I got an email from a client the other day that was signed “Love, Jeremy” and it made me smile. It’s not that long ago that I would have baulked at that sign off. Inappropriate. Unprofessional. Lazy. Would have been the words I’d have used to describe my instant reaction – most certainly followed by a reluctance to do business with the writer of the email.
My communications career was born in Government. Where writing etiquette was important and certain expectations needed to be met if you wanted to be taken seriously. A casual style meant a casual attitude and a casual attitude meant you were unlikely to be offered a place at the table with the big kids. I followed these rules for a very long time despite itching every time I wore the cloak of the traditional professional.
Anyone that’s read my blog knows that I am now a different type of professional. I’m a self-appointed professional rule breaker. I abhor complexity and get a bit stabby at any form of unnecessary formality. I constantly straddle the line between corporate (where the bills get paid) and creative (where my soul gets fed). Continue reading
The invitation was very clear. It was just for me. I’d know everyone who would be there and I didn’t need to dress up. In fact, I didn’t even need to talk to anyone all night if I didn’t want to. I could simply show up, remove my bra and just tuck myself up in a luxurious king bed. From 2pm.
It was an invitation I sent myself. I’d decided, very last minute, to celebrate my 45th birthday with a gift so heavenly that it wouldn’t have occurred to single-me how precious and rare such a gift would become. I was gifting myself ME. More specifically I was gifting myself 24 hours of complete and utter selfish abandon in a five-star hotel with a view of the city I adore but don’t make the effort to see anymore. Continue reading
I like drinking. You only have to glance at my social media feeds to know that. Red wine features everywhere in my pictures and my words.
Drinking is in my DNA. Sometimes I think it’s actually red wine that flows through my veins and keeps my heart pumping (truthfully, my heart is probably pumping in spite of how much I drink). Continue reading
It was 8am on a crisp and clear Melbourne morning. I was standing next to a “security” escort (quotation marks intentional) in the car park of the Docklands Studios; a vast plot of land in the shadow of the Bolte bridge that’s home to five soundstages, movie making and broken dreams.
I was holding two changes of clothes, wearing a warm “please-like-me” smile and snapping Insta-worthy photos of the sky as I waited for others to join the escort to take us over to Stage 5 where Channel 9 film Millionaire Hotseat.
This was the day I was going to correctly answer 30 trivia questions in a row and become a millionaire. How hard could it be? I’m quite the armchair expert at wine-o’clock when I’m not only yelling the correct answers at the television but am also cheerleading my 4-year-old to eat her dinner while simultaneously making an adult version of the same meal, emptying the dishwasher, folding laundry, cleaning up the latest cat mess, adding ‘parmesan cheese’ to the shopping list and constantly refreshing the email on my phone waiting for a client to approve a job we need to start tomorrow. I had nothing else to focus on today except those 30 questions. Walk in the park. Walk. In. The. Park. Continue reading