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View this week's offering from Eureka Street's award winning political cartoonist.
I am a wicked creature of the night. The more I munch in sinful silence the more I feel I am trespassing with the dead. Food did my head in even before I took tablets for my head. I turn into a beast with a huge midnight feast as I go wild with chocolate, cake and ice-cream. The pounds come on like thunder with all my eating blunders. I have come a long way from my bulimic teens, but I still am obsessed, and think I will always be.
Whenever public funds are made available for frowned upon projects they are described as taxpayers' money. When I hear the phrase roll from critics' lips, I imagine taxpayers as prune faced and laser lipped, or like children watching with beady eyes as their mother cuts the cake, ready to howl if their slice of the cake is the smaller half by a crumb or two. Underneath the phrase usually lies a view of life in which the market is a sacred site.
Looking at Australia from Asia, you quickly conclude that Australian approaches to the region are fickle and opportunistic. It's hardly news that the fastest growing economies and greatest opportunities for Australia are at our doorstep. But like kids at parties, we seem to focus more on the cup cakes than the host and guest of honour.
You can't have your cake if it's eaten. Or your cooked goose if it's no good for a gander. Golden eggs are useless in a fragile economy. And what goes up must keep going.
Many same sex couples tell us their relationship is identical with marriage. We can ensure non-discrimination against same sex couples while at the same time maintaining a commitment to children's right to be born of and reared by a father and a mother.
The back label of my taboo-smashing pre-10am cake was covered in an unintelligible language, which I could only presume was Dutch. What I had thought a tasty sounding Breakfast Cake was apparently also known less appetisingly as an 'Ontbijtkoek'. I can neither read nor speak Dutch despite my Dutch migrant heritage.
If you ever hear a House Manager admit that her neighbour has made a better Christmas cake, write down the time, place and the names of witnesses, and get it signed by your parish priest. It is the kind of thing that might be useful in the early stages of a canonisation process.
For those who value serious content over sensationalism and glitz, who want media meat rather than fairy floss and cake, the 'slow TV' movement is a welcome part of the new media explosion on the internet.
When Julie learned she was pregnant, Dave advocated termination. Julie could see his logic, but was also overcome by powerful mothering urges. The writers of Packed to the Rafters are adept at unpacking every skerrick of emotional baggage.
The leaders' election promises of more child care and tax breaks for private school fees were simply icing on a non-existent cake. And while the baby bonus is undoubtedly a welcome addition to the family purse, it's just that — a bonus. A 'generous' package filled not only with promise but problems.
Those of us who played school or local footy in our youth remember bitterly cold days, ankle-deep mud and finding it difficult to tell team mates from opposition through the layers of mud caked on jumpers. My twelve year old has already played for more than five years, but has not experienced one of those afternoons.
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