; chestnuts, magpies, leopards and larks are out. Blogging, chatrooms and cut-and-paste are in. Net over nature, Outlook over the outdoors. A move to modernise, they said, a profoundly sad move that depressed language–lovers like myself to the very core. Now, more than ever, I want to self-implode every time I see a child with an iPad.

Children with iPads is a phenomenon that, like aerosol cheese, Crocs and Tony Abbott, wouldn’t exist if humans were doing things right. Having witnessed the zombifying effects of constant access to artificial entertainment on children as young as two, little slaves to the little silver square, I made a promise to myself to never plague my future spawn with that sort of handicap. In arguments, where friends would campaign for the ‘educational benefits’ of the imagination-sapping devil square I would find myself inwardly screaming “BLOODY MAGPIES ARE EDUCATIONAL.” It was infuriating.

Then I moved into a house with a dog. This is not just any dog, this is ‘the cutest dog ever,’ and I know that everybody says that about their dogs but everybody else is wrong. This dog, which will be referred to as Dog, is the best. I don’t quite mean that in a literal sense, in fact Dog is probably quite far from the best. Dog likes jumping on couches and tearing up pillows and sticking her nose in your food. Dog likes to wait until your TV show is on to jump on your face and demand attention. Dog gets so excited about walks on the beach she poops and vomits all the way home. And yet it’s a good thing that Dog can’t talk because if she asked for both of my kidneys I would give them to her, apologise for the delay and pay the medical bills in advance. If Dog asked for an iPad? “Sure thing!” I would say, “here’s a back catalogue of every season of The Bachelor ever filmed, fry your little doggie brain with it!” I would say, “as long as you’re having fun!” May I reiterate that this dog is not even mine.

How do parents who actually made and have at least partial ownership over their own children make these kinds of decisions? It’s all very well to not believe in iPads, to want to buy your kids multiple copies of the pre-2015 Oxford Junior dictionary and a worm farm and not let them back indoors until dinnertime. But what if they ask, in fact what if they beg? Get down on their little knees, round glistening eyes imploring you to give in just this once? That sounds like absolute torture. So what’s the solution? Thankfully me having kids is a few years away so at least I’ve got a while to plan whether I move into a remote commune devoid of technology or not. The rest of you are doomed.

Other ramblings


Today I started thinking, which in itself is a relatively benign thing to do, unless of course you are a woman with a tendency to overthink. Thanks to my own informal research I’ve found that that is most of us. I thought about how maybe I’m not writing enough, a guilty, lingering sort of thought that crept up my spine like a particularly persistent weed. That thought led to another, am I writing less because I haven’t got enough time to do it, or because I’m getting stupider? Is stupider even a word? I don’t know because I’m obviously getting stupider. A stupid person with not enough time to work on being less stupid.

Then I thought, perhaps I should make more time for writing and less time for watching repeats of Girl Code, which is almost definitely a major contributor to the stupid problem. But then when would I actually relax? Surely even the greatest writers have some down time. Their minds cannot be a constant whir of synonyms and sibilance and so forth or they’d go mad and end all of their stories with the protagonist waking up and realizing the entire plot was a dream and other such shite. But what if they do do that? I wouldn’t know because great writers probably don’t watch Girl Code.

In fact they probably don’t even have a television. Great writers tend to think that popular television is puss. And while I’m in almost complete agreement, I watch it anyway. Should I get rid of the television? I thought, until realizing the television is not even mine because I’m poor. Great writers often tend to start out poor, so perhaps I’ve already taken the first step.

Then I thought, perhaps I should read more. Great writers also tend to read, but that leaves less time for writing. Perhaps they sacrifice other parts of their day, bathing perhaps. I imagine great writers to be disheveled. They take their fortnightly bath with a cigarette and a well-worn Dickens. They have a yellow spot on the ceiling from the smoke and Marlene Dietrich echoing down the hallway. This means in order to really become a great writer I shall have to take up smoking, baths and Dickens, all of which I think are a bit rubbish, Dickens in particular. The smoking would also be tricky because by the time I’ve bought a years’ worth of cigarettes I won’t have enough money for a bath. I imagine smoking in the shower is neither glamorous nor particularly successful.

But what does it matter if I don’t have the right look? We know writers by the way of a tiny thumbnail and a line dedicating the book ‘To Larissa’ even though we’ll never know whether Larissa is a former flame, a grandmother or a cat.

Maybe I need to get a cat, they seem like a writers animal. Happy to lounge all day while you tearfully destroy Page 1 for the 23rd time, indifferent. They don’t need you but you need them, that is the stuff of great writing. Torment, pain, longing. I’m allergic to cats though, so maybe I’ll just have to write something another day.

Other ramblings

6 ways…

I recently read an article, if you can call it that, entitled ‘6 Ways to Tell If a Girl Is a ’10′ In 2014’, I’m not sure why I did it. Possibly because I thought it was written by a dude and was looking forward to the onslaught of modern day man-wisdom usually featured in the more distinguished corners of the internet, or maybe I was just feeling like some mental self harm, I’m not sure.

Either way ‘6 Ways to Tell If a Girl Is a ’10′ in 2014’ was not in fact written by a man, although ‘Claire Voyant’ the supposed author, could easily have been harboring two small men inside each of her breasts.

It starts off innocent enough, with Ms Voyant regaling us of the wonders of bronzer, bronzer is “shimmery” and “fabulously flawless” she gushes. “Literally all you need in your life is bronzer,” she claims. “JESUS WAS MADE OF 98 PER CENT BRONZER” she shrieks, while panting and applying it with such force her pores start bleeding. Ok that last part didn’t happen but it’s conceivable.

Then it’s on to nails, black nail polish, Fraulein Voyant tells us, is out. She’s very serious about it. In fact I quote “There is nothing more unattractive and disgusting than CHIPPED BLACK NAIL POLISH.” This is inherently untrue, because Crocs still exist, and so does fennel. Senorita Voyant tells us she loses all respect for women who have chipped black nail polish, which is fortunate because women who have chipped black nail polish probably don’t give a fuck.

Golden rule number 3 is great because it is a 100% contradiction to every other rule. Mademoiselle Voyant really likes women all of a sudden and takes it upon herself to inform us that we can only hope of ‘being a ten in 2014’ if we don’t “pretend to be dumb.” Women, according to Voyant are running billion dollar companies, starring in huge comedic roles and becoming engineers. The reader is temporarily touched by this sudden but warm glow of assurance from Miss Voyant. If you’re funny, she says, flaunt it! If you’re smart, cure some diseases! BUT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T DO IT WITH CHIPPED NAILS AND CHEAP ASS BRONZER YA NASTY BITCH.

Rule number 3 is ergo wiped out by the ridiculousness that precedes and follows it.

Which brings me to rule number 4, don’t be “dumpy”. What is dumpy you say? I’m so glad you asked. Because Lady Voyant has a great explanation: “Wearing sweatpants and a hoodie everywhere you go is DUMPY. Putting your hair in a greasy bun everyday is DUMPY. Dress like you are a business chic unicorn every single day.”

Now I have no idea what on god’s green earth a business chic unicorn is and if it’s part if old mate Voyant’s world I’m quite frankly ecstatic I will probably never experience it. But if the former description is accurate I can wholeheartedly affirm that I am dumpy. I am the dump queen, the Lady of Dump, the Minister Responsible for Dump in a dump-leaning government.

By this I mean, I have one pair of trackpants and they are all I wear outside of work, I wear them with a greasy hoodie, a greasy bun and a greasy face. I wear them indoors, outdoors and at the supermarket occasionally without shoes. I wear them so much that the last time I didn’t wear them my flatmate called the cops thinking some foreign-panted intruder had busted into our house to watch the Come Dine with Me omnibus. I wear them because they are comfortable, practical and when I’m not being paid to look like a presentable, well-functioning member of society, it’s quite nice to not be one. Voyant is almost fanatic in her hatred of dumpiness. She warns us desperate, eager to please girls, “don’t you dare take a step out of your house looking like that”. AND THEN GET THIS, as if it wasn’t enough to counsel whatever poor unsuspecting girl came across this utter pile of shite online, she tries to start a movement, an Anti-Dump Revolution if you will: “Girls – if you have a dumpy friend it is your responsibility to pull her aside for an intervention. Friends don’t let friends be dumpy.”

At this point I had to take a break from reading because I got so mad I burst a blood vessel in my eye and couldn’t see. I’m ok now.

Rule number 5 talks about stores you shouldn’t shop at that I’ve never heard of, probably because I’m dumpy, but basically Senorita Voyant must also be hiding millions of dollars in her industrial sized breasts because girls who want to be tens in 2014 “don’t buy cheap clothes”. In stating this Miss Voyant really cements her sheer ignorance in the ways of the world because as it happens, track pants are cheap, and as we’ve already established, track pants were God’s first creation, sent from the heavens to remind us there is always something to live for.

Finally, and I do apologise if any of you are going to need counseling after all of this, Dame Voyant informs us that not only are ‘tens of 2014’ not allowed to buy cheap bronzer, cheap nail polish, cheap clothes or TRACKPANTS, finally, as the heinous cherry on the fennel-flavoured cake, she adds that we are also not allowed to buy cheap liquor. Cheap liquor, imparts Voyant, shows immaturity. Now I don’t know what expensive liquor tastes like but I’d imagine the sort of liquor our good friend drinks has dominant scents of entitlement with a hint of vapidity and an after-taste that just screams “I AM AN ABSOLUTE WANKER”.

The bottom line is, if this whole train wreck of an article is in fact about impressing boys, here’s a tip. Boys in the club are not thinking about what you are drinking, they are thinking about how they can possibly accelerate the speed of your drinking by about a thousand times in order to get into your track pants.

In conclusion, if the only way to ‘be a ten in 2014’ is to follow these six horrendous steps, I’m categorically certain I will remain a ‘minus seven thousand’ for 2014 and the rest of my life.

Do join me.

Other ramblings


It was a rotten Wellington day and the kids at Parliament Primary were in their first week back at school. They’d had a lovely long holiday but cabin fever was starting to set in already and Mr Carter could see all the kids growing steadily grumpier, he had a feeling the day was not going to end well. Little Metiria had been looking forward to bad weather because she had a brand new coat, it had toggles and an excessive amount of pockets and everything a proper coat should; Metiria looked good.

Metiria, Anne and Judith had been friends once but had grown apart and to be perfectly honest Judith was terrifying, so Metiria and her best friend Russell usually kept their distance. When it came to interval Metiria found a corner and sat down to paint a tree for her wall at home. She kept the jacket on even though she was indoors, because it really was a great jacket.

Anne didn’t think so. “Is that a new jacket?” She said with a tone half gleeful and half threatening. “Yes” said Metiria, shyly. “I thought you only bought clothes from Save the Whales?” chimed Judith. “I…it was a gift?” said Metiria, which it wasn’t, but a girl deserves a nice jacket once in a while. “You’re a hypocrite!!” said Anne, who had very advanced vocabulary for an 8 year old. “AND YOUR JACKET’S UGLY” shrilled Judith, loud enough for the whole class to hear. Metiria

called them both racists because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. They had after school detention for a week.

What should women wear to work? It’s a banal question on the surface, but it’s also a conundrum of the highest order. The reason is because there is no answer, the reason for that is because what women wear is always wrong.

I discovered this on one of my first days at work in Windy Wellington, the nickname really should have given it away, it’s just that I wasn’t prepared for the force, (like 5000 invisible bullets burying themselves in your skull) or the direction, (up your skirt, always).

I had many a beautiful skirt and was very keen on showing my colleagues and the greater community that I was a very classy lady with an excellent taste in skirts. That ended approximately 0.02 seconds after I introduced everything previously under the skirt to everyone on the waterfront including a man who wasted his sandwich because he choked on it. I turned various shades of red and decided to wear tights the next day. “You look like a nun”, one colleague said. “Why all the layers?” said another. It was all very confusing.

Intent on getting it absolutely right, I clothed myself the following day in a dress that felt a bit tight and a bit short but was bought for me by a person whose job it is to buy appropriate work clothes for people, so figured it must be fair game. I concluded the fact that my butt looked like two small moons was simply down to the fact that my butt is the size of two small moons, and was on my way. “Great dress!” said gay colleague, “Love your dress!” said probably gay colleague. “Ooh Kris, scandalous, showing off that bod!” said the last non-gay colleague. And my heart sank. My aim had not been to show off my ‘bod’ whatever that is. My aim had not even been to look hot, sexy or otherwise enticing. It had simply been to look presentable in a way that didn’t invite immediate commentary and/or underskirt ventilation. That was until I realized that that’s impossible.

‘Jacketgate’ as I like to refer to the above playground tale, is not about politics or racism or about playground bickering. It is about how the simple act of putting on clothes opens women up to a whole new level of criticism, and we are the worst perpetrators. Your long pants will always be frumpy, your frilled shirt too slutty, all that black is too draining, the pink too youthful. So take comfort ladies, in the knowledge that you will always, always be wrong. Long live the jacket.

Other ramblings

The Cheesecake

If there’s anything I’ve learnt in the past few weeks, it’s that people respond very differently to someone who’s had bad news. Some people like to touch; your face, your hair, your hand to the point where you think that maybe as well as being sad you have unknowingly morphed into a polar fleece. There are the evaders: the ones who sense emotion at 50 paces, furtively avoid contact but when forced into an elevator will offer a short, sharp stab at your upper arm. They will look at your upper arm until the 5th floor, perhaps waiting for it to explode. Then there are those who make cheesecake. One of my mum’s dear friends is one such person and tonight insisted on creating a health-infused feast for my currently health-challenged mum.

“Helllloooooooo” she cooed floating into the lounge, arms loaded with plates. “I hope it’s enough!” If only she knew.

Had it not been Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary perhaps we would have asked her to stay, but that in hindsight, would have been disastrous.

The main course came and went, standard but tasty plates of meat and veggies, swimming (for the non health challenged) in generous puddles of gravy. But it was the cheesecake that was the real treat. In my largely unsuccessful attempts to de-blubber after Christmas, I had been shunning calorific binges. But this was a special occasion and I didn’t care.

It was Dad that first sounded the alarm, mild disgust quickly giving way to outright rage and horror “Ooh that’s……oh…….OH GOD THAT’S AWFUL.”

But it couldn’t have been that bad. It was cheesecake.


At least we thought it was a cheesecake, it was not dissimilar to an oral holocaust.

What had been described as cheesecake was in actuality a foamy, citrus infused abomination that tasted like Handy Andy and crushed dreams.

Mum’s dear friend, in her eagerness to create a cancer friendly delight had forgotten that the only thing that makes cheesecake delicious is cheesecake ingredients. In place of cream cheese she had used egg whites, she swapped the 2 cups of sugar for no cups of sugar and grated enough orange rind into the frothy concoction to strip the paint off a larger than average apartment block.

Mum had a taste, and lived through it which was a bonus, although the spluttering was disconcerting. Then we gathered around and stared. Had we done something wrong to said friend? Had any of us demonstrated a passion for violent purging? I thought I saw it move by itself for a second, a demonic sort of quiver. So we put it back in the fridge, and laughed.

We talked about how it smelt like quiche, and laughed. We laughed about the process of making the cheesecake and whether it also involved sacrifices to the underworld. We laughed the most at the thought of bringing the cheesecake back to its creator because “We simply couldn’t finish it!”, and then we laughed some more.

It was the best cheesecake ever.