Saturdays are

The cars that fly down Brunswick Street

A slender crack of open window

A certain kind of light

Moving voices on the sidewalk.


Saturdays are

My room, my magical Queendom

Where stories hang like webs

And colourful messes of dreams

Collide happily, spill into real life.


Saturdays are

Coffee, in a thick enamel mug

The white against bright egg-yellow

A waiter who balances it daintily

The surface swirled with brown.


Saturdays are

Dogs, and converse sneakers

And Mercedes, and market stalls

And aviator glasses, and newspapers

And breakfasts that no one needs.


Saturdays are

The words, the typing, the watching

The animals, and the sky

The thinking, the dreaming, the hoping

The loving, all things fresh and new.


Saturdays are

The church bells ringing nearby

The arched ceiling above grey heads

A rose bush, bare and crackling

Rising from manicured, short green grass.


Saturdays are

The books, the ideas and the ways

The images play around

The tree near my stairs says hello

And invisible friends gather around.


Saturdays are

The moon rising over rooftops

And the first stars, blinking confusedly

And watching the leaves whisper and shake

The essays read by torchlight.


Saturdays are

The ragged blue bunny

The dented off-white pillow

The eyes which shutter on pages

The goodbye I feel, in sleep

To my friends: so long, until next Saturday.



Poor Girl’s Fry

Everyone has had the experience of throwing a bunch of random ingredients together in the kitchen and coming up with something unexpectedly tasty.

My surprising creation (I would stop short at calling it a signature dish, as it is based on cabbage) was the result of desperation and poverty. Hence, its name – Poor Girl’s Fry.

It happened in January 2015. I had arrived home after several months of backpacking and was couch surfing with a friend. Jobless, penniless and foodless, I found myself guiltily raiding my friend’s fridge for provisions. Being a rather cliche bachelor type at that point, he had nothing.

Well, almost nothing. There was half an old cabbage and a couple of eggs.

Something inside of me snapped to razor-sharp attention when I realised there was potential here. I was hungry. I was creative. I could do something with this.

I peeled the top mouldy layers off the cabbage. The rest of it was good. I also found half an onion and a couple cloves of garlic. There were spices and oil.

I was desperate.

I wasn’t afraid of mouldy old vegetables and what they could do to me.

A recipe was born.

Poor Girl’s Fry

Half a cabbage, finely sliced

Half an onion, finely diced

Two cloves of garlic, minced

Two-three eggs, whisked

Cumin seeds, whole

Turmeric, powdered

Olive oil

Sea salt

Cracked pepper

Butter (optional)


Heat your fry pan and add a generous amount of olive oil.

Throw on a big splash of cumin seeds, and stir until browned/give off cumin-ish aroma.

Add minced garlic and diced onion.

Stir, adding liberal amount of sea salt and additional oil as required.

Once translucent, add cabbage.

Stir until cabbage is significantly reduced.

Add several showers of turmeric and stir through thoroughly.

Add further salt to taste and a dash of cracked pepper as required.

Once your fry is looking well-cooked, toss through the beaten eggs.

Stir regularly, so the eggs do not stick to the pan or burn.

At this point, you can add a sliver of butter for richness and mix well.

Once the egg has cooked through, scoop straight out of the pan and into your bowl.

Then, in the words of the proverbial Greek mother:

“Eat, eat! You’re skin and bone!”

I have made some small variations to this poor person’s recipe by also adding fresh snow peas and small branches of broccolini. However, it’s a recipe best kept simple, as it is not Rich Girl’s Fry.

I wish you luck in cooking your own version of this, or whatever other freakish thing you come up with in the kitchen. Remember, it’s all good!



On Finding a Light

It’s been a big few weeks. A hard few weeks.

I have felt tremendous amounts of anger and rage this year. There have been so many pointless and disturbing acts of violence occurring in the world as to make me question what is happening to humanity.

I wonder when it will it all stop, but there doesn’t seem to be an immediate end in sight.

Like most people, I have looked for answers. I’ve Googled, researched, speculated. I’ve sworn, cried, blamed, ranted and raged. I’ve made hateful remarks that felt good at the time but later left me feeling ashamed of my own smallness.

It hurts to see people suffering and being hurt. It hurts to see such violence and ignorance playing out in the world.

It hurts to feel so powerless and unable to affect meaningful change.

In all of this, I’ve searched for a light. Something, or someone, who I can look to for hope; for guidance and leadership on what to do. On how to be, and how to act.

Surely, someone must know what is best. Someone will step forward, and guide humanity through this mess.

A leader. Someone strong, and brave and wise will appear. Someone will step forward, and help save us from ourselves.

Someone will come, and explain to me what to do, and how I can help. Someone will stop me from feeling such pain and helplessness.

No one has come.

It feels lonely, and hopeless, and dark.

I want to help, but don’t know how. What could I possibly do?

Where is the light?

In a moment of acute loneliness, I pulled out a notepad and paper and drew a silly comic. I sent it to some friends.

It made them laugh. They asked for more. I start to feel better.

With each ridiculous comic, I feel lighter. The plight of the world doesn’t seem so hopeless. A spark flies into the night, followed by another, and then another.

In the seemingly silly, insignificant act of drawing a comic, I remembered something which I have always known, but have lately forgotten:

A person must be their own light. They must manufacture light and wisdom and love with everything they have, even if it’s a dubious ability to draw comics, or a penchant for the ridiculous.

This is what people can do for the world. This is how they can help it.

There are people who bring me joy ever day with their simple way of being. In how they move, their looks, and their mannerism. In their small acts of kindness, and the way they inhabit the world.

In the way they inhabit my world. In the unique and meaningful way they move through it. I could not do without them.

There are other people who inhabit my world who I could do without. However, instead of allowing my light to be consumed in the darkness of rage and anger, I can choose to send sparks into the night. I can choose to draw comics and blog about things that matters to me, and upload photos of cute animals, because they bring me joy and delight me to my core.

I can choose to be my own light.

Maybe, if enough people send their sparks into the night instead of angrily fading silently into the darkness, we can light it up the sky together.

Whatever you love doing, whatever brings you joy, and however you find your inspiration – please do it. And please share it with others.

I love watching people shine and sharing their own unique, special kind of light. The gifted, the unsung, the seemingly ordinary, the unusual, the imperfect, the vulnerable, the silly, the hilarious, the admirable, the brave, the disciplined, the passionate, the serious, the insightful, the pointless. All of it.

When things get rough, look for the light. And if you can’t see it or find it in others, find it in yourself and shine it as brightly as possible.

The world can use as much light as it can get at the moment.

And yours matters.

If you too have a penchant for the ridiculous, you can find the aforementioned comics on this blog under: Caffery Comics.