Bite-size Stories

It is not sensible to walk a Chihuahua through a dark park while singing ABBA. I come over for sleepovers and she walks me at night. This is not sensible. I am a Chihuahua. If you ask me, it’s a strategic error.  It’s already dark, and I can’t see much beyond the end of my nose.  This is not a time for emotional expression. This is a time for perimeter control. I am small, but I am not careless. I scan constantly for movement, sound and scent. This is what professionals do. She starts belting out ABBA as soon as we hit the park. I know all her songs by heart, because I have to. The Winner Takes It All is acceptable. It provides a steady 4/4 beat, allowing me to maintain rhythm while I scan for the Great Nugget. There is order to it. I can work with that. Fernando is also useful. It usually means we are heading home. There will be sardines. This is a reliable system. What I really hate is One of Us. I don’t understand why we have to stop every time.  The loud part....

Working mornings don’t usually sound like freshly baked raspberry slice and coffee. They sound like city-bound trains spilling colourful crowds into narrow Melbourne alleyways - a funnel into cubicles, paper jams, and meetings in buildings that never quite made sense to either of us. Years ago, we ran through those same buildings with Starbucks in hand, speaking in accents that made no sense to anyone but us. Or so we were told by people who weren't really listening. Someone called us the Dynamic Duo. But we knew better - two outsiders, on the hunt for good coffee, the nearest exit, and a good laugh. Workdays were never really about food, though restraint was never my forte. At +39, I blamed the Italian accent for the bruschetta. At Sahara, autumn light leaned through the window and for a moment, the air smelled of spice, wine, and a city pretending to be somewhere else. For an hour or two, it almost worked. These are the moments that stay. Not the meetings. Not the paper jams. Not...

I am on a coastal hike. One of the things I didn’t expect, between ocean swims, morning yoga, and kayaking, is the people who join these hikes. I’m sitting in the lounge room, drenched in sunlight. On my left is a quiet, almost statuette-like woman in her late seventies, reading a book.  I look at the unobstructed ocean in front of us and think about her. She had been a Human Rights Commissioner, appointed by Kevin Rudd. She grew up on a farm. As a child, she was struck by a truck and spent years recovering. Now she has found a small space in the shade on an expensive mint-coloured couch, quietly immersed in her book. Our group dynamic would not be the same without the plastic surgeon, who keeps himself on the front deck, his naked torso, indifferent to the sun, perched right above the sea. He made it clear on the day we met that it was them, the five Levines, who made the trip possible. His wife and three grown-up children had taken all the spots required for the walk to go ahead....

I was having breakfast at 12:30. On a Wednesday. My God, I love a late breakfast. Is there anything worth enjoying before nine in the morning? Not by me. Of course, I know this road leads to a cruel reality: sooner or later, I’ll be back to dry toast and scorching coffee with my eyes closed at 6:30 a.m. Inevitably. But for now, we’re in the “Walk, Don’t Run” kind of mood. Literally — that’s the café. A bit Japanese, a little posh, like most things in Armadale. Everything on the menu is “activated” or “cold-pressed,” the Melbourne gospel of health. I never bother with either. It feels rebellious enough to order plain eggs in a place this pure and polished. My companion, admittedly trendier than me, chose the porridge — quinoa, almond milk, poached pear, rhubarb, pomegranate, goji berries. Seventeen dollars and a halo. I’m not judging. I just hope we can stay friends after that. And maybe, on the way out, I’ll ask for a deconstructed coffee — if only to smooth over the quinoa betw...

I am full of good intentions, I truly am. Healthier habits. Earlier walks. Lighter breakfasts. Tomorrow. This morning, of course, it was raining — and even my dog refused the beach. So I congratulated myself on compromise: Organica, temple of green juice and activated virtue. Even reading the menu feels like biting into an organic apple. I began nobly with an espresso and a juice of every fruit available. But then the woman at the next table received her French toast: buttery, crisp, fragrant with rhubarb and maple syrup. No, of course not, I told myself. But to the waiter I said: Yes, please. So there it was: a breakfast of one healthy juice and one guilty, golden, berry-crowned French toast. Oh well. I’ll have a celery stick for lunch. Promise.

It is not terribly exciting to be a sandwich. Like it or not, you need to know your place in the stylish world of delectables. You can’t compare yourself to the ever-popular desserts. Those snobby chocolate types, draped in strawberries, won’t even look your way. Nor can you compete with fancy salads and hearty soups—they get to play with ingredients, stay on trend, and make themselves look handsome. It’s hard to be noticed when you’re a working-class sandwich. All you can offer is a simple filling and an even simpler purpose: to feed the office types rushing about their daily business. They’ll have their moment later with sophisticated dinner sorts, but now all they want is a quick bite. But let’s be honest. If you’re a sandwich from Earl Canteen—made to order, with roast pumpkin and gorgonzola piccante, or free-range pork belly with apple, cabbage and fennel—you’ve made it. You’re on par with the sit-down dinners served at night, with dim lights and grown-up conversation. I am one of...