My Suburban Life

I ate my lunch by the Windward Bound and wondered why there were no seagulls wanting to share. A sparrow dropped by and I threw him a morsel. He seemed appreciative and left me alone. Only taking what he needed.  I walked to the park where a group had gathered, and a muffled voice on a microphone bounced off the lawns and the 100 year old trees. Sat nearby on a park bench and trying to look invisible, respectful, small - I observied the colour, the sounds, the words that I didn’t understand. But I could feel the hurt, the pain and frustration. After what appeared to be a silent prayer, shoes were removed and further prayer commenced. A peaceful gathering of the local Sikh community. From the placards I determined it was a call for action following  the recent desecration of the Guru Granth Sahib, a religious text that is seen as a living Guru*. Apparently someone had entered a temple and ripped out pages from the sacred scripture. I was familiar with this book, having visited ...

This article was written in 2021 when I was undertaking a sustainability course at UTAS. I could have written more on this subject and hesitated at publishing it at the time of writing as I felt it was a bit ranty. But on re-reading I think there's some ideas and thoughts that are worth sharing.  As part of this next chapter for me I will be releasing more writing from the past. I hope you enjoy it, or at least find something interesting. I've made time in my life to focus on my writing and look forward to sharing more with you all. Thanks for reading x   In a previous post I recommended a podcast about Sustainability. I was lucky enough to listen to the first episode which I thought was pretty useful and down to earth (pardon the pun). This morning I jumped back into it to for more and found myself jumping from one episode to the next as I winced at the wanky words that made me feel more like I was listening to a 'know your own vagina' workshop than a podcast about sup...

Today I folded the pieces of fabric that I had bought on Wednesday at my favourite op shop. I had selected them based on the feel, design and colours; packing them tightly into the bottom of my basket to make them look lesser than what they were. As soon as I got home I threw them into the washing machine and once the cycle had finished I placed them on the clothes rack in front of the heater. By 9pm last night they were dry. The folding of loved fabrics falls into three categories;  1. large pieces that can be easily folded into thick uniform squares 2. medium size pieces that can be folded into small square piles and 3. Misshapen pieces that cannot be folded uniformly, but are rolled and pressed into a shoebox. I hear you ask, why collect these? Because one day I could use them to make a quilt, or a collar for a shirt, or edging on a skirt. One day. Once folded I carefully stack them into boxes, sometimes labelling them shirts and skirts or trims and hankies. Once filled, these b...

On a crisp sunny morning sometime in Spring I forced myself to leave my house. I forced myself to message a friend, which led to her calling, which led to me asking, which led to me going. I washed after days of not washing, made my bed, fed the dogs, took my vitamins, threw on my most comfortable 'going out' clothes and locked the door behind me. In a small backpack I stuffed a notebook, a 176 page novel (that I am not really enjoying but am determined to finish), headphones, a travel book on India, clothe shopping bags and a large bottle of cold water. I was prepared. I grabbed $100 cash out of my secret stash, that is now empty, and threw the bag over my shoulder. My friend was late enough to allow me to wash up, make the bed and swap shirts three times. She drove. Perfect. One less thing to think about and she was generous enough to drive at 3/4 pace. I am a nervous passenger. Fifty minutes of chatter about our lives, issues, angst and to debrief. I could feel my body relax...

The third week of Spring and the garden is already giving generously to the table. Stretching its wintry arms and puffing out its chest as the seedlings begin to emerge from the still chilly soil. Months ago I brutally ripped out the massive rhubarb from the back yard, sliced it into small dishevelled portions and optimistically threw them into pots full of mediocre potting mix. All of them have grown and now I ponder how many to hold onto. They are already presenting long red glossy stems – perfect for a sweet and tart crumble. Ready for harvest in the kitchen garden are two spinach varieties, spring onions, mizuna and broccoli that allows me to nip off the tender bunches when needed in the kitchen. The mizuna is a wonderful surprise and a welcome, dare I say better, replacement for lettuce. Tossed with a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper, this green is delicious. Add some home baked croutons, Parmesan, finely sliced apple and a handful of walnuts, it becomes worthy ...

Last night I had a blind date with American actor, Frances McDormand. It didn't begin that way, but I am so glad we connected. It was my first date in three years. As I drove to the cinema I reminded myself to be kind and open minded; open hearted. Sporting an identifying red scarf, I waited for the stranger to arrive at the table. I try to manage expectations, but there are rogue fantasies that take us into future scenarios. A rolling tape of The Sullivans, Seven Little Australians, the Brady Bunch or Sleepless in Seattle. Time and experience has taught me to be more realistic and to mask disappointment. He arrives. A pleasant smile and glassy eyes, that I suspect have been buoyed with a few steadying beers. I go into journalist mode; asking open questions, digging a little deeper into this man's life to see if there's a hook, a spark, a something. There isn't. I suspect it isn't there for him either. After 30 minutes of polite, friendly conversation I wrap it up, ...