A new hope...

2017, I am so very happy to see you!

It's been a long time since I've written here. Writing now isn't a New Year's resolution, but it is a goal and a challenge to myself. I aim to write here at least once a week, and it will be a mixed bag, I'm not limiting myself so be prepared for silly, serious, light, sad, short, long, made up and opinionated. But what it will be is me at all times.

Depression took my voice for a long time, whispering in my ear "no one cares, no one wants to know what you think" and the sad thing is I listened, forgetting that I cared what I thought. I started this blog years ago for the sheer love of writing and if these stories are nothing more than love letters to my own fancies then I don't mind.

I'm not alone in being thankful 2016 is gone, now Janus has his sights set ahead. It's not just the celebrity deaths and political insanity, 2016 delivered body blows that have left me breathless and bruised. I'm lucky though that I wasn't facing those blows alone; I had love and support around me, boosting me when staying down had never looked so appealing.

Around October I started saying “ I just want this $hitty year over,” something I heard repeated by others. When the worst blow came though, just before Christmas, I stopped saying that. A new year wasn’t going to bring back the people so many have lost, all it means is that we learn to live without them.

But I have to say 2017 is charming me. On New Year’s Day I took myself off to a movie and settling in to dunk my panettone into my latte I looked over the surprisingly crowded cinema. Two teenage boys next to me were discussing favourite cinemas and mentioned my old stomping ground the Classic in Elsternwick. They held my interest which is why I kept glancing over at them through the movie. I saw one put his head on the other’s shoulder, and later the other boy repeated the gesture. It was so simple and so sweet and I felt glad I was in a world where these boys could go on dates together and openly show affection. Yes there are challenges in the world but I’m so glad those boys are here.

Thank you 2017, you’ve given me hope again.

A desperate plea…

I am devastated that children in offshore detention were used as pawns to gain support for cruel and immoral legislation. 

(Hansard transcript, Senator Sarah Hanson-Young)

I am disgusted, downhearted and distrustful of this government. Lots of D words.

You see, words are my profession and I know how they are deployed. So when I hear words like "economic migrant" to demonise the plight of the vulnerable I am infuriated.

My family were economic migrants in 1920. Only they had the right colour skin so they were just called migrants. And someone with ‘economic migrants’ in their heritage, me, has made a contribution to the society, culture and public policy of the country they chose as their home.

So imagine the contributions that could be made by people who have chosen this country as a place where they can be free from the fear, violence and persecution they have already experienced.

Please show support for those who need our help and who believe Australia is a place of decent and honourable people.

You can show support by going to the AsylumSeeker Resource Centre or take part in the Get Up campaign LetterTo Asylum Seekers, so they know they’re not forgotten.

Please, speak out, don’t let this happen.

CSI: Dogville!

The following is taken from the case notes of Chief Inspector Tiffany Terrier, a veteran of crime scene detection.

Detection and interrogation techniques

Step one. Sniff it. Sniff it some more.

Step two. Ask yourself…

A) Can I eat it?

If no, go to…

B). Can I wee on it?

Usually yes, if however this isn't possible go to…

C). Can I roll in it?

Yes, case solved.

Fronting a press conference to talk about her latest case, Chief Inspector Terrier was heard to remark, “Crime’s a real bitch but I’ll leave no bones unturned to solve a case. Now if you’ll excuse me my squeaky rubber ball isn’t going to chase itself.”  

The Witching hour...

There are witches among us.

As Halloween grows near, it seems the right time to talk about power and spells, although this is not about cackling and cauldrons.

Happy birthday dad...

Today would have been my dad’s 82^nd birthday.

It’s been 21 years since I was able to celebrate his birthday with him in person, and even then, on his 61^st birthday, I would have been away at uni. I hope I remembered to call him, I think I did, even at that stage I knew his health was bad and I feared losing him. Every time the phone rang early or late at night my heart skipped a beat, desperately hoping it wasn’t the call I feared. When that call did come, at 8.30 am on 9 February 1993, I had been deeply asleep, and my only thought was crankiness that I’d overslept and would be late for my meeting with my honours-degree supervisor. I never made that meeting.

Past postcards: It’s time to meet the Muppets…

I admitted to my friend Ingrid last night that I’ve always had a bit of a crush on Rowlf the Dog from the Muppets. Hey, the heart wants what heart wants. Don't judge me! 

Echo and Narcissus

The real story was that Echo and Narcissus had known each other for many, many years. That’s not the popular version, where Echo is cursed by a vengeful goddess to always repeat the last word spoken to her and Narcissus, meeting her in the forest, disdainfully rejects her in favour of his one great love: his reflection.

Echo and Narcissus by Gabe Walker

Out of the labyrinth

He was lost and she had found him. She just appeared one day, a friend of a friend, uninvited truth be told, but fitting right in with a smile and a laugh.

Theseus had been struggling through the labyrinth but Ariadne made it like a stroll through an exotic garden. She’d charmed the chimeras, griffins and basilisks, inviting those fearsome beasts to join them for a tea party. Needless to say the Minotaur was no threat either, Theseus had his arrows at the ready, but the old monster just lowed gently when she playfully scratched him behind his craggy horns.

The Siren's Song

Her songs once drew sailors, heroes and adventurers to her side.  She sang of fabulous places and faraway spaces, entrancing them and bringing their fantasies to life.

A Game of Thrones…and Egos…

People say living in Canberra can be dull, but I’ve decided the next few months are a chance to inhabit a world that appears to be a combination of Elizabethan politics and Westeros.

To whit: the rule of the redheaded and childless queen Julia Gloriana (Juliana?) is undermined by rumours that she knifed the previous ruler, a mercurial and strange albino whose ghostly presence refuses to depart this earthly realm.

Betwixt assassination attempts by her own advisers the queen is forced to defend herself from the one with the sobriquet of The Mad Monk, who stands against the age of reform with a growing power base of conservatism.

No sex and the city

There are some people who, if they'd just had the disastrous date I've had on their last night in New York, would despair. But not me. It's all grist for the writing-mill. I don't need a superannuation fund, my retirement plan will be a best selling memoir titled Dear Men of the World: just because I'm buxom, doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with you!

The first thing you need to know, is that yes I have large breasts. Since I was about 15 I’ve been either a C or a D cup. And that’s meant since that time men have judged my personality and character by the size of my boobs. The offers, catcalls and leers I’ve had directed at me since I was a teenager have been on a sliding scale of crude to offensive and harassment. Even the good guys can’t help but stare. I once went on a date when I lived in Edinburgh, with a radio-advertising executive I’d worked with on a PR campaign. He was used to seeing me in office clothes. When we sat down at the restaurant and I took off my coat, I didn’t think my dress was particularly low-cut but his eyes did that thing you only see in cartoons when they pop out of someone’s head. I didn’t think that was even possible. And after a reading I gave at a Catholic wedding, the very sweet and very devout priest said, “I’ll now ask the breast man to give a reading.” My friends still haven’t let me live that one down.

The second thing you need to know is that yes, I’m in New York at the moment. I’ve been here for a couple of weeks, living the high life. I’ve had wonderful friends visit and have gone to shows, eaten great food and been shopping, shopping, shopping.

On my first day in the city I went shopping in Soho, near the corner of Broadway and Lafayette St. One particular shop caught my eye (the word SALE may have been involved) and in I went. I found a truly gorgeous blue organza and cotton top that fluted down into a mini peacock-like tail. The shop manager was very taken with me straight away. After a delightful spot of mutual flirting, he asked me out. I gave him my number but told him I was spending time with a good friend who was visiting so he could call me after she’d left. He respected that and after some toing and froing we arranged a date.

What a frisson to my travels a bit of light-hearted flirting gave, and I noticed that men all over the city were eager to indulge this with me. Every time I spoke men’s eyes would light up and they would want to hear more. It’s rare that an Anglo-Australian gets to be exotic, so yes I lapped it up. It’s been fun and harmless and something that doesn’t happen in Canberra, where flirting seems to be a lost art. Here smiling, holding a gaze and laughing are all about attention, not intention. That’s the big difference; it’s just about sharing a moment of mutual interest with someone and making each other feeling a bit special. It isn’t about trying to get into someone’s pants.

So I was excited to be going on a date with someone I’d enjoyed such a moment with. Of course, I might be light-hearted and adventurous when I’m travelling but I’m not stupid, I made sure I let my big sister at home know where I would be, what his name was, his phone number and what shop he managed. To be honest I didn’t even know his last name, and I was a bit nervous about going out with a stranger when I am totally on my own in a strange city. I even dreamt the night before the date that we were in Central Park and had to escape a horde of marauding zombies.

As it turned out, it wasn’t zombies I had to worry about. More like a giant octopus with tentacles. His hands were EVERYWHERE within the first five minutes. I had to brush him off my arse and somewhere even more intimate, and I don't mean my boobs. I made it clear from the get–go that I wasn't going to sleep with him. And after that it became a game of how soon he could find an excuse to leave. 40 minutes. I ended up heading back to my own neighbourhood and buying myself dinner. At least there the waitress admired the lovely silk dress I’d put on. And then a man at the subway exit turnstile admired the very fabulous shoes I was wearing, so the care I took with my outfit didn’t go unnoticed.

So here I am, in my New York apartment, writing about a crappy date. How very, very Sex and the City of me. It’s just as well I am a writer; although if I wrote this up as fiction people would say it’s too far fetched to be believed.