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I’ve always been a bit of a devil.

When I was a child I loved to pretend. Maybe it was because of my overactive imagination or maybe it was because the thought of being somebody else was so much more appealing than the awkward (and yet precocious) child, teenager and adult I’d become. Dressing up was a game I forced everyone around me – even my older brother – to play and my dressing up box was filled with flouncy party dresses and ribbons, an old lace wedding dress my mother had given me (whom it belonged to I had no idea), and various toys and accessories, including a Chanel handbag which, had I kept it, would be worth a lot of money now, I’m sure.

Of course, dressing up wasn’t just for fun, it was also about competition: you had to be the best looking child with the best costume. The time of year that this was most obvious? Halloween of course.

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We always assumed I was going to be taller. After all, you don’t see many ten-year-olds with size six feet roaming around the joint, and my grandmother on my father’s side was tall herself. She used to inspect me and say with a knowing nod, “yes. You are just like Mah-Mah. You will be tall”. When I entered secondary school I was one of the tallest in my class, lined up towards the back of the group during fire drills feeling proud, holding my head high and my spine straight.

The following summer I came back to school and suddenly the rest of the girls had grown a foot whilst I had stayed, disappointingly, at a mere five foot two. One school mate came running up to me to tell me her summer news, only to stop short, giving me a quizzical look as she found herself looking down at the top of my head. “Oh,” she mused, raising an eyebrow, “I thought you were taller” – I never grew again.

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It’s my last day in Australia and I have nommed and munched my way from here to Melbourne and back again. Sorry for the total lack of blog posts since I arrived, I’ve been enjoying the sunshine far too much! Tomorrow morning I’m heading to Vancouver for a week (joy: 16 hour flight!), then into Amurika, from the West to East Coasts and seeing many of you very soon! Exciting, eh?

So, enough natter, here’s what’s been going on in my fave format: photos! And a video! That’s down at the bottom. I’ve also got a few new articles coming soon for The Arbuturian (as soon as I finish writing them, that is!). In case you missed my last one on Snake Soup in Hong Kong, you can read it here.

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The plight of the food blogger as restaurant critic is a strange one. I very rarely confess to the venue I’m reviewing that I am a food blogger (although, at times, the picture-taking does somewhat give it away), and it’s because reviews should be authentic; you should receive no more special treatment, should not put any more pressure on the staff than is already on them. That’s how I like to operate, how most critics do, I imagine, and I will never expect anything more, because I am nobody, really. Just another food blogger eating my way around town.

At the end of the road where my day job is situated there had been some buzz over the past few weeks about a new restaurant opening. The word was that it was French/Italian, they had a really good chef in, there were some problems which had delayed the opening, but it was finally going to open its doors on Tuesday night. Great, I thought, I’ll pop along after work and try it out. Opening night, even better, and then I called Momma Lee & Brother to join me.

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