Julia Morris - Julia Morris Makes It Easy

For Dan, without whom this book would

never have been written ;)

Hi! Im Julia Morris.

The famous Julia Morris you love off the TV.

Wow were only a few lines in, and Ive already said Julia Morris three times. I think thats a really promising start, because not only have I equalled my previous personal best number of times that I, Julia Morris, have got the name Julia Morris into an introduction, but now youre pretty clear who to thank for the life-changing journey on which youre about to embark. Its me Julia Morris! (Just in case you were wondering.)

Welcome to my little book.

The publishers insisted on a foreword to bump up the word count, and can you believe they wanted me to ask somebody else to write it? I mean, sure, there would be heaps of other celebrities queuing up to say nice things about me, but this is my book, and I didnt want Reese Witherspoon or Natalie Portman stealing all the limelight at the beginning. It had absolutely nothing to do with them not returning my requests on Instagram.

Anyway, I decided to do the foreword myself. I thought, its only four words, how hard can that be? It was EASY! The four words I chose were This book is great. Then the publisher told me it needed to be a bit longer than that. I mean, seriously, can this generation even count? They also said if I wrote the foreword myself, then technically its called a preface. But no matter what you read in the gossip mags, I havent had any plastic surgery my current face is my pre-face so I insisted on this bit being called the foreword to make sure nobody got confused.

I guess it was only a matter of time before I wrote a self-help guide. People are always asking me for advice, with questions like Why are you still on TV? or How do I unsubscribe from your mailing list?. Ive always put it off because I think books are really overrated; like, who could be bothered? The only words Im interested in reading are positive comments on my Instagram feed, or the cash amount on a cheque. But then I had a surprise tax bill and all of a sudden writing a book sounded like a great idea.

So give yourself a pat on the back for choosing my humble life manual instead of all the other rubbish out there; find somewhere to sit comfortably, where your children, partner or pets cant read any swear words over your shoulder that might have slipped in by accident; and join me as I tell you about a self-help system more mind-blowing than Alf Stewarts brain tumour in Home and Away.

What a fucking great foreword, Julia Morris.

I was sitting with my family in a trendy beachside cafe in Byron Bay, Australias playground to the rich and famous, and I was thinking, Lady J, youre a pretty big deal.

It was April 2016, and my career was on a high. I had been crowned Australias first Celebrity Apprentice, I was starring in TVs House Husbands and I was co-host of Australias version of Im a Celebrity... Get Me Out of Here!. Id also managed to pop out two children along the way and could even remember their names some days. Yeah, I was the bomb. We were visiting Byron because Id been asked to be celebrant or, in my case, celebrity-brant at my fellow actor and all-round delicious human Gyton Grantleys high-profile wedding.

The waitress arrived at our table and my family looked through the menu that was chalked up on the far wall, ordering their breakfasts. I didnt need the menu. I knew what I wanted. When it came to my turn, I just gave the waitress my flashiest star smile, knowing that meeting me would be the highlight of her day.

She said, What can I get you?

I said, Yes, it is me.

She was clearly overwhelmed to silence, so I continued. Two fried eggs on white toast, please. Its important to be nice, but its nice to be important especially when youre famous.

The waitress said, Sorry, the chef wont do fried eggs.

My expertly Botoxed brow lifted just a smidge. I wondered if maybe she hadnt recognised me. I patted her hand and said, Tell him its me. Im sure hell fry up a couple of sunny sides.

But she didnt budge. She just said, The chef cant emotionally connect with them. You can have eggs poached, hard boiled, soft boiled, hard scrambled, soft scrambled, perfect scrambled, baked, stirred or as an omelette, but absolutely no fried eggs.

I thought, Chef? At a short-order cafe in a beachside surf shack? It was hardly The Ritz and anyway theyd let me order fried eggs at The Ritz with no issue. I wasnt giving up. I walked across the cafe to check the wall-parchment-menu and read down the list. It looks like theres a fried egg on the burger.

The waitress remained unruffled. Yes, thats right. But that is a burger.

My whole family sat motionless. Theyd seen me in action before and were no doubt excited about the upcoming display. My Botox twitched a little more and I said, Well... would the chef just make me a burger with an extra fried egg but hold the burger, the bun, the lettuce, the onions and the sauce and bring some toast on the side? Please. Again, manners matter.

The young lady said, The chef just wont send out fried eggs.

I saw red. In fact, I felt red, because in addition to being one of Australias most beloved performers, I was also a 48-year-old menopausal woman. I was having a particularly hormonal morning, and when a hot flash hits you theres barely enough time to reach for your hoodie zipper before your head starts to steam like a fully boiled kettle. Hard boiled if you will.

I had been named Time Out Londons Comedy Performer of the Year, and won awards at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe as well as Australias Helpmann Award for Best Comedy Performer, but I couldnt order eggs on toast? I could have set the restaurant alight.

I was going to prove my point. My smile switched from benevolent TV personality to tight-jawed, cold-hearted killer. I think my teeth actually got sharper. I ordered two burgers. Two burgers, a side of toast and a spare plate. My family sat there in silence, no doubt awed by my ingenious problem-solving.

When my breakfast arrived, I made an exaggerated performance of taking off the burger bun, removing the burger and everything on it, then putting everything on the spare plate until I was left with two fried eggs. I had to shake the eggs like flick flack flick flack to get all the sauce off, but otherwise they were fine. I got my fried eggs and toast. Tell the chef to emotionally connect with that!

Never in history had fried eggs on toast tasted so good. It might have been the worlds most expensive breakfast, but it was worth every cent.

As I basked in my $50-for-two-fried-eggs-on-toast victory, my husband, Dan, remained very quiet. I think he was taking mental notes so he could approach his own problems the same way in future. Later, as we left the cafe, Dan turned to me and said, That thing with the eggs. Are you OK?

I was confused of course I was OK. Id never been better! Hadnt he seen my incredible eggs victory?