One from my extensive list of life mantras is to never eat seafood if I am more than two hours inland from the coast.

Seafood that has had to travel hours to get to me rouses gut-wrenching connotations of Swedish fermented herring.

If this is your thing, you are kind of gross. Rotting flesh that smells like roadkill is not my idea of a delicacy.

Growing up on a cattle property that was just over two hours from the closest beach meant that fresh seafood was tantalisingly close, but tragically just too far away.

Whenever I used to eat cake, a bleak cloud of almost instantaneous remorse overshadowed any associated culinary bliss.

But this particular recurring case of ‘the guilts’ was never what it seemed.

My mum always used to make these insanely cool children’s birthday cakes that were as much novelty as they were taste nirvana. 

If I could have just one wish, it would be the introduction of a four-day working week.

Being granted one extra day of weekend is one of life’s most gratifying little pleasures.

It means that Saturday languidly melts into Sunday, and Sunday into Monday.

It means that the pinot and pizza binge you had on Friday night is such a distant memory that in actual fact, it probably didn’t even happen.