Today, as I always do on your leonine birthday, I woke up feeling a bit perturbed. Nothing specific, it’s just that when you die you really die don’t you? No matter how much I try to trick my mind to believe that we are just busy in our lives right now, and that I’ll probably see you on the weekend (of course you’ll want to celebrate, you big show-off) I still know. Somewhere back in there, nice and deep, is a box with “Hayls” engraved on the lid in fancy-as-fuck script, and mostly I prefer to keep it shut. It’s not dusty though, I pick it up and turn it over in my hands often. I stroke the grain of the wood and trace the lock with my finger. I smile as I think of some of the treasures inside, and as long as I don’t open it, all is well.

But some days I am brave enough to flip open the latch and open that box a tiny crack. Snatches of conversation sneak out and hit the air and my heart. I might hear one of your catch-phrases (cats of Australia, vertebone, heeeeed, muff ’em Liam, big girl, a Billy Ray Cyrus) or maybe I’ll hear you laugh. I’ll definitely hear you laugh- you were always laughing weren’t you? Perhaps you’ll call me waif. I know I wasn’t called waif  in a good way, but I liked it anyway. You’re the only one who ever called me that (for obvious reasons), and I felt very Kate Moss. (I could use a bit of that now that I have an expanding menopausal arse, thanks.) Maybe you’ll call me a bogan for one of a myriad of transgressions, tell me how to eat my meal (chef has already seasoned that) or instruct me to drink some kind of weird cherry beer.

Some of our ill-thought out, fanciful plans might slither out, or if I’m lucky I might get an image- one of you prepping a meal, trying on a new A-line “cutesy” skirt, or getting ready to jump in the pool for our laps.

I might get your smile.

The thing is, I know exactly what’s in the box, so I don’t know why opening it is so scary.

Maybe it’s because even after all these years, knowing what’s in it and keeping it pristine-closed is safer than admitting that all I have left of you is some ashes and the contents of the box. I guess I want something more, which seems both selfish and just right at the same time.

I’ve been waiting all day today for someone to post on your page. I wanted everyone to remember that it would have been your birthday and you would be expecting presents and phone calls and cakes, but I wanted them to remember all by themselves. I wanted them to miss your smile as much as I do.

It seems they do. Is it weird or cruel to feel comfort in that? I don’t know any more.

Kaye posted a pic on Insta and you’d love it: you look both happy and hot (not in temperature). I think you’d rate yourself. Your hair looks fab.

Happy what would have been your birthday Hayls. I guess it still is your birthday, but it doesn’t quite feel the same saying that without you here in person. I ate cake. It was too sweet, but I put it on top of the weird stomach-wrench I already had, and it sat on top. I guess it will cover up the ache a bit shortly, the sweetness mixing with the sad and making something digestible. I guess that’s why you nourished so many people. You were healing them. Healing us.

Thank you for all of the times you did that. Even when we didn’t know we needed it.

Luv ya.

As you know, I is well fancy, and I might have mentioned to you once or a thousand that I had dinner with Jamie Oliver last week. Which is amusing to me mainly because I hate cooking and most things to do with cooking.  Other than the eating bit.  I’m fine with the eating.

Which is why I decided to score myself, and some lovely ladies who lunch, a ticket to go and get fed by one of the judge-chefs from My Kitchen Rules.  I have watched the show enough times to know he is the ‘mean one’ and so I was gleefully rubbing my hands together (maniacal laugh), thinking of all the things I was going to find wrong with his cooking, and then write them up here on this blog for all to see.  I’ve dined with JO, remember.  So I’m basically a food critic, yeah?

Problem 1:  Colin wasn’t doing the cooking.  They were his recipes, sure, but the Berado’s dudes were cooking them.  So there went that blog idea.  Fkit.

So I thought I could still make some funny about him anyway.  Because he’s the mean one, right?  So that means open season, doesn’t it?

Problem 2:  When the dude got up to speak, he was blushing.  And kinda cute (that makes it hard for me to be mean right there- call it a character flaw of mine).  And we all* know I’m a sucker for an Irish accent.  Then as he spoke, we found out that he wasn’t the mean one at all, he was really very charming and candid, and grounded, with a wife and family, and the same concerns about making a living and a life that we all have.  He told us how he went on the show to promote his brand and his restaurants, at a time when friends of his in the industry were being forced to shut their doors due to the global financial concerns.  He told us about how hard he works, and why he is a chef (Yep, it’s a passion for food), and told us a bit about his creative process.

One thing I especially liked was how he claimed all of the recipes in his new book (which he just so happened to bring about a hundred copies of along, ready for signing) are the result of mistakes.  Of things he tried, found to be wanting, made some variations and eventually resulted in something tasty.  (I suspect the fennel icy-poles in the book are still in the development stages.)  I think that’s a great reminder.  I still don’t give a shit about the cooking idea, but I like it as a metaphor for other stuff in our lives.  Mistake>Edit>Correction>Success.  Or something like that.

So all in all, in a week of two chefs, it was a funny one for this little food-bogan.  I met Jamie Oliver and he was exactly like he is on telly.  Casual, a little scruffy, funny and just like one of my mates.  Just like I thought he would be, in fact.  I met Colin Fassnidge and he was nothing like he is on telly, and so probably has to spend a whole lotta time not reading stuff about himself on the socials, and explaining how he isn’t like that actor at all.  So basically, the opposite of how is presented.

I know who I’d rather be.

Perhaps there’s a lesson in that…?

“Be yourself.  Everyone else is taken.”  -Oscar Wilde

PS I forgot to say, Colin let it slip who wins this season of MKR… I can tell you, but I will require recompense.**

*Well maybe YOU didn’t, but the entire staff and patronage of PJ O’Brien’s circa 1997 does.  (And now so do you.. Don’t say I never tell you anything.)

**I may be lying, but you will have to hand over the moula to find out.

…From The Ashers xxx