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Let’s check the history out first, before I explain why this unfortunately relates to me.

Sook – traces back to old Scottish and northern English dialects, originally used to summon unweaned calves. Over time, it evolved into an insult for someone overly dependent, overly sensitive or quick to complain.

La La – a rhythmic little embellishment, similar to the French ‘ooh la la,’ added to make the insult sound more theatrical and dramatic.

In Australia, sooky la la is a slang term used to describe a cry baby, a whinger, or someone sulking and acting like an overgrown baby. It’s usually said playfully to tease someone who is complaining or pouting over something trivial.

The problem is, since my recent car accident, I have become the very definition of a sooky la la. Not the cute, playful kind either.

Since the accident, my physical and mental health has gone into complete overdrive. I’ve turned into something that I don’t want to be, and it isn’t pretty. If I had to describe myself at the moment, I would say I’m one emotional support blanket away from becoming a full-time Victorian ghost wandering the hallway in a dressing gown.

By the way, I just bought a new dress for my upcoming work gala and Simon, the husband, has gently told me that the gala dress actually does look like a dressing gown on me. I’m definitely channelling the Victorian ghost.

I’m told I’m stoic and stubborn. Too stoic and too stubborn at times. I don’t think I am, but apparently the masses disagree.

After the accident, I tried to be practical. I told myself, ‘It’s okay. It’s an accident. My neck hurts. I’ll get better.’ In my mind, ‘getting better’ meant maybe a week or two. A bit of rest, a few physio appointments, and I’ll be back to normal.

The reality is very different. It’s not a week. It’s not just a sore neck. It’s months of pain, appointments, disrupted sleep, nightmares, anxiety, fear, frustration and trying to function like a normal human when your body and brain are both yelling ‘absolutely not.’

I’ve become a cry baby. I can’t stop crying. I am whingeing about everything – the other cars on the road, my lack of sleep, the nightmares, my aches and pains. These are not trivial matters to someone involved in a car accident, but to those who have not experienced it, the attitude can sometimes feel like – well, just get on with it.

Get on with what?

Get on with pretending I’m fine? Get on with ignoring the fact that driving now feels like I’m on a racing track? Get on with waking up tired, sore and emotionally drained? Get on with being grateful I survived, while also grieving the version of myself that existed before the crash?

I’ve learnt you can be grateful and struggling at the same time. I know things could have been worse, but I still feel broken by what did happen.

So yes, maybe I am a sooky la la at the moment, but maybe that’s what recovery looks like sometimes. Not neat. Not brave. Not inspirational and certainly not stoic.

Sometimes recovery is crying in the car park, being scared on the road, complaining about your neck for the fifteenth time that day, and still getting up the next morning to try again.

So, for now, I’ll wear the title. Sooky la la and all.

Unhinged is one of those words that doesn’t just sit politely in a sentence. It bursts in wearing one shoe, carrying a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, and demanding to know who moved its emotional support candle.

At its core, unhinged describes someone who seems mentally or emotionally off-balance, irrational, or wildly unpredictable. So much so, that you begin to wonder whether the train ever had tracks to begin with.

The image behind the word is actually pretty brilliant – something literally coming off its hinges, like a door no longer attached properly. Once the hinges are gone, the whole thing swings wildly, falls over, or becomes completely useless. It is not hard to see how that image made the leap from hardware to human behaviour.

Over time, the term evolved from a physical meaning into a psychological and emotional one. Instead of describing a broken door, it came to describe a person acting as though their usual sense of stability, control, or restraint had popped clean off.

That is why synonyms for unhinged often include words like deranged, unbalanced, irrational, unstable, chaotic,and manic. None of them exactly whisper ‘calm and collected.’ Definitely not the sort of words you’d want embroidered on a cushion.

But language, as always, loves a plot twist.

In modern slang, unhinged has developed a second life. It is no longer used only to describe someone in a serious or disturbing state. Now it can also mean outrageously funny, wildly bold, or delightfully chaotic in a way that feels almost impressive. Unhinged humour is the kind of humour that catches you off guard and makes you laugh while also wondering whether everyone involved needs a nap, a hug, or internet restrictions.

This is especially true online, where being a little polished is boring and being mildly odd barely registers. To stand out, people do not just open the door anymore, they rip it off the frame and wave it around for views.

A completely unfiltered voice note, a bizarre but weirdly accurate rant, or a meme that feels like it was made during a sugar high at 2 a.m. can all be described as unhinged in the most affectionate way possible.

That said, the word still has a sharper edge. When used seriously about a person’s mental state, unhinged can sound insulting, dismissive, and stigmatising. It can reduce genuine distress to a dramatic label, which is why context matters. There is a difference between calling a TikTok comment section unhinged and using the term to mock someone who is clearly struggling.

So, unhinged is one of those wonderfully flexible words that can mean alarming, hilarious, chaotic, exaggerated, or all four at once. It is a word with drama. A word with energy. A word that does not simply enter the room, but kicks the door open, knocks over a lamp, and starts monologuing.

Which, when you think about it, is a bit unhinged in itself.

Life is normal — until it isn’t.

On an ordinary day, I was heading off to work, minding my own business, doing all the right things on the road, when suddenly — bam. Out of nowhere, a Ram pickup truck T-boned my car.

Just like that, life changed in an instant.

I felt the impact. I felt the shunt as my vehicle bounced to the right and slammed into the kerb, or maybe the embankment — I’m still not completely sure. By that point, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

The car bounced back, lifted up, and suddenly I was airborne.

I tried to steer. I tried to brake. But where was I going? Nowhere. The car had a mind of its own.

Then I crash-landed into a concrete garden bed. All I could see in front of me was a metal fence. It was surreal. In one violent moment, I took out a massive section of it.

Somehow, I ended up sitting there with the front of my car up on the fence, still clutching the steering wheel. The music was blaring, and there was this god-awful squealing noise coming from my car.

In the middle of all the madness, I had the common sense to turn the radio off.

Then I tried to turn the car off — but it wouldn’t work. I think the front wheels were still up in the air, spinning and squealing.

For a moment, I felt like I was in control.

Then someone yanked open the driver’s door, and suddenly I wasn’t. My body started shaking. Shock hit me all at once.

They asked me, “Do you want to stay in the car? Do you want to get out?”

I didn’t even know which way was up or down. My head was spinning.

Then common sense kicked in again. I rang my son, Jackson. He was only minutes away, and I asked him to come and help me.

I needed family.

I knew it was an accident. I knew I wasn’t at fault. But my car couldn’t be driven off the fence. Metal palings were stuck up underneath the front of it.

Bystanders who had seen my car go through the fence came over to help. Everyone assured me the car was fine. They told me it was driveable, that there wasn’t much damage.

So, trusting their wisdom, I drove it five hundred metres home.

Later, when the tow truck driver came, he looked at my X-Trail and told me to kiss her goodbye.

“She’s not coming home,” he said.

Ever.

And I cried like I had lost a limb.

I loved that car.

At first, I thought I wasn’t injured. I thought I was lucky and that maybe I had walked away from it all.

Then the adrenaline started to settle.

The neck pain came. The shoulder pain came. The numbness in my hands and arms came in full force.

I felt lost. Bereft. Sad. Sorry. Scared.

But that was only the beginning.

Days later, the nightmares started. Days later, I was in and out of the doctor’s surgery, in and out of radiology, filing police reports, following up insurance, making calls, filling out forms, and trying to understand a process I had never asked to be part of.

All of a sudden, I had a full-time job dealing with… I don’t even really know what, to be honest.

And then there was the driving.

Now I flinch behind the wheel. I yelp. I call out. I find myself driving in the far-left lane on the motorway doing 80 km/h in a 100 zone.

It doesn’t even make sense to stay in that lane. Cars are merging from on-ramps. Vehicles are cutting across my path. If anything, it should feel worse.

But I stay there anyway.

Changing lanes feels too complicated. Too much. Too dangerous.

I am hyper-vigilant. Every car feels too close. Every movement feels like a threat.

It’s not a nice place to be.

For once in my life, I cannot wait for time to move faster, because people say time heals all wounds.

I hope they’re right.

There was a cyclist directly behind me that day. In a sliding-doors moment, I had the option to let him go first.

On this occasion, I decided I would go first.

It hit me a few weeks later – there is no doubt in my mind that my decision to go first saved his life.

And in that same moment, my X-Trail saved mine.

When I left the scene of the accident, I found myself looking through the bushes.

What was I looking for?

A pushbike.

A dead cyclist.

That is the honest truth.

But I found neither.

My only witness had not stopped. He had simply ridden off into the sunset.

And I was left standing there, surrounded by broken metal, broken car, and the beginning of an aftermath I never saw coming.

And I’m now tackling the acronyms.

SNAFU is one of those marvellous words that sounds exactly like what it means. It lands with a thud, like a box dropped in the wrong place, or a muttered curse from someone knee deep in disaster.

It came out of 1940’s American military slang and stands for ‘Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.’ Originally the F stood for a stronger profane version, which was far less polite and far more accurate. It’s all about chaotic, disordered situations, where everything has gone wrong. There’s been a major mistake, an error, confusion, mess, an unexpected complication. Nothing is where it should be and the people in charge are pretending this is all perfectly manageable.

Plain and simple chronic dysfunction. You’re stuck in a situation where nothing is going to plan. A technical glitch, a disastrous mishap, a logistical nightmare. You’ve run into an error or a problem that is large.

That really is the genius of it. ‘Situation normal.’ Nothing to see here. Just the usual catastrophe. Just the regular confusion, delay, wrong turn, missing part, broken plan and ill-timed disaster. ‘All fouled up’, as expected.

It’s a good grumbling army word. Snafu is when the supply ship arrives, but the stuff packed on the bottom are the things everyone urgently needed on top. It’s when the radio receiver sets make it all the way to the jungle camp, only for someone to realise no one sent batteries.

It’s paperwork filed in the wrong place, instructions sent to the wrong person and a plan so poorly executed it becomes almost impressive. Not clever enough to be sabotage, just hopeless enough to be human.

A snafu is not a tiny hiccup. It’s bigger than forgetting your sunglasses, but smaller than total societal collapse. It sits somewhere in the middle – irritating, inconvenient, sometimes absurd. It stops you from accomplishing the thing you meant to do. We wanted to get the campsite up before sundown, but due to several snafus along the way, including a run-in with an angry bear, we didn’t set up camp until midnight. It’s not bad luck. That is a snafu.

In the military, a snafu could be dangerous, even deadly. These days the words have wandered off into everyday life, where it now applies to all sorts of bungles and blunders. Driving all the way to the basketball stadium before realising you left your tickets on the kitchen bench, that’s a major snafu.

Managing to lock your keys in the car while the car is still running, that’s an elite-level snafu.

It is such a useful word because life is full of these ridiculous little breakdowns – moments when the wheels come off, but only just enough to be deeply annoying and later, can be very funny.

Wow! Feeling a bit special that alimardory nominated me for the Sunshine Blogger Award. We follow each other and I love that she, well, simply, talks about stuff. Her blogs resonate and they’re real. Thanks, alimardory and please go check out her site at https://belaboringthepoint.wordpress.com/

I posted my first blog 2^nd May 2025, so it’s fitting that here I am, on 2^nd May 2026, posting about the Sunshine Blogger Award. I love it.

The Sunshine Blogger Award recognises bloggers for inspiring content that promotes positivity. It’s a fun way for bloggers to connect and acknowledge each other’s hard work.

So, the guidelines for this award are as follows –

1. Display the award’s official logo somewhere on your blog.
2. Thank the person who nominated you.
3. Provide a link to your nominator’s blog
4. Answer your nominator’s questions.
5. Nominate up to eleven bloggers.
6. Ask your nominees eleven questions.
7. Notify your nominees by commenting on their blogs.

These are the questions I have been asked –

What’s a smell that instantly takes you back to childhood?

Hot chips with lots of salt and tomato sauce – nothing like it, when someone walks past with a bucket of chips and you catch a whiff.

If you were a minor character in a TV show, what would your one recurring line be?

I bought snacks and emotional support.

What is the best lie you have ever told?

I’m fine. Seriously, I’m a firm believer that when a woman says she’s fine, she is so not fine, it didn’t take my husband long to get this – probably gave it away, with the tone of my voice.

What song do you know all the words for?

Aahh, so many, I love music. One that comes to mind is ‘Don’t’ Stop Believin’, by Journey, a classic and whilst I sing a bit out of tune (not caterwauling bad though), I can belt this one out.

What is the weirdest food you’ve ever eaten?

When I was pregnant – pickles with peanut butter – it sounds illegal, but it did the trick for my cravings. p.s. no-one knows this, not even Simon.

What’s your favourite board game?

Snakes and Ladders. It’s all fun and games until you’re one square away from winning and a snake ruins your entire personality.

Which instrument has the funniest sound?

The kazoo. It sounds like a tiny duck.

What is the weirdest thing in your home?

Probably me! And my son Jackson’s baby teeth, stored in a beautiful velvet jewellery pouch in my jewellery drawer. It even sounds weird as I type this. Am I gifting them to him at some stage in his life??????????

What movie makes you laugh even after watching it multiple times?

The Hangover. It never gets old.

What is the best colour in the rainbow?

Green. It relates to the heart chakra. It’s about unconditional love.

I nominate the following bloggers who I regularly follow –

Kent Wayne – https://dirtyscifibuddha.com/ – My first ever like I received – I won’t forget it!

Neil Scheinin – https://yeahanotherblogger.com/

Kana Smith – https://kanasmith.com/

And here are my questions –

1. How difficult was it for you to come up with your blog name?
2. What has been the most challenging step for you in your blogging journey?
3. What do you like to do on weekends to relax?
4. What’s your favourite holiday you’ve ever been on?
5. Who or what are you most grateful for in life?
6. Favourite movie of all time?
7. Name a bucket list item?
8. What’s your all-time favourite song?
9. Which element do you identify yourself with?
10. What is the best lie you have ever told?
11. What is the weirdest thing in your home?

Enjoy!

Here I go again, still banging on about idioms. This time, I’m tackling that delightfully dramatic phrase ‘beggars belief.’

I’ve got to be upfront – for years, I used to think the phrase was ‘begs belief.’ I was confidently and incorrectly saying it wrong. I mean, it sounded right. It rolled off the tongue. It even felt logical, like someone was politely tapping you on the shoulder, saying, ‘Excuse me, could you perhaps believe this?’ Nice and civilised.

But I stand corrected. The correct phrase is actually ‘beggars belief.’ It’s far less polite. In fact, it’s downright aggressive.

The origin of this idiom can be traced back to the 17th century, when beggar wasn’t just someone asking for spare change – it was used as a verb, meaning ‘to reduce to poverty’ or ‘to exhaust the resources of.’ Over time, this evolved to convey the idea of something being so extreme that it ‘pauperises’ or ‘exhausts’ belief.

It beggars belief that he would do such a thing. The phrase means that something is so astonishing or outrageous that it is difficult to believe. It means that something is unbelievable, is not deserving to be believed, is questionable. The phrase doesn’t gently request your acceptance, it absolutely drains your ability to believe anything ever again.

It’s the linguistic equivalent of your brain throwing its hands up and saying, ‘Right, I’m done. I’ve got nothing left. You’ve used up all the belief.’

Which, when you think about it, is far more satisfying. It’s like someone is saying ‘How dare you.’

Consider the example ‘It beggars belief that he would do such a thing.’ This isn’t a mild statement. This is full-blown disbelief. This is you staring into the middle distance, questioning reality, possibly reconsidering your life choices.

Compare that with ‘begs belief,’ which accidentally suggests the situation is quite reasonable and just needs a bit of support. Completely the wrong vibe.

Of course, ‘begs belief’ has snuck its way into everyday conversation, and plenty of people use it without a second thought. Language evolves, mistakes become habits, and habits become accepted usage. But if you’re aiming for accuracy – or just want to sound like you know exactly what you’re talking about at a dinner party – ‘beggars belief’ is the one to go for.

So yes, I stand corrected. Publicly. Boldly. Possibly for the last time – though history suggests otherwise.

And don’t get me started on ‘pauperise’ or ‘pauperize’, which one is it? They’re both verbs, why is it so difficult? Pick one and stop making it so complicated.

And honestly, it beggars belief that I got it wrong for so long.

There was no-one better with their words than my dad. The way he expressed, well everything – the good, the bad, the ugly – had me enthralled. He could turn an ordinary moment into a story, a warning into a performance, and a throwaway comment into something unforgettable.

He had that rare gift of making words feel alive. They didn’t just leave his mouth and disappear into the air – they landed, they lingered, they made themselves at home inside you.

Then there were the quirky, outrageous things he would say – the kind of lines that shocked you, made you laugh, and at times really upset me, but over time made perfect sense all at once.

For example, the time he told my boyfriend, well technically ex-boyfriend at the time, that came back knocking on my door, after sleeping with another girl. Dad didn’t miss a beat. He marched up to within an inch of his face and said, ‘IF YOU HURT MY DAUGHTER AGAIN, I’LL GET A SHOTGUN, STICK IT UP YOUR BACKSIDE, AND BLOW YOU FROM HERE TO KINGDOM COME.’ It was dramatic, ridiculous, fiercely protective and so undeniably him.

Over the years, somewhere, somehow, I became a lover of idioms. I think that love began with him. I loved the meaning of different words, which were just individual words, put together to make some sort of sense. Words for me could be playful and clever, they could paint a picture while saying something deeper underneath.

I remember Dad saying, ‘Well he’s up shit creek without a paddle.’ What’s going on? Was the creek actually full of shit? If it was, whose shit? What happened to the paddle? Where’s the boat, that was meant to have the paddle?’ Was there even a boat, or someone stranded in the middle of this dark, filthy creek? I found this kind of language hilarious, confusing and endlessly interesting.

Time and age eventually gave me understanding. Oh yeah, you’re in a difficult situation, with no easy way of getting out of it. It meant you were properly stuck – stranded in the middle of a mess, with no control over where you were headed and no easy way of getting yourself out. It sounded funny, but it carried a sense of helplessness, of consequences already in motion, of being forced to sit in the discomfort of something that had gone wrong.

Maybe that’s why it stayed with me. It wasn’t a neat or polite expression, but it was honest, and Dad was nothing but honest. Somehow, in Dad’s way of saying it, even something bleak sounded vivid, funny and strangely wise.

That was the beauty of Dad’s expressions, they made language feel bigger than itself. It invited me to imagine, to question, to laugh before I even understood.

Made perfect sense….to me. It was the magic of Dad’s words and I loved words. I think I loved them because he did first.

It’s one of those phrases that sounds mildly illegal, vaguely disgusting, but strangely poetic all at once.

It’s when you use dead bait, old fish carcasses – the bits nobody puts on a menu, cut up in many small pieces. Mixed thoroughly, with added fish remains and blood, like the world’s worst smoothie, you are ready to go chum the waters. Weird words, but they serve a purpose. When you chum the waters, you’re trying to attract fish in water. It’s essentially bait lure.

If you’re looking for big fish, chumming the waters is the way to go. Eau de Chum has you covered. It’s gross, it’s effective and it definitely isn’t going to win any awards for fragrance.

You take this grim little soup and toss it into the water to chum the waters, which is fishing’s version of turning on a neon sign that reads – FREE SNACKS THIS WAY. You’re not trying to feed the fish a full meal—you’re creating a scent trail, a tasty rumour, a breadcrumb path of chaos that says, something delicious is happening over here.

It’s basically bait marketing. Small fish show up curious. Bigger fish show up confident. And if you’re aiming for the heavyweight champions—the kind of fish that look like they pay rent—chumming is one of the best ways to get their attention. Big fish don’t chase tiny opportunities, they cruise in when there’s a clear signal that the buffet is open.

But, the phrase doesn’t stay politely on the boat. To chum the waters also works as a metaphor and honestly, it’s almost better there because it’s equal parts vivid and savage.

It is a provocative word, intentionally creating a strong reaction. When someone drops a controversial statement – politics at Christmas lunch, unsolicited parenting advice, dropping a financial opinion knowing it will offend, an unpopular comment online, or that one mate who says Actually…..like it’s a personality trait—it’s like tossing chum into a calm sea. Suddenly the water isn’t calm anymore. People materialise out of nowhere. The replies start circling.

It’s the internet’s favourite sport – chum in the waters – one provocative statement, and boom—the sharks come in for a feeding frenzy. Not because everyone’s hungry for truth, but because drama smells like blood in the water. And once you’ve chummed the waters, you don’t really get to act surprised when the sharks show up. You rang the dinner bell. They just RSVP’d. They’re hungry.

It’s a metaphor popularised by Vietnam War fighter pilot Charles Plumb – after being shot down, he survived because a parachute—packed by someone he’d never met—did its job perfectly.

Because we all have parachute packers.

Not literal ones – unless you’re doing skydiving – I mean the people in your life who quietly support you—mentally, emotionally, physically—often without you even noticing until you’re mid–free fall and suddenly thinking, ‘Oh… this would be a terrible time for my coping skills to go on lunch break.’

These people make space for you in times of need. They steady you. They help you reset. They remind you who you are when you’ve temporarily forgotten.

For me, it’s my sister, Ang.

When I’m angry, sad, broken, tired, down in the dumps, or heartbroken, a call to Ang—usually accompanied by a truly majestic rant—means I live to fight another day. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t rush me. She just listens, gives me a warm hug over the phone, and somehow delivers advice that lands exactly where it needs to. It’s like she has a PhD in calm down, but in a way that doesn’t make you want to throw your phone.

Without a doubt, Ang contributes to my daily success and expects nothing in return. In effect, she gently pushes me out of the plane when I’m stuck, pulls the cord when I can’t, and helps me land safely when life gets rough. Then, as if by magic, there she is, basically my emotional ground crew, ready to greet me on landing, without me scraping my knees and backside.

Ang is there with me, through all the turbulence, sideways, ups and down of life, a calm voice in the chaos of my world, putting the brakes on when I hit panic speed.

And she doesn’t pack just one parachute either. I keep Ang busy packing the whole set — my physical parachute, my mental parachute, my emotional parachute, and my spiritual parachute too.

She makes sure they’re folded properly, with all the silks of each chute in place, so my fate stays favourable even when my brain is trying to write a disaster movie.

She checks the straps, tightens the buckles, and somehow knows exactly which part of me is about to freefall before I do. When I’m spiralling, she’s steady. When I’m overthinking, she’s calm. When I’m convincing myself the wind is stronger than it is, she reminds me I’ve jumped before — and I’ve landed every time.

So, thanks, Sis, for always packing my parachute. I hope that on the days you need it, I pack yours too — even if mine has a slightly wonky fold and a snack tucked in the pocket for emergencies.

Now I’ll throw it to you – who’s packing your parachute? Who makes your day safer, easier, or more pleasant—quietly, consistently, and probably without enough credit?

*Image by Subbu Rayan on Pexels