The other day was “Daughter’s Day”( Hashtag)and the Internet, Instagram, in particular, was full of mother-daughter father/ daughter photos in soft focus. Never knew there was a Daughter’s Day but I’ll embrace it- though probably without any photos as my two daughters shy away from posed family portraits and yell, ” Do Not Tag Us.” I respect their privacy – though they’re active on Facebook and therefore gave up all rights to privacy years ago. I wonder how folk like India Hicks, Reese Witherspoon and others who have kids the same age as mine persuade their teenagers to feature their photos on their blogs/social media. India and Reese’s persuasive powers are better than mine no doubt. Continue reading “Daughters”
There are only white faces on the train to Cronulla. Frowsy haired surf-rats holding their boards, blonde schoolgirls doing their homework on the fly and pensioners heading off on a day out. Continue reading “Voodoo”
My mother’s voice and the pierce of Dad’s whistle are what I remember. Singing old Australian bush songs with Dad out in the car, songs that I will teach to my own children decades later. Hearing my kids singing Camptown Races, The Long Long Trail and The Road to Gundagai shows the importance of the continuity of the small things and the passing down of memories from one generation to the next. Continue reading “Soundtracks of our lives”
The Irish bar I’m in smells of cauliflower cheese and I’m about to start watching the Super Bowl in New York City. Continue reading “A hint of cauliflower cheese, a cat and a Melbourne demon ( A sports report)”
We all have that special someone in our lives. Our partners, our children, our friends, and our pets. But for me, there is no more special person than my hairdresser. Continue reading “The hands of the hairdresser”
I’m a holiday season phobic. Just call me Anti-Christmas or Scrooge. Continue reading “Christmas? Bah. Humbug. And yet…”
The death knell of the holiday begins as the taxi from the airport takes the exit ramp on to Bell street.
My friends are always surprising and delighting me. It may be a discovery that we just share an unexpected love of a certain series of books. Yi-May and I were work colleagues. One day in the tearoom we discovered Continue reading “Bravery, chickens and a wee bit of alt-country…..”
1977. Lebanon. Hana Assafiri looks out of an aeroplane window. Twenty hours and eight thousand miles away is her new home- the place where she was born.
2016. Melbourne. Hana Assafiri’s attention is being pulled every which way. We are sitting in her cafe The Moroccan Deli-cacy and our conversation is punctuated by multiple interactions that Assafiri has with her staff, ‘Get those plates in please, it’s not pigeons food’, and ‘Can you fix that spice display please – doesn’t look right’.
It’s been a couple of weeks and not a blog post in sight. I’ve been indulging in the fine art of procrastination, plus I felt I had nothing to write about.
I’m studying an Associate Degree in Writing and Editing at RMIT, there had been a mountain of assessments and by the end of the semester, I was exhausted. I hibernated for a few days, didn’t pick up a pen and went nowhere near the computer. I was done, my slate had been wiped clean and instead of writing-I just wanted to read something other than my own work.