BOOK TITLE: The Australia Times - Life & Love magazine. Volume 2, issue 7

November 2014Vol. 2 No: 7
Hello Darling
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
Hey lovers,
We are so excited to bring you the brand
spanking new edition of TAT Life & Love
mag! With the colder months now behind
us, it is time for us to strip bare and disclose
some truths.
In this issue, we discover what it’s really
like to turn the big 3-0 and we bid a nal
farewell to our travelling poet, K. Felice’s
fabulous column, My Heart is a Globe,
where, in this nal parting moment, she
reveals one of her innermost life struggles.
There’s heaps more inside that we can’t
wait for you to discover, so dig in!
We are always on the lookout for
new contributors so whether you’re a
passionate writer or a newbie with a story
to tell, don’t be a stranger!
Ames xx
Deputy Editor:
Cover photo by Marta Nørgaard
Image by Amy Dorrington
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Mourning The Morning
Deafening sound
Invading my dreams
Stirring me from my slumber
Dragging me into daybreak
Seconds become minutes
Of semi-conscious grogginess
Neither awake
Nor asleep
My alarm
It beeps
While I stubbornly deny
The harsh reality of morning
By Amy Dorrington
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Photo by: Jeffrey W https://www.ickr.com/photos/7927684@N03/5720132048
Confessions of
an Hors d’oeuvres Addict
By Daniel Walmsley
My name is Daniel and I’m a junk food
addict. And, like so many cases of sub-
stance abuse, in a short time my addiction
progressed exceedingly rapidly.
This is my story.
At the end of last year I seemed to have
found a diet and tness regime that worked
for me. I was exercising almost daily and my
dinners generally consisted of a source of
protein sided by steamed vegetables, with
alcohol consumption at a bare minimum.
I certainly wasn’t obsessive about my diet
and still knew how to wholeheartedly treat
myself occasionally. Health and tness wise,
I was doing alright. My newfound
‘clean-eating’ was about to experience the
mother of all setbacks though: Christmas. ‘Tis
the season where no one gives you a
second glance when you order that third
glass of red on a Tuesday night, or stuff
yourself with so much seasonal joy you might
I can remember back to the very day in
December when I was born again. Two
weeks before Christmas I hosted an intimate
dinner for a few friends at my apartment.
2013 had been a particularly exhausting
year and at times I’d needed all the support
I could get. Therefore I wanted to reward the
people I considered soul mates, with an
indulgent supper where calories simply did
not count. It was to be a smorgasbord to
end all smorgasbords’, a spread t for a
shah, a blue-vein banquet in the style of
François Mitterrand’s last meal. Finche’s
aside, highlights of the spread included
ve different types of cheese, a chocolate
andraspberry torte, and a delightfully rich
pheasant pate. Needless to say, it was truly
an enchanted evening. The following night
I was home alone and decided to treat
myself to the leftovers from the feast. Sure,
the contents lacked the nutritional value of
meat and three veg, but ‘twas the season,
right? This simple supper of leftover breads,
cheeses and wines set about a new eating
pattern so detrimental to my diet that I may
never t my size 30 Mavi jeans ever again.
The world was literally my oysters Kilpatrick;
I could eat whatever I wanted and drink as
much as my heart desired. If it was
decadent, I simply had to have it. Soon after
my epiphany, I joined friends at a popular
eatery, where the chefs were celebrities and
the menu was meta-ctional. While I’m
generally not a fan of deconstructing
traditional recipes to the point where a
patron has to reconstruct their own dinner,
the contents of said restaurant menu read
like a beautiful piece of poetry. Not to
mention the dazzling array of oysters and
caviar. After seven decadent courses, each
more tantalising than its predecessor, I
realised that my budget didn’t extend to the
$600 dish of beluga served with wafers and
crème fraiche that I wanted so badly, nor
the Veuve Clicquot. But that didn’t mean I
had to go without. After all, who were they
to deny me cannoli and whatever my
glutinous heart desired? So, later that
weekend, I improvised with a ve dollar jar of
caviar from Coles and a nice sparkling wine.
After that, the addiction escalated,
discovering that I no longer merely coveted
the nest fodder that a gourmet
delicatessen had to offer. My cravings could
be satised with much simpler calorie-rich
foods. It was a culinary journey to end all
culinary journeys: sage butter ravioli from
Rockpool, mascarpone lled cannoli from
markets, as well as the pièce de résistance:
trufe burger from Luxe Bar. As time went on,
my tastes, like my addiction, soon became
far less salubrious. I had gone from
indulging on the occasional delicacy, to
fantasising about a $3 take-away breakfast
of bacon and egg mufn with hash browns
on the side. I’m salivating right now just
writing this… (for the love of god, somebody
grant me the serenity to accept the things
that I cannot change). Burger, fries, beer,
wine, pizza were words that peppered my
daily lexicon. I had entered a world that
knew no dietary boundaries and I’d never
felt more alive, although I was soon to learn
that the age old adage was true: the bigger
you get, the harder you fall. My rock-bottom
moment came the night I drove through, not
one, but two different KFC drive-throughs.
At risk of encountering a don’t-you-think-
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you’ve-had-enough moment, I went so far
as to hide the contents from the rst
restaurant in the back seat so the cashier
couldn’t see the evidence of my addiction,
(just give me my chicken, god dammit!). It
was ofcial: I was out of control.
Unfortunately for me, the window of
‘calories not counting at Christmas’
closes shortly after the new year, and
certainly should not extend right through to
meet with ‘calories not counting’ Easter. I
found work clothes that previously seemed
to t had become uncomfortable and tight,
and the saying ‘just because it zips, doesn’t
mean it ts’ took on a whole new literal
meaning. Clearly, something had to be
Now I’m not going to lie to you - it was the
absolute, mother-f*cking best of times, but,
as far as my quickly ballooning body was
concerned, it was also the worst of times.
The rst step was admitting I had a problem,
which I did. Life is stressful and I had well and
truly found solace in food, so giving that up
wasn’t easy. I found that everywhere you go
someone inevitably offers you a glass of wine
or places a cheese plate directly in front of
you - at least in my world. So I established
that there’s always going to be temptation,
the trick is not leading yourself into it. Nowon
the nights that I’m home alone, I keep things
pretty simple. And as for alcohol, the
dreaded ‘alcohol free day’ has re-entered
my calendar with surprising ease. While a
Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc is my
preferred poison (which possibly means I
have an actual drinking problem), I found
that after the nights that I don’t have it, I’m
far more inclined to get up earlier and go for
a run before work, (although my
in-case-of-emergency plan does involve a
drive-through bottle-o in ‘Stones Corner’).
Coffee break is still an essential but I’ve been
picking up a banana rather than ordering
a scone with jam and cream. And while my
dinners no longer result in a food coma, I’ve
learned that grilled salmon over a bed of
steamed spinach, sided with a sparkling
mineral water with mango and
Madagascan vanilla yoghurt for dessert is
pretty damn delicious. At least, that’s what I
had tonight and I’m doing alright, no
symptoms of withdrawal yet.
Let’s get one thing straight: this was never a
Morgan Spurlock-style stunt. I’ve always
generally eaten very well. In fact, I would
go as far as to say there isn’t anything within
reason I wouldn’t eat, (well maybe squash,
but I think that’s based more on
deep-seated psychological childhood
trauma as a result of being force fed in the
interest of getting dessert). I so much enjoy
unwinding after a long day with wine and
canapés, and in fact my heart actually
utters at the thought of a wheel of
camembert, sigh (insert love heart eyes
emoji). While this can be viewed as an
exercise in psychologically lling some sort of
void through food and alcohol, it is also nice
to simply relax my diet and enjoy myself. Like
I said before, my junk food addiction was the
worst of times but it was also the absolute,
mother-f*cking best of times.
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Image by: Viktor Hertz https://www.ickr.com/photos/44302262@N08/5594293909
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Well, the hangovers are worse. I can
categorically conrm that.
I prayed to anyone who’d listen that last
night didn’t happen, but Facebook
provided the evidence I didn’t want.
“Welcome to 30”, one friend said.
“Happy Birthday old timer”, said another.
And the most insulting; a young 23 year-old
who posted, ‘OMG, you’re so old now’ with
a picture of a circa-1950s woman
So there it was, the moment in life we all
dread; the moment we cease to refer to
ourselves as, ‘in our 20s’.
I keep hearing conicting reports about this
age. Some say life is bliss, more money, more
direction and less time for bulls**t. Others
provide a different summary…time to
mature and face responsibility, buy a house,
settle down, more aches and pains. I’m only
a new 30 but I’ve already got the aches and
pains, although I’m willing to concede last
night’s booze contributed there.
Shirking my duties before my birthday, I did
what any mature, self-respecting, fast
approaching 30 year old person would do.
I quit my decent career, packed up my few
possessions and moved overseas, minus a
job and a place to live...
In generations past I would have been a
rebel: 30, jobless, unmarried and childless.
A James Bond on a shoestring, or at least a
man who thinks actions speak louder than
words – a ‘doer’ not a ‘gonna’. And I did.
I spent my 30th birthday in Glasgow at a
That moment
we all dread
Photo by: Colin Milligan www.ickr.com/photos/12631703@N00/1080905220
By Luke Buesnel
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nightclub called Kushion. Firstly, and as a
sign of my age, I take great umbrage at the
incorrect spelling of its name. Secondly, this
was the point age hit me. I was out of my
depth, too old and the crowd far too young
- and they showed me with disapproving
stares. They made me feel like Rolf Harris at
a One Direction concert. I got out of there.
Thumping music, overly sweet aftershave
and sweat, and screaming girls taking seles
is not where I was at anymore, thank God.
I’m not old, just older. I went down the street
to an Irish bar in Glasgow (strangely), with an
older crowd and a live band singing Oasis,
Johnny Cash and U2. My 30th began there,
a great pub, great people and a great time.
It’s not an easy thing to pack-up and move
away with no real plan. Friends told me
before I left that they were so jealous and
wished they could do something similar. All
of them are younger than me and not in jobs
they love. If I can do it so can they. The
argument is simple. More can be learnt
travelling than in any four-walled-cubical
called an ofce. More can be gained on a
highway in the middle of nowhere, than a
swank corporate event. Truth is, I couldn’t
be happier about my place in life. With hard
work and a positive attitude, somewhere
to live and a job will fall into place. Almost
always things work out. In the meantime, I’ll
have adventures and something to write
about in the pages of TAT magazines.
My biggest fear in life is not getting older, but
getting older without stories to tell.
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By Joanne Efendi
Photo by: Neil. Moralee https://www.ickr.com/photos/62586117@N05/6239259262
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By Joanne Efendi
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By Joanne Efendi
What is it about a bad boy that makes girls
go weak at the knees? Is it the challenge
to ‘tame the wild beast’? Is it their ‘treat ‘em
mean, keep ‘em keen’ mentality? Maybe
it’s both of those. Maybe it’s none. Perhaps
it’s something deeper and ingrained in the
female DNA that makes us want a bad boy,
because let’s face it, bad boys are pure sex
on a stick.
There can be many physical descriptions on
what denes a bad boy. Bad boys come in
all shapes and sizes and even vary on the
scale of badness, but in the end, it really
just comes down to individual taste. I myself
have always been attracted to the bad boy
rocker type: dark and mysterious, long hair,
piercings, tight black jeans, cut out black
t-shirts, tattoos, muscles and as a bonus, the
ability to be able to play a guitar and sing.
Although for a while, when I was 21, I
irted with the idea of a bad boy motor cy-
cle type. That attraction was short lived when
I found out the guy I had just started dating
had numerous outstanding warrants and
turned up to my house one morning after
spending the night in jail. That one was a bit
too hot for me to handle! I wasn’t willing to
become Bonnie to his Clyde, so I went back
to chasing my hot rocker bad boy types.
Better to be burnt in the chase, than
charged as an accessory!
While it may be stereotypical, the bad boy
doesn’t have to be all tattoos, muscles and
facial hair, and ride a Harley Davidson to t
the image. In some cases, a bad boy can
be clean cut and clean skin but will have an
air of condence and self-assurance. This is
what denes a bad boy - his aura and very
essence. It’s his assertiveness and ‘don’t give
a damn’ attitude that a nice guy doesn’t
have. If you are lucky enough to snare
yourself a bad boy, he can be caring and
will protect you to the end of time, or at the
very least, until the end of your relationship.
One thing is certain, if you fall in love with a
bad boy, he will take you along for one heck
of a ride. It is hard and fast and undoubtedly
there is going to be a lot of heartache. Bad
boys do what they want when they want
and answer to no one and tend to move on
pretty quick.
Let us also keep in mind there is a ne line
between a bad boy and a jerk. While a bad
boy doesn’t care what people think about
him he can still be sweet and loving, but a
jerk will totally disregard everyone’s opinions
and feelings, and cut people down, even
you, in the process of achieving an ends to
their means. And that’s not cool or hot. Be
careful not to fall for the ruse of the jerk
posing as the bad boy. I did, but I’m
probably what you would call a
Bad-Boyaholic, or a serial bad boy offender.
My jerk broke my heart, not once but twice,
after I foolishly went back for round two
thinking he was a bad boy, only to nd out
he had another girlfriend the whole time we
were dating. Told you he was a jerk.
Attracting a bad boy can be hard work.
You want them, but because of their
hotness and general bad boy persona, so
do numerous other women. The key is not to
come on too strong. Play hard to get, make
him do the chasing (of course to do this, you
rst have to ensure you have his attention).
There is nothing more damaging to a bad
boy’s ego than rejection. After all, they are
usually the only ones that call the shots. Find
out what makes him tick. A bad boy is very
guarded and doesn’t let people in easily. It’s
what makes them mysterious and to many
females, there is nothing more challenging
than solving a mystery. Be careful though,
once you’ve got that bad boy, don’t try and
tame him, because like a wild stallion being
broken in, that bad boy will run as fast the
wind. A bad boy shouldn’t be tamed, but
rather be made to fall for you.
Bad boys are addictive. Good luck
nding yours and when you do, hang on
tight, ‘cause I promise you it’s one hell of a
ride. I should know - I married mine.
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Photo by: Suyash Sonawane https://www.ickr.com/photos/49703381@N00/3579944713
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Images and words By K. Felice
It’s now or never he says, tightening the strap around your waist.
You exhale abruptly.
The race in your heartbeat recognizes the terror in falling.
Your mind is trying to absorb the loneliness- but now you’re 1700 feet above sea level and
your only choice left is to take the plunge.
You look down over the cliff, your feet mindfully resting upon its grassy edges.
Beneath you an endless swallow of water, that beautifully gorge in the Swiss Alps.
Mountains that reect the falling of snow particles mirroring the winter front.
The pine trees below bring a clear realization of the height in which you stand.
He smiles at you, excitement in his eyes.
You close yours hoping the scare knocks you with amnesia, and you take off running.
Faster than the legs beneath you ever thought possible. You jump.
Holding on for dear life, the wind catches your parachute and you awake to ying.
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The fog layering Jungfraujoch has never been seen so clearly.
You catch your reection in the clear aqua water, soaring with freedom, shadowed pain
no longer lingers.
You realize its time. Time to face the truth.
You inhale. The thunderous roar of the unknown strengthens the will to let go and you
You fall to the ground, a small town surrounding the outskirts of this incredible country.
And with each of these incredible experiences, you begin to breathe a little easier.
You wanted to forget, but he’s in your veins- its only words that bleed from these pages.
He taps your shoulder- ‘are you okay?’
You realise…you nally are…
…an unspoken battle, no one knew anything about.
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This year we mourn the loss of Robin Williams, a comedian that brought us love
and laughter with the gift of acting. A struggle with depression, a mental
disadvantage most fail to understand. We are the ght in our greatest
I never feared what I could not control, until what I could not control were the
inner workings of my mind. I was 22 when it was rst recognized in me by
someone of superior stance. I’d known a lot longer. The veil I wore, wore thin,
exposing scars of the past, until control became an issue.
At 19, I made one of the hardest decisions I’m yet to confront.
Like many, I chose to bury the ood of emotion that still remained deep down in
the bottom of the bottle I drank from so often.
My fear of drinking myself into oblivion pushed me to a secluded life of
It’s a funny thing, travel.
It’s an escape, whether it is stresses or a need for change- the excitement in
relaxation before we come back to reality. Admittedly I was running. Full speed
ahead away from the consequences of my choices, away from the one other
person that could see straight through me. The pain and heartache I wore on
the inside, away from the persona I hid behind for the rest of the world to see.
How can you look at someone the same way when all you now see is the life
you gave up?
“It’s a bad day, not a bad life” Eventually the storm has to clear and you are
left standing in the clarity of light. It’s your choice what shines through , and I
didn’t want the battle with my mentality to be the ray of light that shone the
path I walked.
It wasn’t until I was standing at the top of Schilthorn Mountain at -7 degrees,
that I was able to see clearly through the fog. To see past the storm to greater
Terminated memories had sheltered a life I was scared to walk through, but
travel enabled the steps to be walked, the path to be taken. Then nally it was
time I faced the truth.
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I punished myself for running, when in fact I was living. I was no longer standing
still; I was no longer immune to life. I wasn’t lost, I was on my way.
I sat out on the frozen snow, feeling the soft particles fall from the sky and slip
between my ngers.
I was on top of the world, with Interlaken at my feet.
It was a picturesque moment, heights so high, there were no sounds of wildlife,
no chirping of birds. I was wrapped up in nature’s arms.
-You sit motionless, staring out at the view. Time takes its toll and you exhale
the toxins that kept you ostracised. You blankly wonder about the saying ‘time
heals all wounds’, and you become consumed in the time it’s taken. Healing
has been a long and grief stricken process. You quickly shake the thought and
begin to focus on the life you’ve built from your biggest challenge. The person
you escaped becoming because of fear to move. The cold wet snow sends a
shiver down your spine and you get up and smile.
Looking past the view into your perception of the world.
‘Danke schön’
You take a deep breath and nod towards the sunset. Conversing with gratitude
for the souls that saved you, and acknowledge it’s time to face your battles.
Time to face him. To close the door on a relationship that would otherwise
always stay jarred. To say goodbye to life that never sees birth, a beat only
heard in tune to personal ache.
“What changed for me was that I don’t want to go through life being scared of
it. Being scared of love, being scared of rejection, being scared of failure”
- Chris Marin
I found myself heading for the airport, there in big white ashing lights-
“Blurred wet vision and a heavy heart, wiping away every drop of wet
imperfection- drowning and somehow breathing ne. ‘I hope you nd what you
are looking for.’”
I only ever looked back to see how far I’d come; my heart is and will always
remain- a globe.
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- K. Felice