Field Notes: July 2026

Mother moments, a changing circular economy, my first henna and photo-evidence of how much my body has changed in the last 10-15 years

Welcome to Shelf/Space, where I journal through my attempts at curating an inner life that nourishes my creative practice. I am curious about how our physical, mental and emotional space shapes our ability to think, create and live well, so expect missives that reflect my adventures in motherhood, work, good books and nice things, and that (hopefully!) invite you to live a softer, more considered life. If you like what you read, please consider subscribing. It’s currently free!

It’s 100 Days of School and the kids have to dress up. My son, aged 8, refuses to wear an old man wig and goes to school in a tracksuit, but my daughter, 5 and in Kindy, is thrilled. She wears an old lady wig, some glasses and a poncho from the country road kids department.
“Can I wear my slippers, Mama?” she asks. I’m panicked; they are her only inside shoes, but I can’t say no to her because her voice is too cute.
Later, during the parade the Kindergarteners do, she does an old lady wobble with her hand on her back. I am frustrated because the number of events at schools seem excessive (I can’t keep up with them), but once in a blue moon one of those events is worth it. Today, because of that old lady wobble, this is one of them.

*

My friend is going overseas and wants to sell some clothes at Glebe Markets beforehand. We get up early and pack my car with her clothing racks and hangers. I have my husband’s camping chairs, a bag of clothes I pulled together haphazardly the night before, and Miu Miu stilettos and Jimmy Choos, both of which I forget to display. We are two hours in and still can’t assemble the picnic chairs, and have no luck with the handful of men who pass by. Finally, a gruff fella does it for us, and as he walks off looking chuffed he’s been of service, I make a mental note to pay closer attention to my husband’s instructions.

The markets have changed a lot since I’d been there last. The ladies at the stall next to us are similarly perplexed by the fact that people don’t want to pay more than $5 for anything, even Zimmermann dresses and Isabel Marant tops. I sell a Chloe bag which feels like an achievement in a sea of odd (to this millennial), very Gen-Alpha outfits that don’t seem to coordinate.

I realise later that the girls shopping the markets are probably wearing shein and expecting a similar sort of pricing. My friend takes a photo of me, sitting in a camping chair and observing the young thundercats — like I am a washed-up starlet in a Clint Eastwood film — and sends it to me that night. I tell her my absolute highlight is knowing I’ll never have to say “You just had to be there” to her for the rest of my life.

*

The school holidays arrive. I have made no plans with other parents and have not registered my offspring for any activites for the first time. It helps that they, like me, rarely want to leave the house. Instead, they want to learn how to cook, watch Toy Story 5, and play on the Nintendo. This suits me fine in this weather. We bake two chocolate cakes (one to eat and one to freeze), make a bunch of tragic-looking handpies with some apples on their last legs, and make lemonade scones. Eggs are scrambled every morning, and while on some days they’re more rubbery than others, they’re building a (somewhat-inflated) confidence in the kitchen and maybe two years from now will bring me breakfast in bed on more than one weekend per year.

*

Two years ago I fell in love with the re-issued purple-sequin Fendi baguette. The purse first made an appearance in a Sex and the City episode where Carrie gets robbed, but I didn’t appreciate the look of it until I was well into my thirties. But it was pricey! I did a whole powerpoint presentation of pros and cons about it before I committed, which my husband paid about as much attention to as I did his picnic chair demo. I crunched numbers and included shots of it from ad campaigns and from people’s modshots. I watched the ad for it over and over again, and then I bit the bullet and bought it, which I still don’t regret. Now, The New York Times has run a story titled “Is the handbag over?” in its pages, and the accompanying image is of my purse’s pink sister in a still from And just like that. I feel offended for my own purse, which still sparks so much joy. I pull it out of its box and dustbag and set it on the settee I got from the side of the road some months ago, so I can stare at it every morning when I wake up. I tried to resist this part of myself for so long because I didn’t want to seem shallow. But now I have decided to embrace, because I know who I am. And I don’t care if they are $12 or $7000, some purses are like art to me.

*

I finally start Caroline Palmer’s Workhorse. It’s a debut fiction title published earlier this year, set at a prestigious New York fashion magazine in the early noughties. But while this would normally draw comparisons to The Devil Wears Prada, Workhorse is so much darker, like the former meets The Talented Mr Ripley. It might give some mag girls a little PTSD and it’s way too long (I’m surprised it was published at its length in this publishing climate), but I liked it.

*

Speaking of, more and more I am seeing agents explicitly state that they won’t look at submissions/queries for manuscripts over 100,000 words. It’s such a sign of the times.

*

On the Thursday night of the first week of the school holidays, I drive to Ashfield to buy a bottle of a ‘non-alcoholic’ spirit, visit the new Rose Read Bookshop in Summer Hill (gorgeous; can’t wait to visit again), and drive further along to my friend Karima’s for dinner. She is raiding her fridge before she too goes overseas and I give her girls the first copies of my brand-new book series for early readers to read on the plane.

Amira Swift, the titular character of the series, is a precocious seven-year-old with a Lebanese mother and Anglo-Australian father and a little brother named Zayn. I am petrified people will think I have named her for a certain billionaire musician, when her surname is actually the maiden name of my husband’s 96-year-old grandmother Marjorie, whom I adore.

*

The second week of the school holidays arrives and we’re all off the wet and dreary weather. My husband reminds me it was my decision not to go away this winter. I bemoan his commentary and cheer myself up with the Christmas episode from Netflix’s new Little House on the Prairie adaptation. I would wear half the dresses the Ingalls girls wear in that series, if everyone I was related to wouldn’t make fun of me.

*

My friend Sara has the dreamiest birthday party for her little girl. There is a braid station, manis and pedis, a jumping castle and lots of pink. Plus a henna station for the mums, which means I get to do henna for the first time ever. I stick tortoiseshell-tip nails on to celebrate.

*

The contracts lady at my publishing house emails me to ask if I signed the contract for the new book they’ve acquired. I have had it in my inbox for one month and not even opened the email. It’s like I don’t want to get paid.

*

That of course reminds me that I haven’t signed the contract with the new agent I’ve decided to represent me for any new works moving forward. He is a former student who had always supported my work and done agent-adjacent things without being asked. I need to get on top of my paperwork.

*

The school holidays are finally over and my friend Amani and I schedule an artist date. This is often an excuse for us to eat something delicious, though we do talk about our work too. On this particular one, we head to a Lebanese sweet shop which plays the best songs from our motherland and has every dessert you can think of, and split a pot of dark Lebanese coffee. I get panicky when faced with so much choice on a menu and usually pick something I have had before. But today I take a risk and try the chocolate knafeh, which is just regular ashta knafeh layered with chocolate. Normally I wouldn’t mess with such a dessert but this is magnificent. When I get into bed at 10:13pm that night, it’s all I can think about.

*

I write out my shopping list, which includes snap lock bags in a couple of sizes. Now that I have written them down, I forgot what I need them for. I’ve tried the reusable ones, but the plastic ones are actually easier to wash and dry than they are, so I reuse them too (following a method for washing-and-drying them that Sarah Wilson wrote about, which involved sticking up to windows while they’re wet until they dry and fall off).

*

I’ve gone to the supermarket three times since and have not bought the bags. I think I wanted them because I planned on making more things for the freezer in the school holidays. But we ended up eating nearly everything I made. I really do have a growing family, thanks be to God. The big one, almost 12, will try anything at least once, but her brother, almost nine, will chuck a tantrum over it, before gobbling it up cheerfully and acting like he’s loved it all along.

*

My daughter’s birthday is coming up soon. On Friday night I panic that I have not sorted anything and hop online to order the gift we’ve discussed getting. I decide to use a rewards app I have but the app keeps glitching with that particular store and I have to keep opening and closing it. When the sale finally goes through, I realise the postage address is my friend’s old PO Box that’s no longer in her name, in a suburb neither of us are close to. I send panicked emails to the retailer. Later, when I divulge this catastrophic mistake of mine to my husband, he asks me how much I saved going through the rewards app.
“Six dollars and ten cents,” I admit, sheepishly. He says nothing in return.

*

Saturday night. I’m thrilled to have no plans. I go to Mass at 5pm and see my baby niece there, wearing the cutest pink jacket. I hold her from the gospel until the consecration, and then hand her back to her mother. I am at good at being an aunty to babies, but once they start talking and asking too many questions, I feel like they sense my weariness and the affection between us wanes.

My best friend, who is off on a seven week vacation in Lebanon, texts me from the airport to say she was over her luggage limit by four kilograms.
“You had overweight luggage and I am wearing a puffer jacket over my pyjamas at home while reading an article about “grandma hobbies” in The New York Times,” I text back. “Everything is exactly as it has always been.” I send a photo for good measure.

*

It’s Sunday morning and I decided to have a go at a recipe for cottage cheese bagels. They turn out pretty good but I tell my husband they are kind of small.
”They’re not that small,” he says, and if he says it, it must be true (truly).

This makes me realise my perception of appropriate portions is still coloured by my Lebanese upbringing. That in turn makes me think of my late grandmother salting a humungous salad (an image that lives rent-free in my brain), and I miss her.

*

I’m still thinking about the effect that portion sizes can have on a person when, while clearing and organising my Google Drive (a process that has been ongoing for days) I find photos of myself from like 15 years ago, when I had a blog. I look so much thinner than I am now, but I look at myself in the mirror and don’t feel like I am all that different. Are there any mirrors out there that tell the truth?

Some of these outfits are peak millennial. I sold that Speedy, bought another one in a bigger size with the strap, and sold that too. I regret getting rid of that maxi dress.

*

The retailer that I ordered my daughter’s gift from emails to say they have updated the address and the parcel will come to our house. I breathe a sigh of relief. All feels right with the world, and I have an extra six dollars.