The problem is soy.

The problem, my friends, is that I’ve found it.

The packaging is slightly different, it's true. But this is the soy milk I drank and enjoyed at home. The one that set the bar too high for any European soy milk to meet. The one I had considered having shipped over (until I realised it would cost over $800). The one I wrote to Sanitarium about (I really wish that was a lie dear friends, but I actually am that sad). And all the while it was sitting quietly on the shelf of a supermarket 10 minutes walk up the road.

This, my friends, is my one and only daughter. Lakisha. The brilliant first child against whom all of my subsequent sons have failed to compete. This is the one I thought I had left behind, but who has returned to me, unchanged and forgiving.

And so now the problem is this: can I continue to write a blog premised upon the search for soy when I have in fact found said soy? It seems to make it all one big ugly lie.

But I've decided, since so much has happened that I haven't written up I have heaps of stuff to write about and catch everyone up on. Banal stuff mostly, some whingeing and a fair bit of defamation.

Because I know you're all desperate to know.