Ahem. Some very important matters.

I had my first homesick meltdown yesterday. It's a long weekend here for the celebration of Foundation Day (fairly self explanatory). I had a conversation with a colleague on Friday about her plans for the weekend. She replied that she would just be catching up with friends. Yesterday I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness that I couldn't do that too. It's ok. I've moved on. Just a shame I had to have the meltdown in the middle of a crowded shopping mall. Poor Fella.

I seem to have accidentally lost a little weight since we arrived here. Breaking out my winter clothes has revealed a not so snug fit in the trouser department. I put it down to the aforementioned lack of friends resulting in a lower volume of alcohol consumption. It's all swings and roundabouts, isn't it? My point is that I realised that I haven't yet reported on the drinking scene here - which seems very remiss for a blog that claims to be offering some kind of insight into this great Western land.

So, let's start with glass sizes and nomenclature. The standards sizes here are pint and middy (or half-pint). But we regularly find ourselves pining for a schooner. I find with a pint that I feel full and over it after I've drunk about the equivalent of a schooner. And a middy is over too quickly. *sigh*  What is a gal to do?

I think it's a particularly Freo thing, but you're in luck if you love boutique beer, micro-breweries and obscure imports. If, however, like the Fella, you often just want a beer that tastes like beer, let's say a Carlton Draught (or Car'n as it's more properly pronounced) then you may find yourself regularly cursing. Access to cider is patchy, particularly if you have drunk enough Pip Squeak to last a lifetime. A few places have Bulmers. And I am rediscovering the delights of beer.

And finally we need to address the issue of the Sunday Session (or Sunday sesh). The concept is that one attends the public house early on a Sunday afternoon, preferably one with a water vista of some sort, or at least an outdoor drinking region. Once in attendance with one's companions the aim is to imbibe many a large beverage until it is time to return home at around 9pm, presumably in preparation for a slow Monday morning at work. Popular venues include the Cottesloe Beach Hotel (or 'the Cot' in the local venacular) and the Leederville Hotel (which seems to be a popular location for bare knuckle boxing). It is indeed a failing of mine that this phenomenon has largely escaped my anthropological attentions. Quite frankly, I have become timid and reclusive with advancing age.

There are of course, some very important and complimentary things to say about wine in WA. But I will save that for our trip to Margaret River.

Now, in an entirely unrelated matter. Let's talk cheese. Big cheese. My favourite local Italian grocer, Galati and Sons has had this enormous um, slab? column? trunk? of cheese hanging near the deli counter since I first discovered the shop.

I don't know how long it has been there (there's a reason I've never used that Media degree). But, more importantly, last weekend was time to take it down and eat it. It became a little festival all of its own. Olive oil, Chinotto, chocolate and coffeee tastings were set up outside. Three hardworking musicians scraped away in the corner. And then, there was the cheese.

They worked from the top, on the ladder, sawing away at it like an errant tree branch.

And then slicing, weighing and selling it. Did I buy a chunk? I did not. I don't say this often about cheese, but it didn't really do it for me. It was all a bit too warm and funky. But was it a great spectacle? Indeed.