I always know when the US season starts because fired-up fans jump on my website, ignore the fact that there's a profile picture of a bald writer rather than a hirsute, white-toothed, TV host, and then pour their hearts out.
At my desk at HuffPost, when the daily grind grinds or my boss yells at me to get a haircut, I often imagine a life of leisure in my wife’s fishing village, of buying a vineyard by the sea and making my very own Sauvignon Plonk. I call it the grape escape.
Australia’s 2016 general election will be decided by postal votes. In an era when innovation is the buzzword, the leader of that era will be decided by those who sharpened a pencil, licked an envelope and possibly spilt tea on the ballot paper.
It had been ages since I'd read a fairytale, but my daughter is now old enough to get among them so I bought a big colourful collection (which, shamefully, attracted GST) and set about frightening the bejesus out of her.
In the USA, sorry, the U.S.A., they celebrate National Punctuation Day. Its official website bills the pedants' party (assuming there is more than one pedant) as "a chance to remind America that a semicolon is not a surgical procedure". This is both ironic and timely given that these days punctuation is a pain in the arse.
Most of us would like to be fitter, leaner, richer, healthier, happier, sexier, Cloonier... But most of us aren't. So, at the end of another undisciplined year, we convince ourselves we can alter those errant parts of our behaviour that keep us off those magazine covers.
I thought choosing a name would be the fun part of parenting, apart from the construction phase. But some parents get so stressed about finding a name for their newborn they end up calling each other names.
Watching cricket from my couch, sipping something cold and kissing Husband of the Year goodbye for another year, rarely does a match conspire to boil my blood as it used to when batsmen were wrongly dismissed.