I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror. I noticed a very distinct wrinkle — or line, or whatever you want to call it — stretching from the end of my left eye towards the side of my face. It was noticeable. And whilst I’ve got other signs of ageing, this was the first time I really saw it. I think the line adds five years to me.
My Nanny would have said, “What do you expect? You’re 44 years old.” I know that. But I’ve always looked so much younger than I really am, and now I’m starting to look my age. After I looked away from the mirror — in disgust — I made my way down to Norwood Parade for a hairdressing appointment, for a blow-dry.
I parked underneath Foodland and started walking towards the escalators when I saw this scruffy looking man approach a woman. He politely said he was sorry to trouble her and asked if she had a little bit of money so he could buy something to eat — specifically a pie. She sort of politely shooed him away, and I just looked at his face — he looked so ashamed.
Then he came up to me and asked the same question. I told him I didn’t have any cash on me, but I asked him to follow me to the ATM and said I’d get some money out for him. As we went up the escalators, we talked about his situation. I asked where he lived, and he told me he was sleeping rough at the shopping centre at the Arkaba. He said someone was trying to get him a room at a Salvation Army boarding house.
This man would have been in his late sixties, maybe early seventies. He seemed like such a gentle, kind soul — someone who had just been dealt a rough deal in life. When we got to the bank, I went inside to the ATM while he sat on a step out the front and waited for me. I took out $100 and went back outside to give him the money.
He looked shocked and he actually teared up a little. He thanked me for the money and then quietly asked if he could give me a hug. I said, “Of course,” and we gave each other a big bear hug. I wished him the best of luck with everything, he thanked me again, and we parted ways.
I didn’t tell you this story because I think I’m excellent for giving him $100. I’m not. I think we should all do that where and when we can. But I woke up this morning worried about a ridiculous wrinkle protruding out of my left eye — when it means nothing. Who cares?
This man has nothing. He sleeps at a shopping centre. And he really was a beautiful soul. It’s not fair. And to make matters worse, I was on my way to the hairdresser, where I paid $88 for a blow-dry. That’s nearly as much as I gave the man — except he needed his money to eat.
When I hugged him today, I felt deeply connected to him. We are one. I could easily be in his situation, and if I was, I know I’d feel just as uncomfortable asking for help as he did.
After my blow-dry and an eyebrow wax, I made my way into town for my dreaded dentist’s appointment. I really hate everything about teeth. Most of all, I hate people brushing their teeth. I can’t be around it — I can’t see it, I can’t smell it — it literally makes me sick.
It’s gotten worse over the years. It’s so bad now that I honestly don’t know how I could ever possibly have a partner — or that future husband I sometimes talk about. But I suppose there are always workarounds.
Today, I had some dental work done and below, you can see the outside of my dentist.
The next photo is of that awful dentist chair.
I know the room looks a little dull, but it’s decked out with all the latest technology, which is at least some comfort. Today, as the sound of the drill pierced my ears and the scraping motion sent chills down my spine, I looked up and saw SBS Food playing on the monitor directly above the chair.
For a split second, I slipped back into cook mode, but what the hosts on the show were doing looked like something I could never master — and in that moment, I felt quietly glad that I’d decided not to waste my time trying.
But to compensate for the aesthetics of the treatment room, the front reception has a beautiful constellation of artificial flowers. The whole practice is decorated with orange as the primary colour, and the flowers were perfectly made to match!
I don’t believe this. There must be a way to protect it — maybe not through traditional copyright, but surely in some form. I’m not exactly sure how intellectual property law works, but I can’t accept that there’s no mechanism at all — even a patent, for lack of a better word. I’m going to do some research, and when I eventually see a lawyer about my own intellectual property, I’m going to ask them about this specifically.
My brother can’t be right about this. He just can’t. Because if he is… then art means nothing. It would mean nothing to the world, and it would mean nothing to me.
Recently, Adelaide Crows star Izak Rankine made a homophobic slur towards a Collingwood player and was penalised. Initially, he was banned for five matches, but on appeal, the suspension was reduced to four. Since then, the media has been painting Rankine as though he’s the victim in this situation. Even my mum has been defending him, saying the ban is too harsh.
But honestly, I disagree. They did the same thing with Tex Walker a couple of years ago when he made racist remarks, framing him as if he was the one suffering. And I have to say, I think it really sucks that players like Izak and Tex have been cast as victims when they are far from it. They know the rules. The AFL has been crystal clear about its stance on racism, homophobia, and discrimination.
The AFL has to set a higher standard. It must take the moral high ground when it comes to behaviour associated with its name. That means enforcing consequences — not protecting reputations. In my view, not only is Rankine’s four match ban fair, it’s necessary. If the AFL wants its policies to mean anything, punishment can’t be optional.
And yet… this is where I get frustrated. Because while the AFL claims to uphold these values, Channel 7 — one of its biggest partners — has just welcomed Ben Cousins back into the fold, giving him a spot on their Western Australian AFL commentary team for 2025.
I find this disgusting. Over the years, Ben Cousins has faced multiple arrests, rehab stints, and even jail time — including a 12 month sentence in 2017 for stalking and breaching a restraining order. He was jailed again in 2018–2019, and his legal troubles included domestic violence charges and stalking his ex-partner. Now he’s not only back on TV but also has a thriving career in radio and AFL commentary.
What message does this send? To Ben Cousins’ ex-partner, to victim-survivors of abuse, and to the women of Australia? It says: we value football redemption arcs more than women’s safety. It says a famous man’s charisma and talent can outweigh his history of violence. It says the game comes first.
I am all for redemption and I believe in second chances. But this isn’t a story about someone quietly rebuilding their life — this is the AFL and Channel 7 platforming and rewarding a man who terrorised someone he claimed to love. That’s not okay.
Some people have been calling the AFL hypocritical for banning Rankine while also hiring Snoop Dogg to perform at the Grand Final, given his history of homophobic remarks. But for me, that’s not where the hypocrisy lies. The real contradiction is Ben Cousins.
The AFL insists it wants to take a hardline stance on racism, homophobia, and discrimination. It wants to project an image of moral leadership. But how can it possibly do that while giving a man with a documented history of domestic violence a prime time role, celebrating him, and letting him represent the game?
Until the AFL, its sponsors, and its media partners walk the talk, they cannot claim the moral high ground. And they shouldn’t try.
