In Case You Are Mildly Curious...

I've been home for a week; and that time consists of doing housework from top to bottom and going to the gym. Neither of which I'm fond of... So, I let my mind wander and find my thoughts are in Vietnam again!

There’s something deeply humbling about getting your nails done in Vietnam when you’re a middle-aged Australian woman whose entire beauty routine at home mostly consists of “that’ll do.”

The Vietnamese girls are tiny, immaculate creatures with perfect skin, glossy hair and the hand speed of caffeinated spiders. Meanwhile I arrive looking like someone who’s fought a lawn mower with her hair and it's so hot I had it in plaits most of the time!

I sat down confidently and immediately became aware of my feet.

Why do feet suddenly become horrifying the second another human professionally examines them?

At home you think: "These are perfectly normal feet.”

Under salon lighting? You’ve apparently dragged Frodo to Mordor barefoot.

The girl smiled politely while holding my hand in the same way a mechanic examines a damaged alternator.

Then came the colours.

Vietnamese nail salons have approximately 84 million shades of pink. Every single sample stick looked identical until you held them under the light where suddenly one became “Dusty Rose Sunset” and another was apparently “Peach Champagne Whisper.”

I chose one entirely at random because panic had set in.

Then the massage started.

Now listen. These women do not gently moisturise your hands. They attack knots in your shoulders you didn’t even know existed. At one point I think I briefly left my body.

The Squeeze sat nearby getting increasingly nervous because every ten minutes another tiny woman would appear carrying strange instruments that looked medically unnecessary.

And somehow — somehow — despite all this chaos, I walked out feeling like a glamorous international woman of mystery instead of someone who earlier nearly fell asleep in a bowl of noodles.

That’s the magic of Vietnam.

One minute you’re sweating through your underpants while crossing the road in terror. The next minute you’re sitting in a nail salon being aggressively exfoliated into a better person.

Oh why can't I be back there! I barely thought of Trump or the stupid impending war!

The Whole World Is Addicted To Outrage

Nobody talks anymore.

They perform.

Every opinion now arrives like a WWE entrance theme. People storm into conversations foaming at the mouth over things that, five years ago, they wouldn’t even have noticed while eating a sandwich.

The internet has trained humanity to react like poisoned squirrels.

Everyone is furious.
Nobody is happy.
And somehow every single person believes they are the reasonable one.

You can’t say:
“I’m not sure.”

Oh no. That’s weakness now.

You must arrive screaming with absolute certainty about geopolitics, celebrity divorces, plastic straws, chickens, pronouns, billionaires, electric cars, Palestine, America, capitalism, socialism, gluten and probably the moon.

Silence used to mean peace.
Now silence means your Wi-Fi dropped out.

And honestly? Half the world doesn’t even care about the issue they’re screaming about. They care about belonging to a side.

Why Can't These Idiots Get Along..?

They always say it like it’s a movie trailer – Out Now. Watch this! “Evil will be answered.”

Answered by who? A man in a suit standing behind a podium pretending he’s in an action film while the rest of the world quietly updates its emergency contacts?

Every international conflict now sounds like two blokes in a pub car park yelling, “Say it again. SAY IT AGAIN.” Except these idiots have missiles.

The media doesn’t help. Everything is “fury”, “rage”, “humiliation”, “retaliation”, “final warning”. News headlines read like a WWE promo written by a caffeinated twelve-year-old. (Come to think of it, that would be funny!)

And meanwhile normal people are just trying to buy groceries without needing a small personal loan for tomatoes or fuel to get to the grocery store!

There’s something deeply absurd about world leaders threatening each other with “consequences” while ordinary people are sitting on the couch eating garlic bread wondering if World War III will interrupt whatever the viewing pleasure is that night.

Nobody powerful ever says:
“Perhaps everyone should calm the hell down.”

No. It’s always:
“We will respond.”
“We will not forget.”
“Evil will be answered.”

Fantastic. That sounds stable.

The frightening part isn’t even the threats anymore. It’s how performative it all feels. Politics has become theatre for angry people online. Every leader talks like they’re auditioning for the role of Tough Guy Number Three.

And social media claps like trained seals every time someone says something dramatic.

At this point, humanity isn’t being led.
It’s being comment - sectioned into oblivion.

Six Energy Drinks! Is that all?

The world’s most powerful leaders now communicate like Year 8 boys fighting near the bike shed.

“I’ll bomb you.”
“No, I’ll bomb YOU.”
“We’ve got bigger missiles.”
“Well WE don’t care.”

Honestly, watching the US and Iran carry on lately feels less like international diplomacy and more like two kids squaring up behind the portable classrooms while everyone else nervously backs away holding a juice box.

Meanwhile the rest of the planet is sitting there thinking, “Could you idiots maybe calm down before petrol hits twenty dollars a litre and the world catches fire?”

Every statement sounds like it was written by a bloke pacing around after six energy drinks. Every response sounds like someone yelling, “Say it to my face then!”

And of course the media treats it like the world’s most expensive reality show. Dramatic music. Red flashing graphics. “WAR IMMINENT.” Then twelve hours later: “Peace talks progressing.” Then five minutes later: “Massive retaliation possible.” Pick a lane.  

The frightening part is that these aren’t children in a schoolyard. These are grown adults with armies, missiles, oil routes, and the ability to accidentally ruin the global economy before breakfast.  

And still they posture. Threats. Ultimatums. Chest-beating. Public tantrums dressed up as “strategy.”

At this point, diplomacy seems to consist entirely of:

1. Threaten war.
2. Deny threatening war.
3. Go on television.
4. Repeat.

The whole thing feels less like leadership and more like ego with nuclear capability.

The world doesn’t need alpha males with fighter jets. It needs one adult in the room saying, “Right. Everyone sit down and stop acting like dickheads.”

Ouch! Everything Hurts!!

Yesterday I fell off the back porch like an elderly magpie trying to escape a wheelie bin.

One minute I was walking outside like a perfectly capable adult. The next? Gravity stepped in like an unpaid intern desperate to contribute. Down I went. Straight onto the ground with all the elegance of a dropped fridge.

Everything hurts.

Not in a dramatic “take me to hospital immediately” way. More in a “why does my elbow hurt when I blink?” kind of way. I’ve discovered muscles I didn’t even know existed. Even my hair feels bruised.

The worst part is the delay. You hit the ground and for three seconds you lie there thinking, “Maybe I’m fine.” Then your body starts sending official complaints to management one by one.

Knee? Ruined.
Hip? Furious.
Back? Filing paperwork.
Pride? Dead at the scene.

And so the first five minutes, I lied there and howled. I wanted to say to the Squeeze just cover me in dirt and leave me here!

And of course nobody falls normally anymore. There’s always some ridiculous flailing involved. I apparently attempted interpretive dance on the way down. If there’d been security footage, it would already be online with circus music behind it.

The Squeeze did that thing people do where they try not to laugh while also asking if you’re okay. Which somehow makes it worse. Don’t smirk at me while I’m folded into the garden like broken patio furniture.

Anyway, today I’m moving around the house like a haunted Victorian woman with a spinal condition. Every time I stand up, I make a noise that sounds like an old wooden ship.  But I have to move! There is so much to be done...

Aging is honestly just your body becoming increasingly committed to slapstick comedy.

I haven't even been through the paper yet which is when the real comedy begins!