“Hey babe,” I texted my friend the other day. “Just wanted to make sure you’re not being vilified.” It was a joke. My friend is a Muslim. Well, no, and yes. She’s not a practising Muslim, I don’t even think she believes in God, she’s an Australian woman born to Egyptian migrants who are Muslims.

It’s the year 2014, umpteen years since the coming of the First Men; King Joffrey is dead; an even smaller boy king sits on the Iron Throne. King’s Landing is busy. Its cobblestone streets are crowded, its beaches have no room for another pair of thongs, the whole place is heaving with ... tourists.

I have fallen into a state of sevdah. It’s a Bosnian word for lovesickness. A word for yearning, pining, and longing, for a person, a place, or a time. It’s a state of being the Bosnians express with a particular style of folk music – sevdalinka – which has been around since the 15th century, when the Ottomans turned Sarajevo into one of the Empire’s bustling cities.

I've been told this is blasphemous, but I don't see how. It isn't like lusting over some superficially gorgeous man with an ego the size of the hole in the ozone layer who gets off on burning you. This is real. This is a deep attraction. If I met him, I'm almost certain we would experience a heady connection brought about by a meeting of the heart and mind, by a shared belief in the principles of social justice, peace, and love. The fact that history has drawn him as a rugged hunk is only a bonu

I'm single, unemployed and slightly chubby – while others may look at this as an example of what not to be at the age of thirty, I can honestly say – I've never been happier. To quote Collette's 1989 hit – all I wanna do is dance. I've always loved dancing. That in no way means I think of myself as a short, white version of Ciara, it just means that despite my inability to pop and lock and appear in any way sexy, if given a beat, I will automatically begin to move my body in a manner that is pr

I intercepted some invaluable information last week when I was trawling through the Customs and Border Protection website – as everyone does, obvs – about Afghanistan. According to the Australian government's 18 page asylum-seeker-deterring graphic novel, Afghanistan is a pretty cruisy little joint. As opposed to say, an Australian government detention centre which, according to the same booklet, is where you're more likely to end up experiencing some form of torture.

A few weeks ago, in our post-work-whinge-pub, which is conveniently located across the road from the office, a smartly dressed relatively important employee of the company I work for asked me which Disney character I would be. I thought about it for a minute, it is a hard one, before picking the one I had identified with most as a child. “Belle” I said, thinking of the girl who was always reading and wanting adventure. And everyone looked at me as if I was mental.

About a week ago I found myself riding the night train from Budapest to Transylvania. It's pretty much the same route that Jonathan Harker took in Bram Stoker's Dracula. A work of fiction so effective the sense of foreboding is really hard to shake at night on a near-empty sleeper carriage with a conductor who has a habit of materialising out of thin air every time you pluck  up the courage to leave the cabin.  “Are you looking for the toilet?” he asks in his oily Transylvanian accent, smiling a

I'm not ashamed to say that one of my favourite films is The Sound of Music. I couldn't tell you how many times throughout my childhood I watched this film. It has cemented itself in my psyche, I can recite Sound of Music quotes that complement day-to-day situations, I know almost all of the lyrics to all of the songs and I would have no trouble listing all of Fraulein Maria's favourite things. You know, the ones she remembers after a dog bite or a bee sting, when she's feeling sad (she simply r