All posts filed under: writing

Prepare to lie. Prepare to buy. Prepare to die. Part One

Published by

Following on from my last post about childhood and Mum Down the long lane, I woke up this morning and thought about the lies I learnt to tell from a very young age. ‘Yes, I’m fine’. ‘Yes, this dress is nice’. ‘Yes, I’m enjoying this birthday party, thank you for coming.’ I was taught so easily; coached at daycare, by my parents, by books about good little princesses. As a sensitive child, learning to tune in to others around me, I quickly figured out that it could hurt people if I told the absolute truth, so I didn’t. Perhaps your experience is similar? One of my earliest memories is crystal clear, and can only be mine (no prompting with an old photo, or someone else’s version of what happened). I’m almost 3 & a half, being taken to visit my new little brother in hospital, as he’s just been born; I’m assuming Dad took me. I remember walking into the room, and approaching the single bed. Mum was lying there, cuddling him as he lay …

Home for two weeks today, and had a visit from my [dead] Grandma

Published by

The jetlag has gone. The season of European winter, chilling my bone marrow, has gone. The tangled history of my childhood and youth has slipped more than 10,000 miles away again. My quiet heart yearning for France has been replaced by the delight of my dear friends, cute home, happy cat, and humid, tropical lifestyle in Australia. Son ‘15’ and I are having a little break from each other’s company (till approx. January 2016 he reckons), which gives me back the freedom I’d missed to just be Me: read, write, garden, walk on the beach at sunset, all without speaking, or providing for/tidying up after a teenager. Bliss. Can you tell there’s a ‘But’ coming? I remember learning years ago, on some college communication course, that anything positive you’ve said is then negated by the use of the word ‘But’ afterwards… So everything I’ve said above is actually true, AND YET I’ve also felt misplaced. Rebellious and resentful even. Coming home here is like coming back to your Mum’s house when you’re 23: you’ve been …

Mum vs Teenager & Teenager vs Mum

Published by

Let me start by saying son ‘15’ is awesome. 90% of the time, he’s smart, funny, pretty thoughtful. But oh boy, that other 10% is so stubborn, so critical, so dismissive! And of course, that’s his job: he’s being a Teenager, which involves the rejection of, and rebellion against, parental control, advice, and even experience. I get that. I did that. I did that massively, and my Mum (who turns 80 next year) would probably add that I still do. But when we’re in Barcelona, a place neither of us has ever been before, and a place I’m pretty certain I’ll never come to again, and it’s our first full day here, and I’ve bought tickets online worth $80 to get into the Gaudi-designed ‘Park Guell’, and we need to be there by 10.15am for our entry in the 10.30-11 time slot, and you, dearest ‘15’, want to watch surf movie clips on Instagram while dawdling over getting ready to go (me having been up for nearly 2 hours already, and gone to get the necessary …

Like bunting, her voice strings itself through the house

Published by

‘À table mes enfants, à table!’ We can hear her no matter where we are. Squat legs running down a wide hallway, heading for the third room on the right. The walls and ceilings reach as high as the sky; grown ups are as tall as giants. The woman’s voice calls us all, and squat legs are running in from the garden too. It’s hot out there, and the sunlight almost blinding; I prefer the cooler, quieter places inside. I’m eager to grab my reward though, chattering with the other small ones who also want what’s being offered. I wash my hands, clumsily rolling short fingers over each other, dropping the soap, and splashing cold water. The green drying cloth is rough on my soft skin, but I’m nearly ready! Four of us to a table, with tiny matching coloured plastic chairs. At lunchtime my legs will get sticky and hot on the seat, but it’s still early, so I know I can wriggle and kick. The talking and excitement reaches its peak, and of …

My middle name is Lucky, and here’s why

Published by

“Flash fiction” short story from France: My 76 year-old Aunt ‘M’ and I took her little Golf car into nearby Riberac yesterday. We were going to send postcards back to Australia, wander the shops, and of course, find Wi-Fi to check emails. Where should we park? We drove around the ancient town, narrow lanes not designed for motor vehicles, and got caught in a one-way system round a free carpark; finally, we settled on a spot in the shade, neatly lined up with all the Peugeots and Renaults. We had 1.5 hours ‘Gratuite’ or free, according to the sign; perfect. Imagine how pissed off I was when I came back 1.45 hours later to find a big fat ticket under the windscreen wiper! I couldn’t believe it. I stood there next to the car, frowning and sighing. An old man walking past noticed me, so I went over and stumbled (in French) “What is this and why?”, waving the ticket at him, knowing that the French all love a good complaint about fines and rules. …

Prose: phosphate of calcium- John Berger

Published by

I used to share an old wooden school house with two friends. My bedroom was the attic, and because we were all under 30 and single, there were countless noisy dinners, impromptu dance parties, and deep meaningful conversations from bath tub to kitchen (there was no door on either room). Because we were all under 30 and single, there was also a lot of lovin’ and romance. And because the house was very old, with thick wooden floorboards and rickety walls, chocked up on stumps to keep it out of flood waters, if any of us made love, the house would literally sway. Just a little, but enough to know. On a wall near my mattress on the floor, under the green cotton mosquito net, I had a handwritten copy of something I’d found while researching ideas for a dance piece. I’d stuck it up and taken it down as I’d moved from house to house, so it was stained and somewhat torn. But it hummed with possibility for me; I read it quietly sometimes …

Dear Society, incl Kim Kardashian

Published by

I turned 49 last month. I feel like 25 on the inside, but I don’t look it. I have silver hair, crow’s feet and forehead wrinkles, a double chin, the beginning of a saggy neck, cellulite, varicose veins, and a wide variety of moles/skin tags/blemishes. Yet I have strong legs from running and walking on the beach listening to the Arctic Monkeys, from swing dancing every week, and doing 5Rhythms too. I have a great arse for the same reasons (plus Pilates). I have clear blue eyes, great smile, delicate ears, fine fingers, nice toes. My hair has an interesting curl when it’s wet. I am kind, generous, cheeky as hell, playful, honest, and creative. I can also be grumpy (especially when tired), a bit of a stress head about details like punctuation and punctuality, and stubbornly like my own way most of the time. I’m also a bitch when I’m hungry, or conversely, when I’ve eaten too much sugar. The point of this post is that we ALL have it ALL: the good body …