I’m feeling a bit sad and discombobulated. Broad City is done.Continue reading “Broad city and me”
Continue reading “Wimmera Road Trip”
Tarmac stretches ahead. The joy of the open road – not a cliche.
I’m sitting on a bench at Buraneer Point. Far below me is the blue ribbon of the Port Hacking River.Continue reading “Jean of Buraneer”
Continue reading “The love of 2 dollies (and one Bee Gee)”
In a lockdown that seems endless, a winter that was dragging and a blanket of grey sameness everywhere it was hard to look on the bright side. I had a bad case of the can’t-be-bothereds as my whole world felt way too small and I’d lost my mojo. I rejected all my Netflix lists, I ignored Facebook and Instagram posts of happy travelling people in the northern hemisphere. I was in a massive sulk. The pandemic does that to you. I came upon Alec Baldwin’s podcast, Here’s the Thing and chose an interview with Barry Gibb, the only surviving Bee Gee.
I recently stepped outside my comfort zone and watched Top Gun.
I was going to write a standard Mother’s Day blog post about mum until I remembered my great grandmother.
Warning: There are references to sexual assault in this piece.
1974: Back row of the classroom where the 13-year-old boys take you for a fingering session.Continue reading “My Puberty Blues and beyond”
Continue reading “Summer of ‘79”
Summer holidays means putting on the Golden Breed T-shirt and the wrap around batik skirt. Summer means cuddling up to a blonde bloke with scraggy hair who smells of surf and weed and sex. We sit around a campfire on the back beach. Someone burps in the dark.
My love affair with America began with TV in the 1970s.
The first time I cook a turkey is a week before my mother dies.