Sunday Morning Vibes

Sleep is an underrated commodity. 

After being woken by a storm early Saturday morning and being unable to to get back to sleep, yesterday was a bit of a write off. 

Taking myself off to bed early, avoiding the noise, the heat and the bumps of the evening dance party, I read and doomscrolled the evening away after a decent hot shower and a cup of tea. I located some sleeping tablets in my toiletries bag, deciding not to take one, but the option was there if slumber alluded me. Thankfully, it didn't come to that. 

Seven hours of decent sleep, a coffee, a sit by the fire, another shower, a few gentle chats and I'm feeling ready to start the day.  It's only 9.30. So far, I've talked with people on the subjects of:

• New Zealand politics
• The fact that Netanyahu is out
• The state of the Victorian elections
• The alternatives to Roundup
• Why the C-Word can be used by women, but not men
• The underrated joys of South Australia
• South Australian bakeries
• The joys of surfer boys
• Tarot
• Theta healing, among other topics. 

But now, I'm ready to face the day. 

I brought with me five books down with me for the trading table. I'm going home with four. Of these books, I found a copy of Michel Faber's The Crimson Petal and the White. This is one of my favourite books. I loaned my copy to somebody, on the proviso that it came back to me. It never did. I rue the day I loaned out that book. Yesterday, on the trading table, I found a copy of this book. My heart is full. 

On the clothes rack, I also found a pair of jeans, which fit. $20. Done. I'm wearing them now and they are so comfortable. 

I've also harassed the retreat cat, Oreo. But not in a bad way. 

Oreo and I are old friends. She knows if she comes near me, she will get a pat. Or worse. This morning, she was demanding exit from the Chapel. Of course, she had to pay the exit tax by being picked up, kissed on the head, and put down, before the door was open. It's cat law. 

She really is the best cat. She's tiny. Friendly, bolshie, fearless. She takes groups of people down the beach, leading the way like a sherpa. 

I love my time down here. I love these people. I know how blessed I am to spend time with my tribe. I am blessed to be able to make the space and time to write. I'm aware of the privilege to be able to do all of this. 

And I have a night on my own, in the chapel, where I can have the room and the peace to do as I will. I've snaffled a couple of beers in the fridge, procured a coffee pod machine so I can have a coffee in the morning. I'm told Emma may leave me some leftovers for dinner - if not, I'll schlep into Apollo Bay and find a pub meal. 

Most of all, I'm looking forward to the quiet. The only sound is the rumble of the Southern Ocean and the occasional passing car. An evening to delve into the silence. 

Today's song: 

Sunday Stealing searches for meaning

 I am once again down the Great Ocean Road on a writer's retreat. It is supposed to be late Spring, however last night it was blowing a gale, tipping down and generally miserable. Due to the stormy conditions, I've only had three hours sleep. Although I'm amped on coffee and Ritalin, I'm not sure I'm up to looking at the meaning of life. I think I'd rather sit by the fire in the dining room and nap.

Regardless, I'll give these a go. I probably won't have much to say - I'd like to get back to penning my novel. And I'm sitting here in a Metallica t-shirt and sparkly pink gumboots. This is my writing uniform. I can't waste this time, especially as it looks like I'll be going back to work soon. 

Questions, as always, have come from Sunday Stealing.

1. If you could go back to any age, which would you choose and why?

I'm going to say 42. I had most of my crap together at 42 and it was just before the joys of perimenopause started to bite. Fun, heh!

2. If you could snap your fingers and change any single aspect of your life today, what would you change?

Seriously, I'd love to be a size 14 (I think that equates to size 10 in the American sizes. I've always been big, but I reckon size 14 would be a great thing to be. Size 16 is my aspirational, happy place size. I know it's a number. I know I'm healthy, but being bigger makes getting clothes hard. It's better than it was - and I'm not that big - but you have more choice when you're smaller. 

3. Define a "good" or "successful" life.

If I'm really honest, if you are stable, have friends, have your emotional, spiritual and physical needs met, get to be challenged every now and then and 

4. What's the best compliment you've ever received?

Not so much a compliment, but I love when people tell me they have no idea what I'm thinking. 

5. What's the most valuable thing your parents taught you?

Resilience. 

Today's song: 

And now for the hard bit.

The car is packed. I've thrown out the rubbish, turned off unnecessary outlets. The bed is made. The dishes have been washed

I've got the snackies and the drinks and the car trips necessities. 

All is well. 

Now, I just have to get the cat into his carrier and we can go. 

He knows something his up. His blanket isn't where it's supposed to be. I've been moving stuff around the place, taking the weekend's needs down to the car. 

Just wish me luck.

At least chasing around an eight-year-old cat is a little easier than chasing round a two-year-old critter.

Great Ocean Road here I come. 

Today's song: 

Trip Prep

I'm three seasons into Slow Horses and loving every minute of it, which is making packing for this three days down the Great Ocean Road a little bit slow. 

The clothes are in piles. The books for the trading table are in a bag, as are the bits and pieces required for a weekend away where I intend to write - jelly snakes, half a block of chocolate, coffee pods, my keep cup, a brick of almond milk, protein powder... you know the drill. 

As I'm still between gigs (good news pending, but I won't say anything until the ink is dry) I'll be spending another night down at the retreat location - an old chapel that overlooks the sea, maybe with one or two others, maybe alone. 

Lucifer will be ensconsed in Blarney's spare room for the weekend.

I've got the book I'm on the way to finishing (Katherine Stockett's The Calamity Club - good, but far too long) and the book group book for this month.. 

My travel laptop and iPad are charged up and in my backpack, with the peripherals. 

Lucifer's food and litter are ready to go. I'll take his blanket and his manky mouse too. He loves his manky mouse (I just wish he'd stop leaving it on the bed.)

The car was topped up with petrol and the tyres are now all compliant and free from punctures. 

My meds are in my suitcase.

Yep, I'm ready to go away with my strange, fun like-minded mates. 

It should be wonderful. 

And now I can go back to Slow Horses. One of the most odious characters has just been knocked off. It's great. Psychopaths the lot of them. 

Today's song:

Not my election

This is not my election - but it's taken up a lot of the day. 

Earlier this morning, there was the interview, which I thought was last week. It went well. They're seeing other candidates, but my fingers are crossed. I burned some green candles to help the energy along. I'll know by early next week. Mercury is in retrograde until next week. Communications are help up. I just have to remember to relax and have faith. 

With the interview out of the way, I raced into the bathroom, removed the make up, watched another episode of Slow Horses (lastest obsession, but I've loved Gary Oldman since he was Sid Vicious, and in The Fifth Element and everything else he's done. Plus, he can dance)

The only problem is that around lunchtime, the American election results started to come in.

As a political junkie, it was necessary to keep my eye on what's going on. I find all of this fascinating, not that it's my election to commentate, but it's been very entertaining. Friends were messaging over the day. "Did you see this?" and "Are you watching?" and "TALARICO!"

The cast of Hamilton said it well. 

I'm in Australia. None of this has any direct effect on me. 

I will say, it does feel like a bit of normality has been restored to the world. People with some backbone, morals and humanity appear to have got in. Some who don't skip leg day. (Ahmed Al-Sayed anyone?) Christians who don't think that one of the tenets of the Bible is to screw your neighbour over (James Talarico). Women. Queer folk. First Nations people are getting to be in the highest offices in the land. It's a wonder to behold. 

It's going to be hard. The nation feels like some of the divisions have been corrected. Oversight might actually happen now. Who knows what's going to happen, but it's going to be fun to watch. 

A little bit of my faith in America has been restored. 

Now we just have to do the same here are drive out One Nation....

Today's song:

Movie Review: Wicker

Movie Number 44 of 2026

The Movie: Wicker

The Cinema: Hoyts Victoria Gardens

Runtime: One hour 45 minutes

Stars: 4.5

Opens Thursday

Who knew that a fairytale could have so many good feminist messages about going against the grain, being kind and accepting people for who and what they are? 

Wicker provides this in spades. 

It’s wonderfully bonkers, but with Olivia Colman and Alexander Skarsgard in the lead roles, it was bound to be a bit left of centre. 

I loved this. It was predestined. Written in the stars and a part of the moon cycle. It's the perfect film to go to with your friends, sit back and enjoy. 

The story is based on a short story, The Wicker Husband by Ursula Wills. 

It tells the tale of the local fisherwoman (Olivia Colman), ostracised by the village locals for not conforming to the social norms of the day. Unmarried, she lives alone outside of the village. The rest of the women in the town are kept under then thumbs of their rather tedious husbands. Women are married by having a metal collar placed around their necks. Joy. 

After a wedding tradition goes wrong, where she does the equivalent of catching the bouquet at the wedding, she asks the local basket weaver (Peter Dinklage) to make her a husband. This he does. 

A month later the fisherwoman turns up at the church and her husband is present in the wicker form of Alexander Skarsgard. Oh my. The basket weaver did a bloody good job. 

The other thing about the wicker husband is that he lacks the social norms that have made the men so, to be frank, awful. The wicker husband is kind, attentive, helpful. He pays lots of attention to his bride, who doesn't always know what to do with all of this. 

The women of the village, particularly the tailor's wife (Elizabeth Debicki) aren't happy with this. They get jealous and start rumours about the wicker husband. The men of the village can't see what they're doing wrong - like they've always had control of their wives. 

In the end, all of the rumours and back biting come to a head, with consequences for the whole town . 

I will say no more. 

Anything with Olivia Colman in it is going to be wonderful. She's brilliant in this. Alexander Skarsgard, under some amazing makeup and costumes, is perfect as her wicker groom. And the rest of the town is a hoot. Nobody has a name. The dishwasher, the drunk, the tailor and their wives. It's very cool.

Eleanor Wilson and Alex Huston Fischer have done a wonderful job of writing and directing this joyous fable about finding your person, no matter what the greater society says about your choices. As gorgeous as this film is, the feminist message is strong, but not that is slaps you about the face. 

See it. It's wonderful. 

Today's song:

Two Hours in Brunswick

I’m an adult. This means that when the tyre light goes off in my car, I make my way to a servo to check the tyres. Because I am an adult. I’m also going down the Great Ocean Road on the weekend, the last thing I need is a flat tyre. Considering when I checked the tyres yesterday, the back driver’s side one was down to 5 PSI, this had to be done fast. 

I rang what used to be called Kmart Tyre and Auto (not rebranded with a new wanky corporate name). They couldn’t fit me in at the Richmond Branch, but they could get me into the one in Brunswick at 11 am. 

It me, Brunswick is another country. 

I live in Richmond. I get Richmond. I love the different pockets or Richmond, its ever changing viewpoints and cafes and ‘flora and fauna’ as one of my neighbours calls it. (This is the same neighbour who dobbed in my friend Lola the Border Collie, who comes to work with her builder dad and demands snacks at the back doors of the local restaurants.) I’m used to the community. 

I don’t feel that in Brunswick. 

Regardless, the tyre needs fixing, tomorrow is a public holiday and as I’m between jobs, what else do I have to do. So Brunswick it is. 

I make my way out here, running the gauntlet down Hoddle Street and Alexandra Avenue. The traffic is good. Then I remember that it’s a fake public holiday as tomorrow is Horse Race Day, something I don’t give two rats about. If I was working, I’m probably be pissed off as it’s an unnecessary day off with no pay. 

Arrive at the tyre place. Park the car, go into reception, where I’m greeted by a harried young bloke named Lewis. Fixing a puncture shouldn’t take more than an hour. He asks if I can come back at two. Three hours away. Unfortunately they’re six men down. Something about a ‘stomach bug’ going through meaning nobody has turned up. 

“Umm, you want me to hang around Brunswick for three hours?”

“Would you mind?”

“I come from Richmond, umm…”

“How about come back at one?”

“Okay, thanks. I can occupy myself for two hours. I’ll find the library.” 

Thankfully, I’ve brought along my charged up iPad. 

Anyway, I feel like a fish out of water here in Brunswick. I don’t have a wolf cut. I don’t have an staffie or a greyhound in tow. Although I’m wearing black and a denim jacket and Birkenstocks I don’t feel like they’re the right cut or style. Being a fake public holiday, most of the coffee shops appear to be closed, and I’m not really feeling like ramen, sushi, Mexican or kebab for breakfast (I was hoping to get home and have lunch from food in my fridge, but I’m getting a bit peckish).

There are great op shops, but they’re expensive. I wandered into Dangerfield, but reminded myself that I’m trying to get out of my goth phase. 

There was this awesome second-hand grocer, Cheaper By Miles, where I found some gnocchi, cheese and dumplings for $10 - bargain!

Now, I’m sitting in the library, where the wifi is plentiful and I’m out of the rain, and hopefully the harried Lewis will be able to get my tyre fixed.

Still, I feel like a fish out of water in this little pocket of town. It’s strange that this area of town some five kilometres away feels like another world. 

Today’s song: