Willy Wonka was an arsehole. A creative genius, yes, but an arsehole nonetheless. He took a group of kids on a tour of his chocolate factory and then treated them as collateral damage when they fell into vats or exploded.

This is okay though, because Willy Wonka is fictional. His creator, Roald Dahl, is known for despicable characters who are the delight of wicked children and adults alike.

You are, Monsieur Chocolat, a chocolatier like Willy Wonka. But you are not, I sincerely hope, an arsehole.

I love your café. It has been amazing addition to my neighbourhood. I’ve spent time peering through the little window to see how the chocolate is prepared, chatting with your friendly staff and I’ve appreciated the thoughtful way you answered when I enquired about the sourcing of your beans. On the whole, my experience of your enterprise has been exemplary.

Your chocolate is amazing yet a recent experience has left a bitter taste in my mouth. I visited with a friend one busy Saturday and a staff member kindly offered to split my bill. She was very clearly new to the job. When she asked you the process for doing this, you admonished her in a humiliating, excessive manner.

I don’t know the backstory. Maybe only two minutes earlier you had clearly explained to her that bill splitting is a no-go zone. Maybe as part of your standard induction for new staff you’d had her get ‘We DO NOT spilt bills’ tattooed across her lower back and yet still she forgot.

The thing I do know is this: the whole interaction was awful. I felt awful, she must have felt awful and it made you look awful. So awful that since this occasion, no matter how much I crave a hot chocolate and a cosy hour with a book or a friend, I cannot bring myself to set foot through your door.

This is not in protest: I know the absence of my patronage will have no impact whatsoever on your business. It is quite simply that I now feel a little bit sick when I think of you.

Eventually, I’d love to give your café another try and am hopeful that getting this off my chest will help me do that. I’m also hopeful that you’ll think twice before being rude to your staff again, especially in public. The fact that you have a window for customers to watch chocolate making suggests you know you’re selling an experience. Watching someone be intimidated and humiliated is not what I’d call a palatable experience.

Yours sincerely,

Miranda

Do you know what an eroteme is? You probably do, being a professor and all. I have to admit that, until I looked it up just now, I did not. I don’t mind telling you that. The best way to improve oneself is to allow that we all have surfaces that could do with a spit and polish. Nobody’s perfect, right? We all have room to grow.

So back to erotemes. As you’re probably aware, an eroteme is a question mark, also known as an interrogation point, an interrogation mark, a question point and a query. So there you go, that’s something new I learnt today. What about you? Any triumphs of learning in your neck of the woods?

Maybe you learnt that a question mark is a punctuation mark that replaces the full stop at the end of an interrogative sentence. Wait, no… forgive me. Most likely you know that already, having learnt it back in primary school.

Perhaps you learnt that a question mark is NOT to be used after a polite request that seeks no verbal response? I’m being rhetorical. As a recipient of your departmental emails I know for a fact that this is one area of learning where you have not been making ground.

Some example from your recent mailings:

Can I wish you well, Fay, in your new endeavours? 

Can I convey our congratulations to Joy for this appointment?

Questions such as these do not need a question mark because they seek no response.

Can I wish you well…?  – You already are!

Can I convey our congratulations…? – By asking it, you’re doing it!

As important as it is to admit when you don’t know something, it’s equally important to stand strong when you do. You know you can wish Fay well, and you know you can convey congratulations to Joy. These are within your capabilities, so no need to question – just state. People appreciate decisiveness and positivity, especially in times of uncertainty such as these…

Sincerely,

A concerned member of faculty

Are you a fan of Meg Ryan? It’s okay if you’re not. She sells a certain type of cute that’s not everyone’s cup of tea. What about romantic comedies in general? I’m not talking Aniston or Heigl, god help us all, I’m talking the classics, like The Shop Around The Corner. It’s a 1940s film that sees two warring shop assistants ‘unexpectedly’ fall in love with each other as anonymous pen pals. Whacky, huh? Your local video shop will probably have it.

In 1998 a remake of dubious quality was made, called You’ve Got Mail. Meg Ryan plays Kathleen Kelly, owner of The Shop Around the Corner, a charming little bookstore crammed with quirks and family values. Tom Hanks plays Joe Fox, top shot executive of Fox & Sons, a nasty big chain bookstore, which threatens to obliterate Kathleen’s livelihood. Little do they know, they’re corresponding anonymously via the deliciously modern media of ‘the chat room’ and ‘electronic mail’ and, you guessed it, falling in love.

Things have changed since 1998. Firstly, it’s no longer possible to fall in love anonymously over the internet. If Kathleen Kelly could have Googled NY152, emailer-of-her-dreams, she would have traced him back to Joe Fox, executor of her business nightmares. Their little love affair would have come to a screeching halt.

Secondly, fear of the department-style bookstore now seems amusing and old fashioned.  All because you, Jeff Bezos, were ahead of the game. As early as 1994 you were founding Amazon.com, a little idea that would have made both Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox shudder with dread. ‘Selling books in a store?’ you were laughing. ‘Quit flirting in chat rooms, kids, and start using those boxy laptops for your own capitalistic gain!’

Are we both thinking the same thing, Jeff Bezos? Given how things have changed in the book business since You’ve Got Mail, and given your leading role in this change, perhaps it’s time for a remake! In our new version, you will star as you – founder, president and CEO of Amazon.com – and I will star as me. In the interest of modernisation let’s drop the antiquated theme of anonymity. My name is Sarah Henshaw. I live in the UK and run a small independent bookshop on a converted narrowboat called The Book Barge. You can find me on Twitter, Facebook and my blog.

Full confession: my heart didn’t exactly skip a beat when I saw your pic on Wikipedia. That said, when I read you made Forbes’ Billionaires list, I fancy I did feel a little flutter. In the interest of this being a romantic comedy, I’m willing to kiss you at the end.

Full confession, part two: there’s a twist in this new version. I joined the bookselling business already knowing of your reach. I joined because I knew independent booksellers were being put out of business and I wasn’t happy about it.

I’m not hapless like Kathleen Kelly, who closes The Shop Around the Corner and trades in bookselling for a career as a children’s author. I’m going to continue selling books because I believe there’s room for us both. I’m not completely without entrepreneurial understanding; I get where you’re coming from with Amazon.com. Warehouses offer far better book storage than a narrowboat, book storage increases choice and customers love choice. Warehouses also allow for bulk purchasing which leads to cheap books and customers love cheap books.

What I’m scripting for our film is that you start to understand where I’m coming from. You climb on board my narrowboat (not a euphemism; this film is PG) and discover that bookselling can be an art. And because wealthy people love art, you’re insatiably intrigued. You invite me out to dinner, somewhere with tablecloths and candlelight and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata playing in the background. Over oysters and champagne, you ask me if it’s hard running a business day-in day-out, while knowing the financial return will hardly cover the bare necessities of food and shelter. I say, ‘Sure, it’s hard. But satisfying too.’ My eyes light up as I explain how passionate I am about selling books and bringing a bookshop to the people via the canals, from no fixed address. You say, ‘It’s kind of like selling books on the internet, then?’ I say, ‘Kind of, but not.’

Then I explain how it’s not only a space to buy books but also to attend readings and meet fellow booklovers and writers and like-minded souls. I tell you how thrilled people are when they discover The Book Barge. How it taps into something romantic that’s in all of us.

At the mention of romance, members of the audience who are experienced viewers of romantic comedy will think ‘here we go!’ and lean a little forward in their seats.

But we defy their expectations and our conversation turns instead to the topic of wealthy benefactors. I tell you about how, in the olden days, benefactors were all the rage. How it was an integral form of philanthropy to show support and appreciation to those who were pursuing non-lucrative, yet culturally and creatively valuable careers. I tell you that, without his wealthy benefactor, we wouldn’t be sitting here listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

Spoiler alert: by the end of this film, you and I will have singlehandedly resurrected the patronage system. As promised, there’s a kiss. It’s not a ‘promise of things to come’ kiss. It’s more of a ‘Thank god you’re not putting me out of business or taking over The Book Barge’ kind of kiss. The kind of kiss that says loud and clear, ‘Thank you for appreciating the art in what I’m doing and providing me with no-strings-attached financial backing.’

You know the kind, right? Give me a call to find out more…

Yours sincerely,

Sarah xxx

Let’s talk about what a great friend Sophie is to you. As her cat, I know I’m biased but all the same she IS pretty ace. Remember how you guys used to love watching Puberty Blues? Or how you went to Turkey together? Or what about the time you both stalked that boy? CLASSIC! So many happy memories of that ilk. SO MANY.

Hey, a thought just occurred to me: sometimes things can seem too good to be true, don’t you think? Sometimes things are so beautiful and perfect you have to pinch yourself over and over and over again just to be sure it’s really happening. But then you end up looking like Gwyneth Paltrow after she’s had a cupping massage and, from there, it’s a slippery dip down to trawling through the Goop archives looking for tips on how to truss a chicken while wearing a Calvin Klein slip dress.

So you see, sometimes it’s good to have a little bit of dark amongst all that light, know what I mean? Just as every cloud has a silver lining, every silver lining needs a little bit of cloud.

How’s this for a cloud: you went to Echuca for a mini-break with your BF (not the cloud) and Sophie, lovingly and selflessly, house-sat for you while you were away (not the cloud). She decided to bring me along for company (oh look, there’s a little whisp of cloud over there on the horizon). You have a bird called Drazic (cloud moving closer) – or, should I say, you HAD a bird called Drazic (cloud is directly above). One day Sophie, innocently and unintentionally, left Drazic’s cage open and I managed to catch him while she was out of the room. Cloud. Rain. Thunderstorm. Flood.

On behalf of myself, I want to say sorry. It was inexcusable and no way to treat a host. On behalf of Sophie, I want to say sorry again, and I truly hope it doesn’t affect your friendship which, keep in mind, is still beautiful and so very close to perfection. ‘Cept now there’s a little bit of cloud to offset all that silver lining.

Please forgive us,

Minou the Cat

Elvis is dead. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but it’s better you hear it from me than some complete stranger. Also, John Lennon is dead too. Double whammy. Take a moment to regroup, I can wait.

On a brighter note, there’s this film called Star Wars and it has jedi knights and lightsabers and a wookie and is pretty fun actually. Check it out next time you’re at the DVD store. Oh yeah, we have these things called DVDs now. They’re discs that play movies in the same way that tapes used to. These days it’s also possible to download movies as files. To do this, you need something called a personal computer. Don’t freak out: these are really common and easy to use. You’ll pick it up easy.

What else? Oh yeah, Britain’s first female prime minister has come and gone, as has New Zealand’s. Here in Australia, our first female PM is serving as we speak. The Berlin Wall came down, the Soviet Union collapsed and the Cold War officially ended. Babies can now be born by fertilising egg cells with sperm in a test tube, Nelson Mandela was freed and became the President of South Africa, and Hong Kong was returned to China.

There’s been bad stuff too, of course. A hole found in the ozone layer, a nuclear accident in Chernobyl, a massacre in Tiananmen Square, genocide in Rwanda, a terrorist attack on America, retaliation attacks on Afghanistan and a war in Iraq (two actually).

Why am I telling you all this? Well, Dave, it’s simple. It seems that somehow you managed to get yourself stuck in a time vortex and are hovering somewhere back in the early 1970s. You are what is known today as an Unreconstructed 70s Male. And that’s not a compliment. The thing is, Dave, the world’s moved on. Women, for the most part, have thrown off their shackles. We are not your indentured slaves, nor are we mere sexual objects for your perving pleasure. If you want to have love affairs or friendships or even just cordial working relationships with women, you’d better get to learning this and fast.

The other thing, Dave, is that, despite what you may think, your time vortex has not stopped your aging process. You are a man in your 50s. You look like a man in your 50s. Chances are, women in their 20s are going to look at you and think of their fathers. Most of the time, they are not going to look at you and think of getting it on. It’s probably worth keeping this in mind.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed working on your boat in Portugal. You’re not a bad guy but some of your behaviour just doesn’t cut it anymore. Women who sign up to work with you deserve to be treated with respect and, frankly, if you don’t give it to them, you’re going to find yourself in some very sticky situations. Worse case scenario, you’re going to find yourself in court.

I don’t want this to happen, not for you and certainly not for the women who put their trust in you when they agree to come and work with you. So here’s what you should do: don’t expect women to clean up after you; if someone does something nice, like cooks you a meal, thank them and mean it; above all, don’t make lecherous or humiliating or offensive comments about a woman’s sexuality or appearance. You’re the boss, it’s inappropriate – let me introduce you to the phrase ‘sexual harassment’. Look it up. There’s this new-fangled thing called the internet that’ll tell you everything you need to know.

Sincerely,

Hannah

And thanks for the zines, Hannah! Very cool.

Your family: who you can and cannot marry – negotiating a potential minefield 

You’re a good-looking woman. You come from a good-looking family. Maybe, on occasion, you’ve caught yourself thinking: If I played my cards right, I could have good-looking babies with my good-looking brother.

STOP RIGHT THERE.

Marrying family members is rife with social, moral and legal complications. You can’t just jump in blindly without first considering the facts.

But what’s that I hear you say? You can’t make head nor tail of the Attorney-General’s website with its officious “thou shalt not” jargon? But what you do understand are the directions on the back of your packet of Byron Chai?

Well consider this specially concocted Fact Sheet…

Review your family for people you find attractive. Leave this list to brew for twenty minutes. Return to your list and determine the level of closeness between you and those you are attracted to: do you share parents, grandparents, does this person call you ‘mum’ or ‘dad’? Remove from the list any direct descendants or ascendants. Also remove any adopted siblings. Leave on the list cousins, second cousins, aunties and uncles. Let your feelings simmer until you have selected the family member who has the optimum level of spice. Ask them out on a date.

I have a lot of time for Carole King. And ‘Where You Lead’ would have to be my absolute favourite of her songs. I tell you love, when she sings, I would go to the ends of the earth cause, darling, to me that’s you’re worth I get all jittery because that is exactly how I feel about you. I would go anywhere for you.

I know you have a penchant for the desert. All that direct sunlight is not so great for my complexion so I probably wouldn’t go there but other than that, anywhere. When Carole sings, If you want to live in New York city, honey, you know I will, I can really relate. I mean, if you wanna go to New York honey, just say the word and I will be packed before you can say ‘Do you think we should take the baby with us?’

We should probably dance to this song at our wedding because our relationship really was cemented when you followed me to Geelong. How many boys would follow their girlfriend to a town where you can’t walk up the street for a morning coffee without tripping over a teen-aged mum who has passed out drunk in the gutter with her jegging-clad legs blocking the footpath? That is true love. You uprooted your life and dog and quit your job so I could that pursue a job I hoped was ‘the one.’

But love, the job turned out to be shit and I accidentally got knocked up and we had this amazingly beautiful child and I have now realised that we are at the ends of the earth. And no amount of Carole King blasting through my iPod will help me to forget that it sure would be nice to live in a leafy suburb where my mum can pop by for a cuppa and my sisters and I can clog up hipster cafes with our prams.  

While I’d never wish misery and unemployment on you, it really does suck that you found a job you love and it happens to be in Geelong. I dunno which fella Carole was writing about when she penned that song but I doubt that he was even half as amazing as you are. And maybe she had to follow her man to the ends of the earth because he was so untalented that he couldn’t get work anywhere else?

You, on the other hand love, you’d get work anywhere. You know those leafy suburbs near my mum’s house? Well they would kill for a photographer, musician, all-round-gorgeous man in those parts. And if you don’t want to change jobs, I’d bet money that your current bosses would be so keen to keep you that they’d let you set up base in Melbourne. Just put it out there and see what they say!

Ahhh…Melbourne. Just think about all the babysitters we’d have in Melbourne. It would mean I’d have more time to kickstart my freelance work and bring home some bacon too. When Alexander is all grown up it would be nice to be able to drive down Maitland Street one Sunday and say, ‘See that cute little house? That’s where you spent the first six months of your life.’ Not, ‘Wave to the neighbour, honey! Crack Whore Stacey babysat you every day until you started school. You know that cigarette burn on your leg…’

If following someone somewhere is the way to demonstrate your love then you have well and truly done it. And if you had some place you really wanted us to be then I would happily do it too. But right now, as we linger in this place we’ve landed that we never really wanted to call home, I can’t not ask if you’ll do it again. Will you follow me back where we came from?

Love Laura xx

As the female in this friendship I have three primary obligations. One, to introduce you to my hot girlfriends. Two, to tease you when the women in your life suddenly realise you are the love of their life and fall at your feet. And three, to warn you when your life is dangerously close to becoming a romantic comedy.

Consider yourself warned.

I’ve seen a few chick flicks. I don’t seek them out, I just occasionally end up in front of a widescreen and later wake to find brain cells have been suctioned away through my eyeballs. While no one would call chick flicks art, it is a genre where the life-mimics-art versus art-mimics-life debate is alive. Do we dramatise our own lives to make them resemble trashy films or do trashy films tell the same goddamn story over and over because this stuff really does happen?

The imaginary film about your life would be called something unremarkable like The Boy-Next-Door. You’d be played by some wholesome newcomer who got his big break singing and dancing on a children’s television program. I’d be played by Rachel Bilson (romcom veteran and #77 in FHM’s 100 Sexiest Women in the World 2005).

The film would start with a flashback montage of our school days. Some teenage actors, who look nothing like their adult counterparts and even less like us, would burst onto the screen wearing oversized school uniforms –they’d share a joke and drink slurpies while Eminem blasts over the soundtrack. There would be playful arm-slapping and laughter so intense that Bilson, as me, spits up some of her slurpie.

Then we’d flash forward to post-school life. Jet would blare as our characters go their separate ways to do their own thing: uni, travel, work, bars, tears, London, love making, hearts breaking, passions being followed and everything else that consumes that tumultuous decade we call ‘our twenties’. All this would happen in a space of around 60 seconds because in movie-land we skip the shit and get straight to the main event.

In the main event, my character, played by Bilson, would suddenly have a mature, shiny, bob-style haircut but underneath it all, be every bit the child she always was. Your character would be more worldly than he was in high school but every bit as sweet. They’d both be a teeny bit damaged by life but all the more amazing for it. They’d reconnect via means far more glamorous than Facebook.

They would bond quickly, our characters. Exchange numbers that immediately slide into the ‘favourites’ list in each other’s mobile phone. They’d need little more than a beer and some conversation for hours of entertainment. They’d banter about ex lovers, future lovers, travel to-do-lists and next steps in this world we call our oyster.

This is where real life veers from the romantic comedy.

In the film there’d be a ‘moment’. My character would be at a party and see you laughing with another girl and you’d seem to genuinely like her and you’d bring her over to meet me and I’d instinctively give her a dirty look and say something bitchy. And her face would drop and the music would slow and it would be evident to everyone in the pub (and the cinema audience) that I was in love with you. I’d be so shocked with this discovery of feelings that I’d run towards the door and you’d chase me and we’d trip over someone’s handbag and you’d land on top of me, your face inches from mine.

This is not a movie, Charlie. In real life, even if I started to have a sneaking suspicion that my feelings were more than just friends I’d probably still be super-sweet to your next girlfriend. If I tried to run from the pub I’d definitely fall over but you wouldn’t be chasing. You’d be too busy ordering an apple martini for your new lady friend to notice that I’d concussed my head on the jukebox.

The concussion would knock any stupid feelings I had been noticing from my head and I’d wake the next morning, bruised but sensible. I would not confess love. Instead I’d tell you that you’ve helped me realise what I’m looking for. You’ve restored my faith in boys. You’ve proved there are some talented, funny, super down-to-earth, humble, deep thinking yet silly and generally just great men out there.

I’m not going to join that plethora of girls who’ve been falling at your feet with love confessions but I will say I understand it. The attention you are getting is justified. I think you are amazing.

Love Sacha xx

I’m hungry. Hear me out. I’m hungry because today I went to my favourite dumplings restaurant for lunch and they gave me a single chopstick to eat with. What what? Crazy, I know. I couldn’t eat a thing. Everyone knows that chopsticks come in pairs and that a lone chopstick is as useless as an umbrella in a hurricane.

I’m also cold. Not all of me, just my left foot. See I went to put on my shoes and socks this morning and there was only one of each. One shoe, one sock. That’s it. Consequently, all day today I’ve been hobbling around trying to avoid murky puddles and spit and chewing gum and worse.

So anyway. After work I went to the gym to let off some steam and, wouldn’t you know it, there was only one free dumbbell. Consequently, my left bicep is now bulging through my jacket, Incredible Hulk-style, while my right is a quivering mess of weakness and insecurity barely able to clutch this piece of paper, let alone pick up a dumpling with one chopstick.

To make matters worse, in the shower at the gym, I realised I had shampoo but no conditioner (hello flat hair) and, at dinner after that, my salt and pepper tofu was all salt and no pepper. Tough luck, the waiter said, we’re out. The result? A mighty salty thirst that, try as I might, I could not quench. Followed by a sleepless night peppered (pardon the pun) with thirteen trips to the bathroom.

The long and the short of it is this: some things belong together. Chopsticks, shoes, socks, dumbbells, shampoo and conditioner, salt and pepper. These things come in pairs for a reason and heaven help the fool who tries to keep them apart. Which brings me to you, dear Emirates.

Late last year, my husband and I saved up all our precious pennies and took our first trip overseas – flying Emirates. On the way over, we were very happy with your service but, on the flight back, from Dubai to Singapore to Brisbane, things weren’t so cosy and here’s why: between my husband and me there was a great gaping chasm of aeroplane. That is to say, rather than being seated together, as you’d expect of a couple who booked their tickets together, we were seated so far apart my husband crossed each date line half an hour before I did. Ergo, rather than spending the flight home side-by-side reminiscing about our happy holiday, we were forced to flick through our digital snaps in solitary silence while our seat buddies made awkward attempts at small talk.

Now I know you aeroplane folks are hip to the lingo of pairs. Pilots have co-pilots and wings grace both sides of the plane. Two rows of lights guide us to emergency exits, passengers get to choose between an aisle seat and a window seat, hell, some aeroplanes even have twin engines. I know for sure this concept is not foreign to you so, how’s about next time, you quit fooling around with the natural order of things and keep like with like. Let husbands sit with wives, children sit with parents, lovers sit with lovers and best friends sit with best friends. And of course, let strangers sit with strangers. The plane trip is part of the holiday and flying solo is not my thing.

Yours sincerely,
Lotte

You probably think it’s not possible to fall in love with somebody you’ve never met but I’m sorry to say you are wrong. Don’t feel bad – having just been born, there’s a whole heap of stuff you’re yet to learn. That’s where I come in, you see; I’m here to teach you.

Life lesson #1: It is absolutely possible to fall in love with somebody you’ve never met. And I don’t mean having a crush on a rock god or movie star or Facebook stalking somebody you saw on TV. I mean real, honest-to-god, heart-stopping L-O-V-E. The kind of love that makes you grin senselessly and dissolve into unexpected fits of giggles for no reason whatsoever. The kind of love that makes you jump up and do a dopey little dance even though there’s no music playing. The kind of love that makes you feel like warm molasses is running through your veins. The kind of love I have for you.

I’ll be frank: it was love at first sight. My phone beeped with a text message and then suddenly, in the guise of a photo of a positive pregnancy test, there you were. Now I know this doesn’t sound like the most romantic meet-cute in the world but this photo of a little plastic stick my sister-in-law had peed on filled my heart with joy. Let me tell you, that kind of love does not come along every day.

So, without further ado, I jumped straight into aunty-training. I plastered photos of your ultrasounds all over my fridge and tagged along with your mama to an antenatal class. I felt your hiccups and poked your bottom. I imagined your personality and decided you’d be cheeky-trouble just like your papa. I treasured every minute of your development and, now you’ve finally arrived, I’m ready and waiting to be the best aunty in the world.

So, my Little Peanut, when it’s fun and frivolity you’re after, I’m your girl. I’ll be in charge of such activities as jumping on beds, hoisting you up over the waves at the beach and covering you with kisses. I’ll blow raspberries on your belly, whirl you around till you tumble over with dizziness, and teach you how to do the hokey pokey. I’ll chase away monsters from under your bed, do somersaults on your trampoline and tickle you beyond all sense and reason. I’ll be there for whatever you need, whenever you need. I will not let you down.

Now, don’t think I’m rude but I’ve really got to run. I can’t help but feel like I’m wasting time typing when I could be hugging you instead. Kids grow up fast these days and there may come a time when you’re too busy for cuddles with your aunt. I KNOW! Sounds crazy to me too, baby. But you never know, it just may happen. In preparation for that dark day, I’d better stock up now.

All my love,

Aunty Monica x