I am yet again in Darwin, this time for two weeks. The cat is settled at my friends place in Mordialloc. It is about 15° warmer up here than it is in Melbourne and do you think life would be really good?
Well, other than I’m very tired, because landing at 1:30 am is never fun, especially when you have to be at work in the morning. That is neither here or nor there. I’m used to these silly hours. All is technically well.
Yet last night's flight has left me wanting.
You see, last night was the worst flight I have been on up here.
Was it bumpy? No.
Was it full of drunk footballers? No.
Did they run out of Golden Gaytimes? No.
What made this flight almost unbearable was the fact that there was a largish man next to me in the middle seat, who was coughing when he got onto the plane, continued to cough throughout the whole flight?
He was wearing a mask, but he took that off to cough too.
For the whole 4 1/2 hour flight to Darwin.
You have to sign a declaration before you get on a flight to say that you are fit and well. It seems he missed that.
I was hoping to get a little bit of sleep on the way up. That didn’t happen.
It was an absolutely utterly full flight. There was nowhere else to go. You can’t complain or asked to be moved anywhere. There was no point.
I just think it’s effing rude.
So inconsiderate.
And I’m going into a fortnight of what’s going to be difficult, interesting times at work, as our project is going live tomorrow.
I just hope to heal that I don’t end up with whatever he had. It sounded awful.
And may the fleas of a thousand camels nestle in his armpits.
A French romantic comedy. Who knew? And this is a very enjoyable, albeit a little slow one, which takes the premise of Jane Austen and all of her sensibilities across the English Channel and back again.
Agathe (Camille Rutherford) is a frustrated writer working in a bookshop in Paris - and yes, of course it's Shakespeare and Sons on the banks of the Seine). Life has dealt her some difficult cards. She lives with her sister and nephew after the death of her parents in the years before. She is going nowhere romantically. She had a flirty, platonic relationship with her best friend, Felix (Pablo Pauly). Instead of writing in French, on a whim, she starts writing romances in English. Felix, being a bit of shit, sends the chapters over to a prestigious writer's retreat where she is selected to come over for a two-week residency. And this is where the fun starts.
She is collected at the docks by Oliver (Charlie Anson), the great, great, great, great grand-nephew of Jane Austen. Of course, he's a bit of an arsehole - apparently stuck up and he can't see what all the fuss is about his long dead relative.
And of course, Agathe goes through the joys of writer's block, there are the other residents to contend with, Oliver's father Todd and his creeping dementia, and many of the normal romantic comedy tropes.
And despite the fact that you get exactly what you're expecting in a rom-com, this one is very charming. There are a lot of laugh out loud line (in French and English) the setting is gorgeous, as are the two protagonists. I really liked that Agathe was definitely not a dreamer, and Oliver came across a both flawed and fragile. Felix was a hopeless case.
As I said, it's all there, just in French.
Writer/Director Laura Piani does a great job with this. It's nothing new, but it is very entertaining. Perfect for a gloomy Sunday afternoon before big trip.
Jane Austen Wrecked My Life is showing at most of the art house cinemas around the traps.
Actually, it's a not so manic, even fairly Serene Saturday. There are some good things going on - like my bloody pressure going down twenty points after no taking some prescription meds. This is a really good thing. It's nice to be feeling more human.
The cat is about to be taken down to his favourite sitters as I'm off to Darwin again tomorrow. I look at what's front of mind and I come up with a few things like:
Do I go down to the local pet shop where they have kitten cuddles - or do I do this after I've dropped off the cat?
Should I mop the bathroom and kitchen floors before I drop the cat off?
Should I see Jane Austen Wrecked My Life tonight or tomorrow lunchtime?
And that is about the worst it gets. Which is good. I'm trying to have a quiet weekend before the next two weeks in Darwin.
Questions, as always, have been provided by Sunday Stealing.
1. What is something you should throw away, but just can't bring yourself to part with?
Old clothes. I really need to do a Marie Kondo chuck out again. Pick up every item of clothing I own and ask myself, "Does this bring me joy? Have I worn this in the last two years? Will I ever wear this/these again? " I reckon I'd get rid of at least half my wardrobe.
A lot of this is laziness / procrastination.
2. When you make yourself a sandwich, do you cut it on the diagonal, straight up the middle, or not at all?
Okay, this is a depends on what it is.
Fairy Bread is always cut on the diagonal. It does not taste the same if it's cut into squares. (Americans - fairy bread is an Australian childhood staple. Blindingly fresh white Wonder Bread buttered and covered in what we call 100s &1000s or what you might call sprinkles.)
If jaffles don't have a demarcation line, they may be cut in half straight up, otherwise they get cut on the diagonal.
Other sandwiches made with normal bread are cut on the diagonal.
Bahn Mi and Paninis should never be cut after making. It would get too messy anyway.
3. What song or sound brings back memories of childhood?
Sounds: Rain on a tin roof. Calves shouting for their dinner. The chatter of magpies. The flap of washing on the line. The shouts of beach cricket. The rev of a V8 engine.
4. Who is the first person you call when you have good news?
That depends on the news. Sometimes it's my family, sometimes it's Blarney or Jonella. Depends on who I think needs to hear it first.
5. Have you ever set out on a walk in the rain?
Yes. I love the rain. I prefer the rain in the wet season in Darwin, because the rain is warm - then again, you have to avoid the storms up there. Rain is very cleansing.
I've got to stop taking the meds. After a week of being on this, which make my head lovely and clear and which cut out food noise, my blood pressure is going up to a point where I feel unwell. And here I was hoping that this wouldn't happen. But I want to feel healthy again - and this isn't right.
It also means that to bring things back into equilibrium, without the stupidly high blood pressure readings, a complete lifestyle overhaul needs to happen. No gluten, no dairy, no sugar, no caffeine, no alcohol. Lots of walking. Lots of rest. (This normally brings thing back in check quickly).
But it's a pity. I'll see what the shrink says when they get back to me. I'm not wanting to take any more blood pressure medication if I can get it down by myself. I've been through that adventure and it's not for me. If anything it made me sicker.
It's been an interesting week. What it's impressed on me is how much can get done when the head noise goes away. Living with 15 things going on in your brain at any one time, as I'm only just realising, is not normal. Having a week of focus has been grand.
Also, having what I'll call food noise drowned out completely is incredible. My relationship with food has always been fraught and this was an effect of the drug that I was relishing.
I've had a bit of a day of it. It's not bad, more that I only got away at lunchtime because I had an urgent eyebrow appointment. Other than that, I was bolted to my desk.
What's front of mind at the moment:
I have to get the boy to his proxy parents on Saturday. Do I get him a new spider plant to go with him? And how am I going to get to Bunnings between going to meditation and dropping him off?
Do I take my little knitting project to Darwin as well as my crochet project?
Is a Nine Inch Nails song really the best choice for The Earworm Chronicles, or should I go in softer.
What gin do I take to Darwin?
What's on at the Deckchair cinema for the next two weeks?
Should I try to break in a new pair of Birkenstocks while I'm up there?
Do I need to shift any theatre tickets?
When is the best time to put in for my US, English and European ETSA visas. Yes, you need a pre-authorisation to go to all of these places, at a cost.
Should I get in on the Who is Elijah? sale. They make great perfume.
Should I also get AI to do some mason's drafting for me once this is over? (Yes - took two minutes - now done)
Should I make up a hot water bottle for the cat? (Of course - his aunt and uncle do that for him)
Is the alarm set for early tomorrow - I have a physio appointment at 8 tomorrow.
Today's highlight was rugging up, walking down to the post office, dodging the hail, all to post my poo test to the lab where the poo test is then run through the lab.
How many times can you legally put poo in the mail?
Once every two years if you're an Australian between the ages of 50 and 75.
The biggest fuck you the Australian Government can give you is sending you that first poo test in the mail. It's like the government are saying, "Ha ha, you're old. Now shit on a stick for us."
The test comes in a big envelope. It says something like "This test can save your life!" written on the front of it. I mean, it's wonderful that we have free screening for bowel and breast cancer here, that the government are concerned enough to make this testing available. Catching these things early is a great thing. It really does save lives.
But it still means that you're going to have to collect this tiny sample, fill out the forms, keep the samples in the fridge until you can get them posted. (The samples are in closed vials in a zip lock bag - your food is safe.)
I will say, however, there is just a tiny bit of joy when it comes to putting that small, padded envelope in the mail.
I put Materialists on my list of movies to see as soon as I saw that it was written and directed by Celine Song. Celine Song who wrote and directed the incredible Past Lives. This had to be done. Song has the ability to write grown up, yet still funny, romantic comedies, and although this is not as wonderful as Past Lives, it is still a very entertaining film.
Dakota Johnson plays Lucy, a New York City matchmaker, on her game yet still disillusioned by love. We learn quickly that she takes great pride in her work.
At one of her client's weddings, she meets Harry (Pedro Pascal). The brother of the groom, Harry is also charming, rich, good looking and charming. A complete unicorn as it is known in the business. Adding to this, Lucy's ex, John (Chris Evans) is waiting tables at the event. An impoverish actor, he and Lucy broke up a few years previously after he couldn't provide what she wanted.
And yes, you can tell from the trailer what's going to happen here, and yes, that part of the story is predictable, but that doesn't matter. The story is told so well.
What impressed me was Song's sharp critiques of modern dating. It's an absolute nightmare out there and it's shown in all its glory. The men, in particular, are all pretty dreadful.
Being set in New York, we see the grand, the great and the not so good. John's apartment and housemates ring very true. Ew. Boys.
The movie's big theme is we love who we love. We can't help it. It just is.
Materialists is not as good as Celine Song's first offering, Past Lives. Mind you, the latter was up for the Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay Oscars - you're not going to get much better. Yet Materialists makes for a great girl's night out film. As Hoyts has brought back Tight Arse Tuesday, there's no excuse to not get yourself to the cinema.
Materialists is as intelligent as it is telling. And it's lovely to look at. What more do you need from a rom-com?
A mentor tells me that I'm not going to write anything by doing nothing. And they're right. So, instead of getting despondent about not writing fiction, or the fact that I keep a crappy blog, I've started my new side hustle blog. A bit of a side quest. Something which will have bite-sized bits which, if I'm diligent, I may be able to turn into a book.
It's going to be a labour of love.
See, I love earworms. I'm never without a song in my head. I'd like to know what makes a good earworm. Is it:
A catchy melody
Too much repetition
All over the media
Some sick beats
Strange nonsense
Cliche words
Or a mix of all of these?
It's also interesting how I'm going to write this as in published form, you can't use song lyrics -sure, you can use song titles and the artists names, but not the actual lyrics.
But you can write about how you found yourself with this silly song in your head. And what it means to you. And how frustrated you're feeling for singing these silly lines. And how to get rid of it.
This involves slapping on some oestrogen gel, because we can't get the patches in Australia at the moment and I don't like being hot, dry, grumpy, snarly, sweaty, itchy, pissy and all the other joys that menopause brings you.
Then the blood pressure pill so my head does not explode.
Then the ADHD meds. 20 mg of Vyvance. This is the new one in the mix. It's the gateway dose.
I made comment the other day that the latter one was strange. I can hold a conversation and not have my mind wander. I can sit here and talk and not be noticing the fifteen other things going on around me. It is SOOOOOO strange. I'm not having to fight to stay in the conversation.
Do you have any idea how novel that is?
Four days in and I'm not doing my normal Tasmanian Devil impersonation, pinballing from one conversation to another, on task to another. There is a deliberateness to my actions.
Last night, I was prepared to sit down and work on a knitting project, however, I found I'd only brought down one knitting needle with me. Rather than rage. Or drive into Apollo Bay on the pointless errand of finding a pair of 8mm knitting needles, I breathed in, and pivoted. One of my mates found me a crochet hook. I've made a start on a lovely scarf.
Life feels more focused. There is not the need to bounce from job to job to job. Gone is the want to know EVERYTHING. NOW.
The side quests are slowing and changing.
I noticed this on the first day I took the meds. Rather than doing the dishes in three goes, they just got done. And that was it. The place is starting to look tidier, even if the floor is strewn with cat treats.
Here, on retreat, I don't feel the need to do anything but to be with myself, by myself. I don't need to do anything more. For the first time on retreat, I didn't go to the Bathing of the Lunatics - a ritual dunking in the Southern Ocean. I love it. But not today. I sat by and tried to get the fire going - but with little kindling and damp wood, it was a fool's errand.
This just feels different. This single point of focus. Is this what "normies" have in their brain?
I am down in one of the most beautiful places in the world, the Great Ocean Road.
I'm sitting in a room with about thirty other women being fed writing prompts. Instead of doing these, I'm getting my Sunday Stealing questions out of the way for the weekend. It is a weekly task that I like to do early.
Mostly. I'm looking for some good downtime on this retreat - as work is about to go insane thanks to a software implementation, it's good to rest now.
I'm sorry. It was unintentional. I hope you can forgive me.
2) Someone who has hurt you?
I don't think you should be in my life any more. I've let you hurt me over the years. No more.
3) Your favorite teacher from grade school?
Thank you for seeing something in me.
4) Your most hated teacher from high school?
How could you make physics so shit. Physics might be shit, but the way you taught it was bloody awful, and I can understand nearly everything.
5) Your best friend from college?
Hey, we're overdue for a catch up! (We had this conversation last weekend - we'll get there soon).
6) Your favorite recording artist?
Can I just sit and chill with you. Please. You seem like you'd be fun to hang around with. Let's go get a coffee and chew the fat. (I think hanging around New York with David Byrne would be incredible.)
7) Your favorite author?
I'm not worthy!
I have done this before. I met Richard Flanagan at a writer's festival, and I went all fan girl. It was very embarrassing. He is an incredible writer.
8) Your first boss?
Seriously, you have no idea how to manage people. I wish you'd get some management training. I wish you'd develop some empathy. You are horrible to work with. I'm glad you have piles.
(Please remember I got my first real job in a warehouse at the bottom of a department store in the late eighties - it was like something out of Are You Being Served?" He was the epitome of Captain Peacock.)
9) Your first love?
Thank you for mostly being gentle with me. I don't need to say anything more, or get back in contact. That will do.
I have bought with me some fingerless gloves. They are red and black striped fingerless gloves, keeping my arms warm. They're a bit witchy, but that works for me.
Ben has given me a beer. Ben is a good man. Ben and I have bonded over Darwin - Ben having survived Cyclone Tracey as a child, I can only wonder.
There are two cats on the retreat. Oreo, the little tuxedo fella, has already been picked up and kissed, as my darling Lucifer sits on Blarney's spare bed a hundred and fifty kilometres away. I haven't met Bailey yet, but he's a new kitten, a little tabby, and I'm sure I will pick him up and kiss him when I get the chance. As these are cats and this is what I do with them.
This will be my downtime.
I need it.
It's been a big week. It's going to be bloody full on over the next six weeks at work.
I need this down time.
And it is very nice when somebody puts a beer in your hand, gives you a cuddle and lets you do what you need to do.
We were asked what we wanted to get out of this retreat as a writing prompt.
Well, I want to find a bit of peace.
Not that I will, but part of me wants to sit in my oversized hoodie on the balcony and knit all weekend and not talk to anybody. That is not going to happen. I'm with 30 other middle-aged women with opinions and ADHD and job stress and red wine and food on tap (oh my giddy aunt, THE LAMB!)
And as I have little interest in food at the moment, thanks to the meds - meth will do that to you, I have to remind myself to eat.
Then again, this is my weekend to be me.
And I will remember to eat.
And I will be mildly sociable.
And I will drink Ben's beer in moderation.
And I will enjoy having some down time, because I bloody deserve it.
As somebody who's a little reticent to take pharmaceuticals, I fell into this one easily, partly because of friends taking the drug with great success, and partly because I didn't go on this journey to not take medical advice.
I'm on the lowest dose. Other instructions included taking it with breakfast, don't even bother with it after 10 am - you'll never sleep, don't take it with vitamin C, or orange juice. And to see how I go.
I feel like Neo in The Matrix. Only the pill is white. And about the size of a pinger. And don't ask me why I know what a pinger looks like.
Regardless, I look the pill and got to work.
And HOLY SHIT.
After about an hour, the static around my brain, the thing I was complaining most about, the noise that's been a constant with me for years, had dialed right down. My brain was quiet.
I was not expecting that.
Wow.
And there's going to be some adjustment as the dose gets right and my body learns to tolerate the small about of speed (I mean, they give you amphetamines - meth - whatever you want to call it - just in small, prescribed doses).
The only things I need to do with this is remember to eat as this takes away your appetite and monitor my blood pressure. The latter is a concern, as I can feel that it's gone up. I'm hoping it will settle. If not, no dope for me.
But it is amazing just how quiet my head has been today.
I'm not going to write much tonight, as my head is all over the place.
See, today was Diagnosis Day. The day to see the psychiatrist - which is scary in itself when you've never seen one before.
I fronted up, paid my money and was greeted by a friendly, middle-aged woman with a calm demeanour.
We chatted for an hour. She took notes.
And she questioned why I like the cold, have three knitting projects on the go at any one time, call myself a vampire (I like the dark - nothing about robbing energy or drinking blood) and how I am better with smaller groups. We talked about the hyperfocus and lack of a filter - something I've developed
We talked a lot.
But I came out of it with this statement.
"You're ADHD. There's also some autism in there, but it's not stopping you doing anything. You're empathetic, even if you don't like people at times."
I sort of wanted to say, "No shit, Sherlock." But I refrained. That cultivated filter.
I was expecting this.
She also said that being single and un-partnered as probably kept me from seeing her in the past. "If you'd had kids, you'd have come to see me 15 years ago." I found this an interesting statement.
My doctor, who referred me to the shrink was surprised that I was seeking a diagnosis. She said I was one of the most in control people she had met. Did she not see what it takes to keep up this facade?
And how do I feel about this?
Umm.
Vindicated
Sad
A little bereft
Discombobulated
Hopeful
Angry
And looking at this list, I see a bit of Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief coming through.
It does feel a bit like grief. I'm grieving for the misunderstood and lonely kid, the lost teenager and the seeking twenty-something.
I've got a lot of processing to do.
And after a cursory ECG, I'll start the meds to see if it helps with my lacking focus.
But it's good to give my quirkiness / oddness / me-ness a formal name.
I'm a bit busy at the moment - work is full on. I'm travelling. I've got an appointment for an ADHD assessment with the shrink tomorrow. It's all a bit much.
Throw book group into the mix and I think, yeah.
I've been in this book group for nearly 20 years, I've been running this one for about 15 of those 20 years. it's not biggy - just the odd restaurant booking, a Facebook post and it's good. Of these 15 years, only missed out on reading two books, One I didn't finish (Brendan Cowell's Plum - I found it unreadable), and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Half a Yellow Sun. (I was overseas). There's a bit of pride turning up every meeting having read the book, even if I've only finished it with minutes to spare.
Also, if it's your book up for discussion, you have to provide the questions.
In years gone by you'd trawl the internet trying to find question for the book. If the book was on the more obscure side, you'd often find nothing. If the book was more high-brow, the questions tended to be hard to understand - more university essay topics rather than discussion points.
Our book tonight was Dylin Hardcastle's A Language of Limbs. A wonderful, wonderful book. A book that was shortlisted for the Stella Prize. A book written by a trans author. A book that blurs boundaries.
And a book, when you look on google, has no reading group questions to speak of.
So, instead of thinking up some questions, which I'm normally able to do, but having a pickled brain, I fed a query into ChatGPT (which is still funny, because in French, "Chat, J'ai pete" means, Cat, I farted.
Anyway, my query was, "Provide a list of book group questions for the novel, A Language of Limbs."
A few seconds later, I was presented with two lists of ten questions. They were decent questions, but a little high brow. For a cold Tuesday night, I though AI could do better.
I asked them for a list of questions which were for a more casual group.
It delivered in spades. Decent, open questions on themes. Not too over the opt, but good for getting the discussion going.
It was great.
Do I feel like a fraud for using AI to do this? No.
Can I see the uses of AI? Yes.
Do I feel threatened by the existence of these computational systems which can do all of this? A little. But you still need people to drive them.
Regardless, it made light of a job that would have taken me 15 minutes and a gin and tonic.
And the group appeared happy. I'd be interested to see if anybody else in the group does this in the future.
There's too much military postulating on our screens at the moment, what with Israel and Iran throwing subsequent tanties, and Albo off to see Trump about AUKUS (Still one of the worst acronyms out there) and of course there's what's going on in America.
The world's going a bit mad.
And I've been getting earworms.
See, you say Screaming Jets to a Gen-X woman and this is the first thing that goes through her head.
You're reminded that you come from a simpler time when pub rock ruled your reason for living, and the lyrics were mind-blowingly good.
Of course, I'm taken back to 1991 and the bloke I was seeing at the time used to sing this to me all the time.... Great.
But how do you explain to the youth of today just how forming and informing was the music of our day. Do they realise that these beats and riffs and lyrics get into your bones?
They will never know what it was to sit down on a Sunday night and watch Countdown.
They will never understand the power of the mix tape. These were love letters, if you did them right.
They will not know what it is to have to buy and physical record, or tape, or CD.... even better when the lyrics were printed in the sleeve.
And they will never understand the rabbit holes you will go down when you here a phrase and you'll start singing.
So, not only do I think of an Aussie pub rock banda and old boyfriends when I hear the words "screaming jets".
I get a chorus in my head. Dum dum dum de dumm....no more, no more....
Where has this song been for the last forty years. Why is it that Peter Gabriel, who does backing vocals on this song, seem to have slipped into the musical abyss. This is the Peter Gabriel who wrote this anti-war cracker.
Still, forty years on, we're still singing these songs in our heads.
I'm just back from a weekend of what feels like planes, trains and automobiles. I left Darwin early Saturday morning, landed in Sydney, took the train to a hotel, where I'd arranged an early check-in. Had a lovely 24 hours there, before catching the train to the airport, then back on a plane to Melbourne, before driving back home. It was a fun weekend.
I arrived back to a very happy cat. So happy that on lying on my bed, he joined me, sat on my chest, then purred until he dribbled in my mouth. Thanks, Lucifer.
Now for this week's questions, supplied, as always, by Sunday Stealing.
1. I wish someone would ...
maybe tell that Brits that the British Museum is almost completely filled with pilfered items and it really has no reason to be called The British Museum. A better name for it would be The Museum filled with Other Nation's Stuff. Or maybe they could give some of the stuff back. The Parthenon Marbles, anybody?
2. When I order Chinese food ...
I tend to go for old favourites. Living where I do, there's a plethora of Vietnamese restaurants which are excellent, but nothing beats an authentic Australian Chinese restaurant, complete with Honey Prawns, Sweet and Sour Pork, Lemon Chicken, Beef in Black Bean Sauce and Fried fried, with fried ice cream for dessert.
I still dream about something I had in a Chinese restaurant in Belsize Park years ago - Bang Bang Chicken. Poached chicken breast in a spicy peanut sauce.
3. I know it's not everyone's favorite activity, but I actually enjoy ...
Ironing. I'm doing it now between questions. I find it soothing.
4. A major pet peeve of mine is ...
the fact that I love to wear apple green. I have a few clothes that are this colour. And I also have the tendency to spill things on my magic shelf (boobs). I've never been that tidy an eater. Regardless, whenever I wear these apple green clothes, I always end up spilling things down my front, and it always stains like the Shroud of Turin. It's very annoying.
5. I remember when my grandfather ...
used to put me in the back of his car - a VW Bug named Hazel, and I used to sit in the boot. I thought this was the best thing ever. This was well before seatbelts and child seats were ever thought of.
6. I am not fazed at all by ...
travelling alone. I rather like it, if I'm honest, although it would be good to share things with people sometimes.
7. Long car rides ...
are something I love. I shove on an audiobook and hit the road. Being Australian, travelling long distances is in my blood. It's something we just do. I've been known to drive three hours to go to a party. You might sleep on the back seat and drive back the next day, but yeah, I love a good road trip. I love to drive too.
8. I don't understand the fuss over ...
Labubus. I don't get it. What is their purpose? They're ugly.
9. When I'm home alone ...
It's a normal night. I live with an obstreperous black cat.
The real question should be when there's somebody else in the house?... But I can't answer that, other than I might cook and I'd have to work out how to change the Neilsen settings on the box.
There is the concept if Territory Time up here in Darwin. It is not exclusive to Darwin, or the Northern Territory per se, but it is here.
Up here, time is a bit fluid.
It's been said that N.T. stands for "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not Tuesday. Not Thursday."
And it stands. Don't expect people to come back to you. It's not going to happen. You will get your information, your service, your car parts.... you name, when it happens.
It's just the way things are.
When it gets a bit fractious is when you're are using your Southern sensibilities and expecting something to run on time.
Which happened tonight.
I went to my normal nail salon at lunchtime to book a pedicure. I was polite. Asked if I could have a normal polish pedicure at 5 p.m. Of course it was. They took my booking.
I left work at five to five to walk around to the salon. Yes, I got way-layed for a few minutes by colleagues with various questions (the big one being did I want to come for a drink). I also had plans to meet a few team mates at 6.30 for a drink.
Fine. I got to the salon at five past five. Nothing too bad. I was asked to wait. That was fine. They gave me a bottle of water. Even better. (Dragon Nails are good like that, but then again, most nail salons will do this - it's how they roll up here).
I was shown to a chair at 5.20 p.m. By this time I'd struck up a conversation with a nice woman and we chatted on while getting massaged and she chose her shellac colour. Fine.
Remember, I got to the salon five minutes before her.
Then she got seen to first.
For me. Crickets.
Oh well, we kept chatting.
By five to six, I was wondering what was going on. I started to look uncomfortable. Speaking to the manager, who was wondering about, I said that I really had to get going at 6.20 - I might have to leave. Somehow, I had somebody come over to work on my feet.
It wasn't the long slow pedicure I've had there in the past - but I asked her to rush. They also did a good job.
And then it was over. I walked out at 620, ran home, dumped my bag and met the boys in the hotel foyer.
Not the relaxing lead up I wanted.
Never to mind. It happened; it was fine. Nothing to get stroppy about. My feet have been scraped and polished. No harm, no foul, just a touch annoying.
It's Territory Time. It's how things roll up here.
Unfortunately, the planes don't run on Territory Time. They run on normal people time, so I must get packed and get myself to the airport.
Today was a better day. The worst of the full moon was over, the computer was behaving, I got a lot done, I went for a lovely walk and ate healthy. What more do you want?
Well, Monty Python's Meaning of Life was on one of the Foxtel channels.
If I need something to top off a good day, well this is it.
I mean, how can you now laugh along with this?
Or this classic?
And then there's this...
And I still sing this...
I feel very blessed to have grown up in a time where this sort of silliness was mainstream and the thought police allowed us to be irreverent.
I feel very blessed that I can sing most of these songs by heart - normally after a few beers at the op of my lungs.
Every time I went to go into a meeting, of which I had five, my machine would freeze and I’d have to reboot, normally three or four times before I could get into the meeting.
I lost about three hours having to do this today.
Plus, it’s the end of the sprint. This means a whole heap of stupid admin..
Because it’s the full moon, my emotions are all over the place..
And it's not the day to do the pre-screening documents for the psychiatrist.
On the good side of things:
Tomorrow is another day.
Darwin in the dry season is gorgeous.
I did finish one piece of work, even if I had to do it three times over because I lost it every time I rebooted the computer.
And silent a book club was really good.
You have to take the good with the bad.
I’m now sitting here dictating this blog post into my phone whilst wearing a sheet mask. I call this a good use of time.
I’m doing it this way because it’s about all the energy I have.
Never mind, the full moon will be over by tomorrow.
Tonight's job was to introduce my colleague to the glories of the Deckchair Cinema. My colleague, new to the joys of Darwin, had to have the obligatory first session down there, and I love spreading the joy. It's one of my most favourite cinemas in Australia.
And my colleague is great company, so things worked out well.
We ambled down, got a bit of the sunset (which was nice, but not as spectacular as they can be) rolled up, grabbed some cushions, reserved our seats, grabbed some very nice dinner from the caterers and bought a beer, then sat down to enjoy this marvelous film.
This is a shortish documentary about a couple who have inherited the family pile in a Sussex community. The land has been over-farmed for centuries. The soil and environs had been plied with pesticides, fertilizers and all sorts of nasties which have been used in modern agricultural practices for the last hundred years.
On the recommendation of a tree expert, who came to look at their ailing oak tree, the idea was planted that there could be another way of doing things. They then went and looked at a re-wilding site in the Netherlands, where land had been turned over to nature, with incredible results.
Based on Isabella Tree's book, you watch as the couple let their estate be run by nature. Cattle, Exmoor ponies and pigs are introduced to the land. They are left to graze. They're not fed. They have to fend for themselves. And the land is left to do what it does.
It's nothing short of amazing.
What follows is an incredible view of what can happen when nature is left to do what it does best. Of course, they have their detractors - the local farmers thought they were mad. But after 15 years of a very hard fight, the land was regenerating - and the animals were thriving. (You can't help falling in love with the pigs and Duncan the Exmoor pony).
We live on this parochial island out in the south of the Pacific.
We’re a weird mob, or so said John O’Grady/Nino Culotta whose book did very well, which looked at our strange set of people. And we are strange. We have our traditions – think ham sandwiches on the beach at Christmas, or street cricket. We have our little oddities which make us charming including many of our well-known food stuffs. Vegemite and Fairy Bread anybody? And certainly not together. We sort of speak English, but our slang makes a lot of what we say uninterpretable to others.
Yes, we are a strange group.
Our Government does strange things too – like giving out honours on Australia Day and the Sovereign’s Birthday.
A little bit of digging and you find out that these honours have only been going for 50 years, the highest honour being that of the Companion of the Order of Australia – or AC. There’s also an AO (Officer of the Order of Australia), the AM (Member of the Order of Australia) and the OAM (Order of Australia Medals). I’m not sure how you get one of these, other than you tend to get nominated and it goes through some sort of panel, and you get your name in the paper. I have an aunt and uncle who have independently received an OAM for services to nursing and medicine. They were wonderful, community minded people. It’s a source of pride for the family.
But imagine my surprise this morning (okay, it was late last night, I found this out on the plane up to Darwin, thanks to Qantas wifi) to find out that bloody Scott Morrison was receiving the highest honour around. The AC.
What the actual…?
It’s a thing called optics.
According to The Age, it says:
Scott John MORRISON
For eminent service to the people and Parliament of Australia, particularly as Prime Minister, to notable contributions to global engagement, to leadership of the national COVID-19 response, to economic initiatives, and to national security enhancements, especially through leadership of Australia's contribution to AUKUS.
Let me dissect this. This is the bloke who pretty much handed over the COVID response to the State Premiers. The guy who didn’t order the vaccines. Who went on holiday as the country burned because he “Didn’t hold a hose.” This is the fellow who instigated Robodebt, killing and emotionally maiming thousands.
I put into ChatGPT the prompt “Tell me about Scott Morrison’s greatest stuff ups” and it came back with this:
Scott Morrison, former Prime Minister of Australia (2018–2022), had a number of controversies and missteps during his time in office that attracted public and media criticism. Here are some of the most notable ones:
1. Hawaii Holiday During Bushfires (2019)
What happened: Morrison took a family vacation to Hawaii during one of Australia’s worst bushfire seasons.
Why it was controversial: His absence was seen as tone-deaf and uncaring while large parts of the country were burning, lives were being lost, and emergency services were stretched thin.
Public reaction: Widespread backlash, with the phrase “I don’t hold a hose, mate” becoming symbolic of his perceived lack of leadership.
2. Vaccine Rollout Delays During COVID-19
What happened: Australia’s initial COVID-19 vaccine rollout was slow and poorly communicated.
Why it was controversial: Morrison said it was “not a race,” which many saw as dismissive while people waited for vaccines and lockdowns continued.
Impact: It hurt public confidence in the government’s handling of the pandemic and led to prolonged lockdowns in states like Victoria and New South Wales.
3. Secret Ministerial Appointments (2020–2021)
What happened: It was revealed post-tenure that Morrison had secretly sworn himself into multiple ministerial roles (including health, finance, and resources) without informing the public or even his own ministers.
Why it was controversial: Seen as an unprecedented breach of democratic norms and transparency.
Outcome: The Solicitor-General found it “undermined responsible government.” Parliament later passed legislation to prevent a repeat.
4. Handling of Sexual Assault Allegations in Parliament (2021)
What happened: Brittany Higgins alleged she was raped in a minister’s office in Parliament House.
Why it was controversial: The government’s response was widely viewed as inadequate and politically self-protective.
Public reaction: Sparked national protests and debates over the treatment of women in politics and workplace safety.
5. “That’s Not My Job” Leadership Style
Context: Morrison was frequently criticised for deflecting responsibility, famously using phrases like “It’s not my job” when asked about major issues (e.g., vaccine procurement, aged care failures).
Impact: Created a public image of being disengaged and unaccountable.
6. Sports Rorts & Pork-Barrelling Scandals
What happened: Government funds were allegedly allocated to marginal electorates in a politically motivated manner rather than based on merit.
Why it was controversial: Accusations of corruption and misuse of taxpayer money.
Auditor-General findings: Found clear bias in grant allocations.
7. Handling of French Submarine Deal Cancellation (2021)
What happened: Morrison scrapped a $90 billion submarine deal with France in favour of the AUKUS pact with the US and UK.
Why it was controversial: France was blindsided and furious, temporarily recalling its ambassador to Australia.
Diplomatic impact: Damaged Australia’s relationship with a key European partner.
I'm sure if I fed it a few more prompts it would have come up with a lot more.
Do you really want to give this guy a Sovereign’s Birthday honour? Seriously?
I mean, if he had any sort of honour about him, he’d not accept the award. The only Prime Minister to not accept to date has been Paul Keating, stating it was honour enough to be Australia’s Prime Minister. A truer man of honour.
The same can’t be said for Scott Morrison.
I think this lessens the impact of these Honours. Looking at the other AC recipents. Philip Adams, JM Coetszee, Baz Luhrmann and Catherine Martin. A lot of people who've done amazing work in community and scientific fields.
If I were them, I'd be seriously miffed that that fucknuckle from the Shire, Scotty from Marketing, had been bestowed with the same honour.
I'm not sure what the committee who hands out these awards were thinking. They're probably Liberal Party stooges, paid off, once again (like they were probably paid off when Tony Abbott brought back knighthood - another own goal).
Dementia is an absolute bastard. It's especially terrible when it takes away your life's purpose, which is where acclaimed actress Lillian Hall (Jessica Lange) finds herself as she embarks on a season of The Cherry Orchard on Broadway.
Lillian has never missed a show. Lillian is known for her professionalism. And Lillian is starting to lose it.
This is the premise of the film.
When we meet Lillian she's going into the final rehearsals, where she's flailing. The director David (Jesse Williams) is being as patient as he can. The backer, Jane (Cindy Hogan) wants to get in the understudy. The cast are being as calm as they can be, and her assistant Enid (Kathy Bates) and her daughter Margaret (Lily Rabe) are noticing more and more that her boss is acting irrationally. Her neighbour, Ty (Pierce Brosnan) watches on with mild sympathy and amusement. Some of these scenes are some of the most charming in the film.
After a fall onstage, Lillian is sent to see a doctor, where she's diagnosed with dementia, the condition which will slowly take her life.
And so, within the hour and fifty minutes of this film, we watch as Lillian fights, negotiates and works through what is going to be her swan song.
As a lover of the theatre, I really appreciated this film, watching as the cast prepare with an increasingly unreliable star. Elizabeth Seldes Annacone has developed a fantastic script, weaving in the script of The Cherry Orchard with the inevitable sunset of a once great star. Michael Csristofer's direction is solid, bringing in the beauty of New York, the cutthroat and mercurial nature of the theatre and the fragility of age and making a very watchable, and unfortunately relatable film. Dementia really is a bastard.
This is Jessica Lange's film. She's incendiary. Every scene, every moment is considered as she tries to come to terms with her situation, wanting to complete her passage on the stage, but knowing that this may not be possible. Kathy Bates is also excellent as her assistant, and in some ways, her enabler. I also loved the fragility found in Lily Rabe's performance as her oft-times overlooked daughter.
I've a feeling I saw this film in an early showing. It's well worth a look, particularly if you're a bit of a theatre nut and like seeing what goes on behind the scenes. It's also worthwhile to see this for Jessica Lange's performance. I have a feeling there could be an Oscar nod here. She's amazing.
I'm just back from dinner with a friend, so this seems like a good opportunity to get the Sunday Questions out of the way, particularly since the cat is now with friends and I'm taking off for Darwin tomorrow night.
Question, as always, come from Sunday Stealing, and a great job they do with it every week.
1. What's your life's motto?
At the moment, "Nevertheless, she persisted."
2. Where were you living 13 years ago?
I was living here. In this flat, in Melbourne.
3. Is anyone jealous of you?
I don't think so. Why would anybody be jealous of me? There's no reason for that. I'm pretty ordinary.
4. Where were you when you heard about the 9/11 terror attacks?
Ah, I remember this well. It was the morning of the Twelfth - remembering that Australia is a good 14 ahead of New York, so when it happened, in Australia it was late in the evening. I found out when I woke up around 6.30 a.m. and it was all over the television. I thought it was some dodgy movie. I then had to go to work. At the time, my office was on the 42nd floor of one of the Melbourne skyscrapers. I remember it took me about five minutes to get into the lift.
5. Do you consider yourself kind?
Yes. Very much so, and always.
6. Can you change your car's oil?
Can I change my car's oil? Probably. Do I? No, that's what mechanics who do you yearly service do - and the garage can ethically dispose of the old oil.
7. What's the last thing you heard about your first love?
Oh, I did a google search a few years ago. According to the interwebs he was still living in Adelaide and he still had a dodgy haircut. Dodged a bullet there.
8. Have you ever been burned by love?
Yes. Next.
9. What was the last thing you paid for with cash?
I think I bought a lotto scratch card the other week with some spare change in my wallet. That reminds me, I should get some cash out - I like having 50 bucks in my wallet in case of emergencies.
10. Do you hug your friends?
Sometimes. Depends on who and when. I'll often hugs friends on meeting them and saying goodbye. I used to be a lot more affectionate. It's something that's been beaten out of me over the years. I'm not sure I like that.
The Production: The Wrong Gods by S. Shakthidharan
The Company: Melbourne Theatre Company
The Theatre: The Fairfax Studio at the Arts Centre
Until: 12 July
Stars: 3.75
There's always a bit of a risk in seeing a play on its opening night. It wasn't meant to be that way, but work and travel had us moving our tickets to opening night, and you know, as a professional company, you're going to get a reasonable performance, even if the cast haven't hit their stride.
Adding to this when the writer/director and the co-director come out on stage to let the audience know that one of the cast members had been really sick and they would be miked up and wearing a mask, you think maybe you got the wrong night.
There was no need to worry.
The Wrong Gods is a thought-provoking play about family, traditions and the invasive nature of globalisation.
The MTC website explains it as such:
"Deep in a remote Indian valley lives Nirmala, a steadfast traditionalist, and her daughter Isha, who dreams of leaving the village to study and become a scientist. When a stranger arrives promising progress and an offer too good to be true, the choices they make will shape the fate of their family – and thousands of others."
And that's pretty much the crux of it. The minimalist set provides a great backdrop for the action, which is quite wordy. The tension between traditional mother, Nirmala (Nadee Kammallaweera) and her daughter Isha (Radika Mudaliyar) is authentically tense and rang very true (particularly if you've been privy to friends and colleagues from the sub-continent and their family intrigues. Vaishnavi Suryaprakash underplays the menacing Lakshmi to great effect, and Manali Datar's Devi rounds out the cast as a concerned teacher and community leader.
Something that took a little getting used to was all of the actors speaking in an Indian accent. This didn't detract from play, but it took a few minutes to get acquainted with the casts' speaking patterns.
And S.Shakthidharan's script is tight and filled with great insights about our changing world, tradition versus progress, and the ties of family over the needs of self-actualisation.
I know this review is not going to make that much sense. I did enjoy this play, but it didn't have the clout of the superlative The Black Woman of Gippsland. I think attending on opening night with one of the actors being a little sub-par possibly lessened the experience, but I give kudos to the writer who gave us, the audience, the heads up. Maybe in a few weeks it would be even better. As tonight was the first night, it gelled well. I'd like to see where they're at the end of the run.
I was walking up Whitehorse Road. It was later in the evening. It felt like I'd just come out of a movie at the Balwyn Cinema - somewhere I go to see films when I can't find them anywhere else. (The Balwyn Cinema is an arthouse place about a 20-minute drive away).
As I got back to the car, I noticed that there was a young woman, about 20-years-old, in a jumper, skirt and stockings. She was standing near the car. The doors to the car were open. She ran away.
Looking at the car, it was undamaged and from what I could see, nothing was stolen, but I still felt violated, as you do when somebody messes with your car.
I woke, rather grumpy, as does happen when you get a dream that shakes you up.
There was then a conversation with somebody about how I'm feeling about going in for an ADHD assessment. This is happening when I get back from the next trip to Darwin. They asked how I was feeling about this. And yes, I'm a bit discombobulated about it all.
In the past, I would have taken this to my dream group. I sat in one for years. That was an informative time in my life - but as I rarely remember my dreams, it became a bit pointless being there.
In a fit of curiosity, I turned to the web. What does it mean when you dream about your car being broken into.
Dreammoods.com, one of the more reliable sights came up with this:
"To dream that someone is breaking into your car suggests that your plans are not working out how you have planned."
A bit scant.
I also put this into ChatGPT to see what they say:
"Dreams about your car being broken into often symbolize feelings of vulnerability, violation of personal boundaries, or a loss of control in some aspect of your waking life. Cars in dreams usually represent your sense of autonomy, direction, or the way you're navigating through life. So if your car is broken into, it may point to:
Possible Meanings:
Loss of Control or Security
You may feel like someone is intruding on your personal space or influencing your decisions.
There might be a situation where your privacy has been invaded or trust has been broken.
Emotional Insecurity
It can reflect inner fears about being exposed, taken advantage of, or emotionally “robbed.”
Fear of Losing Something Valuable
This could be literal (fear of theft or actual anxiety about your possessions) or symbolic (loss of self-worth, time, opportunities).
Life Disruptions
It may signify unexpected disruptions or setbacks that are affecting your journey or goals.
Identity or Image Issues
Since cars can also represent how you present yourself to the world, a break-in may signal concerns about your reputation or how others perceive you.
To Reflect:
Did you recently feel like your boundaries were crossed?
Is there something in your life that feels “stolen” — time, peace, trust, energy?
Are you afraid of losing control in some area (work, relationships, self-image)?
I put in a bit more detail, stating that nothing was damaged or stolen. It came back with this:
That detail — nothing was taken and no damage was done — shifts the meaning quite a bit. It suggests a psychological or emotional intrusion, rather than a material loss. Here's how that nuance might play out:
Key Interpretations Based on Your Detail:
A Warning Sign or Wake-Up Call
The dream might symbolize a perceived threat rather than an actual one. You may subconsciously sense that something or someone is encroaching on your boundaries, but it hasn't caused harm — yet. Your intuition could be telling you to stay alert.
Feeling Exposed or Observed
Someone might be getting too close for comfort, or perhaps you've revealed more about yourself than you intended. The undamaged car implies your "outer self" is intact, but you're aware that someone has gained access — even if they didn’t “take” anything.
Trust Issues
The dream could reflect anxiety about trusting others. Even though nothing bad happened, the fact that someone got in might mirror fears around being too open or vulnerable, and what could happen.
Powerless but Not Harmed
You may feel like something is out of your control — a relationship, a situation at work, a change in life direction — but it hasn’t yet had consequences. There's a feeling of discomfort, but not damage.
Reflective Questions:
Did you recently let someone in emotionally and now you're second-guessing it?
Are you waiting for “the other shoe to drop” in a situation that feels precarious?
Do you feel like someone knows more about you than you’re comfortable with?
This dream seems to be more about anticipation than aftermath. Your mind may be flagging a situation that feels off, even if everything looks fine on the surface.
The Duolingo app is the largest on my phone and it tells me off if I haven't done my daily French lessons. It gets quite aggressive, changing from green to red if you've not opened the app and done a class for the day.
It also has a counter, telling you how many days straight you've done your French lessons.
My counter is sitting on 998 days.
Yes, for nearly three years I've been doing French lessons.
Can I speak, read and write French? Sort of. I'm not fluent, but I wish I was.
I can, however, understand the crux of most things I read, make myself understood and chatter away, butchering the language, but still able to be understood.
Okay, I'm underselling myself. I studied French through high school until first year university, I'm blessed with a good memory and a love of syntax, form and function.
I love that the French have awesome words for things. Dragonflies are libelulles. Wasps are guepes. Crutches are bequilles.
French rolls around parts of your mouth that English doesn't hit. The R's that grumble around the back of your throat. The 'illes' which makes an ay sound. The running on consonants.
It's just better.
But what happens when I make 1000 days, and I will do that on Friday. What then?
My cat is a ... umm... oh, let me find the right euphemism...
My cat is a teenage boy.
Okay, in human years, he's going on eight. In cat years that makes him about 42.
My cat is a 42-year-old, who, for the human equivalent, would probably live at home with his Mum, play a lot of computer games, doesn't know how to use a stove or a washing machine, and maybe have a paedo haircut. Probably not a full Jimmy Savill, but one of those haircuts which are just a bit bad and that makes you wonder about things.
Of course, my cat doesn't leave the house, expects me to wait on him hand and foot and gives the best side eye.
He's also got some great little habits.
Like wiping his bum on the kitchen mat. (Don't worry, I wash it regularly)
And his little private habit that happens in the bedroom.
My cat likes to.... oh, you know, spank the monkey. Choke the chicken. Take delight in Mrs Palmer and her five lovely daughters. Turning Japanese. You get it....
My cat is a wanker.
Walking into the bedroom tonight, I find him at it. We look at each other. He stops mid stroke and stares at me.
"Do you mind?" his eyes ask me.
I shrug. "Carry on. I'll come back in five minutes."
He gets his privacy. I let the merry masturbator have his way. Daft critter.
Sorry to share this. I could have talk about the last conversation I had at work tonight with one of the managers.
"Being good?" they ask.
"Never," came my standard reply.
"Got any pictures?" they joked back.
"Of course not! I'm Generation X - we never have proof."
We had a chuckle over this. We also had a chuckle over what you do in meetings when you have your camera and mike off.
I'm trying to address the holes in my reading history. Like, I'm reasonably well read as it is, but there are a few gaping chasms For example, I've never read Middlemarch, nor got through to the end of Tess of the D'Urbervilles. I've read DH Lawrence and Oscar Wilde, but I'm missed out on Henry James. I'm great with Shakespeare, but Marlowe not so much. I've managed to dodge Proust, Houellebecq and Jonathan Franzen until now.
I've not attempted reading Moby Dick in years (An American right of passage, I'm told). I've had Ulysses sitting next to my bed for a decade. But Ulysses is something you can dip in and out of, like the I Ching, or the Bible.
I only read Slaughterhouse 5 a few years ago. It lived up to the hype. But I've never got through Catch-22.
I've got form on reading around books as well . I read David Copperfield after loving every page of Barbara Kingsolver's Demon Copperhead. If an author leans on a classic, I will go hunt out that classic, to get more context. I've got a degree in English and a Masters in Writing. It's in my blood.
And I've never read Lolita, that pariah of a novel by Vladimir Nabokov that everybody knows about, but nobody's really read (or read at university, hated it, and has put it out of their minds). It's always been a Port Augusta of a novel, in that everybody knows where it is, but nobody wants to go there.
Late last week I picked up a book from my very large TBR pile, Gail Jones' A Guide to Berlin. We voted on it at book group, and it just missed out being on the list, but curious, I bought a copy. 20 pages in, I very quickly learned that there was a lot in the book about Nabokov, his time in Berlin, references to Lolita and Nabokov himself, and rather than going in blind, I've finally got down to reading Lolita.
I told Jay about this at breakfast, and she thought I was a bit bonkers.
"That's an awful book."
"That's part of the point of it."
"I don't know why you'd want to read it."
"It's a classic. Call it research."
She wasn't impressed.
I'll admit to listening to this rather than reading. Jeremy Irons is narrating the book. He can make anything sound wonderful, and I'm 34% in and enjoying it.
Yes, some of content is abhorrent. It's a book about a paedophile, of course it's unnerving. But just as I love Bret Easton Ellis's American Psycho, Geoff Nicholson's Footsucker Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses, I get the unsettling, at times profane, at times, pornographic, then marvel that writers can go there. Now about a third the way through, it's reminding me of the book Perfume by Patrick Suskind.
And the writing is incredible. Absolutely cracking, complete with an unreliable narrator and a turn of phrase that's second to none.
Lastly, in filling this literary hole, I ask myself have I missed out by leaving it so long? I think not. This is a book where a bit of maturity can assist you in appreciating it. You're not supposed to like Humbert Humbert. You're not supposed to understand him. But you can appreciate this incredible text, even if you're being lulled into a false sense of security by Jeremy Irons.
You missed this birthday by around ten months, stupid arse. I'm still a bit mad at you, not that I've ever been able to stay angry at you. You can't help that you died. You were one of the few people I'd let gently mansplain to me. I'm not sure if you saw my eyes rolling, and you were never too condescending, but you did mansplain... I think you know that.
I'm not speaking ill of the dead. It was part of your charm, along with your dodgy dance moves, and floppy, curly hair that went against every corporate dress policy, your band t-shirts, your love of life and your more melancholy and thoughtful moments. Everybody has some give and take. You were definitely lots of give.
You're not here to wish a happy birthday to. Your spirit has mostly moved on from Darwin. I know this. That first trip up after you passed, you came to visit. You came and sat by my bed on the night I got in. Don't try to deny it. I felt you there. We had a chat. You left after we said goodbye. I remember telling you that it's okay to feel freaky about this - we felt strange about it too. It was good to feel you there - I'm sure it took you a bit work out how to move on from this plane to the next, especially as you weren't expecting it. (I wanted to tell you of another friend who passed recently - she was ready to go, and at her funeral, we felt nothing - she was up with the angels already. I doubt you'll meet her. Different sections of the plane/heaven/the next world, whatever you want to call it.)
If you're reading this, just know you're never too far from my thoughts, particularly when I'm in Darwin, or at a gig. I see you out of the corner of my eye in the mosh pit, beer in hand, dancing badly, head to the heavens, eyes closed, taking in the music.
I pass the poke bowl place, the Malaysian cafe, places where we had lunch. Our love of char kway teow - I loved that we had similar taste in food, and gin.
You're still a big part in many of favourite Darwin memories. Driving down the Stuart Highway with This Must Be The Place front and centre on your playlist. Sitting on your balcony watching the distant thunderstorms. Going to the First Nations gig at Bustard Town. You introduced me to the Deckchair Cinema, the Stonehouse, 1995 for coffee (though I still prefer The Meeting Place - anywhere but Dukes).
I miss your humour and generosity. I miss your cheeky smile. I miss bitching with you - as we could be bitches together.
I just miss you.
WH Auden said, "Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic".
With you, the thunder got way too close.
I'm sure you're happy where you are, wherever that may be. We never talked about what happens next, like this. Though you were a lapsed Catholic, what did you see happening? Or are you still roaming around Darwin, preparing your Darwin Festival tickets, going to Bass in the Grass, fronting up for your Wednesday night tennis game with your mate and preparing a gin, cheese and wine night with friends.
Yet, since that time, when you came for a chat, I've not felt you like that again. It's more a waft of you. A chuckle as I think about ordering Malaysian, a line of a song, the sight of a dodgy band shirt. The fizz of tonic as it tumbles over ice into a cold gin, the sweat on the glass, apparent in the wet season, and the condensation running down the sides.
