On Mothers' Day, spare a thought for the women who bring dictators, psychopaths and serial killers into the world. Not only do they miss out on the flowers and soppy cards - they're blamed for their bad seeds' misdeeds, too.
It gives me absolutely no pleasure to say I told you so after on Thursday we received a frightening glimpse of the Chinese bullying and nationalism that I had predicted was about to be unleashed here.
As the tour de farce of the 2008 Olympic torch relay approaches our shores, it's become hard to see it symbolising anything but the ugly face of a world gone mad.
I'm bemused about all the fuss from parents over Clover Moore's proposals to fence off children's playgrounds in off-leash dog parks. I wish there were more fenced off parks for both kids and my dog.
In the week since I last wrote about the crisis in Tibet, events in the region have delivered both hope and despair to those who long for a peaceful solution.
Last time I returned to the UK, a customs official nodded at my British passport and said: "welcome home, ma'am." I felt a little warm and fuzzy then gave it no further thought, because in the free world those of us living away from our birth countries take for granted our right to go home whenever we want.
While waiting for a taxi to take me and my dog from Avalon to the Eastern suburbs I wondered, not for the first time, if I should learn to drive.
I've been thinking a lot about drinking lately, and this news story about late developing tipplers has me pondering the subject even more.
This Friday, the 29th of February, is the once-every-four-years day on which women traditionally have been allowed to propose marriage to their tardy men.
This week I attended the launch of Meet My Friend, a social networking website on which people recommend their single friends to other singles. Great idea.
As I watched the erotic and gripping but ultimately depressing movie Lust, Caution last night, I was reminded again why I believe Valentine's Day should be replaced with International Heartbreak Day.
My favourite bar is haunted by a female ghost. At least, we assume she's female because she lives in the ladies' toilets.
It's my dog Zach's birthday today and down at the park the poor little fella heard what you least need to hear on such a day. A man looked down at him, smiled indulgently and said: "old bloke, is he?"
Hearing Lleyton Hewitt extolling the virtues of Plexicushion tennis courts this week reminded me of a very important local campaign I'm heading. I've already drafted a letter to Clover Moore about it:

Amy Cooper is the Sun-Herald's chief party correspondent. She puts Sydney's social habits under the microscope.
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