The Weekly Review

I am in love with our new cleaner. Even though I come home on cleaning days to find the house slightly redecorated, I think I’ve found a keeper.

How is it possible that I am in Italy and not allowed to eat bread or pasta? If you have gluten intolerance here, the government gives you some kind of subsidy, and now I understand why.

In Italy, even the sound of a kid abusing his mum sounds romantic, which is why I had to gulp when some lad in a baseball cap stands on top of the Ponte dell’Accademia in Venice and says, “F---, that’s awesome.”

You wouldn't believe this. For the first time in what feels like a hundred-million years, I am about to go overseas, on my own. And then someone at home falls out of a very full wheelie bin trying to squish autumn leaves. And breaks his arm.

I've been trying to convince publishers we need a bogan cookbook. Everyone is just so into rocket and fresh herbs these days, I thought a cookbook that illustrates the many ways you can make a meal without actually cooking anything would be a great antidote to our nation’s Stephanie Alexander/MasterChef obsession.