Be My Homework Done…

I thought rather than tell you about my rather average day– excepting the part where I fell, ass over tit, on Oxford Street just now. Realising only after the fact that I’d gone to work today sans knickers– Oh yeah. The city is swallowing me whole. A lot. Lately.

So rather than write about all that I thought it a nice idea to write about a really lovely evening I had this week.

You know.

Keeps things upbeat.

I’ve been neglecting my blog. Obviously.


The emails have been coming in slow and steady over the past few days, weeks. I mustered the energy today to read some of them. All of them actually. I read all of them.

And so here’s a thing, a thing I didn’t anticipate.

When you keep a daily blog you succumb to some kind of pressure to be a socially acceptable version of yourself. It would seem.

Even when you’re not.

Even when you can’t be.

You have to be.

And I’d never imagined this, you see.

So it comes to me as some sort of a surprise to learn


even though I’m doing my very best


wants a little bit more.

And it’s lovely.

Delightful even.

Which brings me back to the lovely evening I shared this week with a few friends and a new one, which I wanted to write about tonight rather than, you know, what’s not lovely, basically–

So, my dear, darling friend (and  landlord) and I began a wee revolution, or so we tell ourselves, some months ago now, recreating our own Ministry Of Food in East Sydney.

We meet once a week, usually on a Wednesday night and we cook. A lot.

We usually invite anywhere between five and ten guests and spend the evening drinking wine, talking about food, and lazing about in the sauna and jacuzzi.

These are good nights.

I love our Ministry of Food.

And it’s lush, our Wednesday evenings.

I savor them.

I treasure them.

But lately, to be fair, I’ve been calling in sick, a lot.

My friend, bless him, has grown concerned and calls with a fervent frequency that reminds me often to get dressed, get up, get out, go buy some shark and some tahini and enoki, and go make someones day.

He knows me well.

And he earns a shit load of money, and I can cook.

It’s an entirely reciprocal arrangement.

Irrespective of how I’m feeling at around 1700 hours on a Wednesday afternoon

I meet him in China Town, we shop, we talk, we argue about the menu and then we head back to his–

And I cook, he makes cocktails, I grow very serious and quiet, and he entertains the guests.

He, as a friend, always seems to know, when I’m flagging– and long before I’m desperate.

He catches me.

He makes me listen to funk music.

He doesn’t really seem to think a year with Leonard Cohen is that good an idea, really. For me.

Which is funny, cause I’m nearly six months deep in to this blog.

It’s really important to me now.

As is he.

And is Leonard.

As is our Ministry of Food.

He really is a good friend… is my point.

Lately, even, he’s been setting me up with friends of his, casually, leisurely, really fucking smoothly actually… I’ve been flawed, and deliciously surprised at every turn. In a way.

He’s been trying to distract me, I guess.

Trying to make me see things I’d perhaps not been looking out for in the past.

Which is cute.

It’s nice.

But it’s hardly new, and I know fresh when I meet it.

And sex, and sophistry, it comes with its charms, surely…

But I’m a puritan at heart.

A big, fucking, fat, fucking indebted poet

to my core–

and I’d rather write alone most of the time, that’s something neither friends, nor space spent will shift– I fly solo. Dear friend. I really don’t mind flying so solo, so much of the time–


me and a few others came to find ourselves dissecting the planet Wednesday evening past–

We ate his deep sea fish, caught by he himself, roasted with tangerines and ginger and soy– We were silent as we ate, serious mainly.

And then we sauna-ed.

While changing from wooly, over-zealous-winter-in-Sydney-finally garb my closest girlfriend currently commented on my bare breasts.

“Alex Coffey, I have never seen you so naked, ever.”

I giggled.

“Yep. This is me. Nude. Hi.”

She smiled widely.

“My goodness… Your bare breasts… are spectacular.”

And I blushed.

I thought of things to say.

I said nothing.


At all.

We swam. And sauna-ed. And steamed.

I doused tepid water over hot coals until the room was too hot for everyone.

I coughed a little.

I love the steam.

I adore the heat.

I suggested the tenants keep some essential oils by the coals.

I fantasised about Iceland.

I thought  about England.

I sipped my wine.

My point being,

what my mate said to me that night

was one of the nicest things I’ve heard from a real



in the longest time–

The longest time.



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