My Suburban Life

The chicken is golden brown, covered with crispy rashers of bacon and surrounded by rich, meaty juices that will be drained later for the gravy. I pick on the burnt edges and dip my finger into the chocolate ganache that is about to be poured on the chocolate cake. A last minute request from the kids. Mmmmm bacon and chocolate ganache - delicious. Waking at 6am I have the list in my head for tasks required for the following three days: stuff, roll and roast Mum's Xmas chicken make Mum's classic apricot topped cheese cake chocolate cake for the kids remove bagels from freezer in preparation for Christmas Day breakfast change the sheets on the bed to make Christmas Eve feel a bit special help the elderly neighbour with his rubbish bins - putting them out and bringing them in hug the other elderly neighbour and check what he is up to on Christmas Day. Usually it is lunch at a local pub with his family and then a visit from his son in the afternoon. I think he is wearing his good s...

On a chilly morning in Hobart, I am delighted to see congee on the menu of a food stall at the Farm Gate Market. This time of year Hobart is freezing, especially through the city streets. Multi-storey buildings on either side of the cross hatched city streets create wind tunnels for Kununyi (Mount Wellington) to deliver its icy breath. On arriving at the market I wander the length of the stalls, perusing the fresh vegetables, baked goods and home brewed beers and spirits. Fresh bottled milk, juice and meats sold by the farmers, or at least their representatives, direct to committed locals and enthusiastic visitors. Hunger is beckoning me to the familiar and comforting; perhaps an egg and bacon roll or a sweet flakey croissant. But I keep walking past the lines of passionate pastry lovers and wafts of fried bacon to the congee stall, Rough Rice , for I know that my mind and body will thank me for the whole day, and perhaps the next one.  The first congee I ever tasted was in Thailan...

  Tonight I was alone in my car. Heading home on a cold, wet, wintry evening. Navigating Friday night traffic, while terribly distracted by the meandering memory of a meal that I had eaten weeks before.  It had haunted me during work meetings, upon waking, showering and pottering in the garden.  I had resisted the call for weeks, but tonight the drumming had become louder and louder until finally I relented. Within minutes I was at the door of Suzie Lucks', an Asian inspired restaurant and bar that entices passers-by with neon lights and a funky vibe.  I request a small table that overlooks the square. The maitre d' leads me towards the perfect table, away from large chattering groups, to a secluded bench overlooking the outside courtyard. He recognises me from previous bookings and there is an understanding between us as he steers me towards my sanctuary, brings me tap water and the menu. I know exactly what I want without looking, and as I throw off the winter cove...

Apparently they are a thing. These morning pages.  I have never been good at consistent routines, more inclined to change midstream and recreate new playful pathways. I put this down to having a creative mind. Who knows. It's not exactly an approach that aligns well with a bureaucratic environment. Post covid and with the devastating impact on the art world, I moved out of a highly creative role in the arts and into government. The reality of ageing, concerns about financial security and impact of covid on the arts sector had convinced me that a reliable, stable employment would be preferable to the roller coaster of self employment.   Three years on I hit a snag. The last 12 months have broken me a little and I knew that I needed time out. I had seen the avalanche coming and while I had initially been able to ski through the blizzard, it had finally caught me. The most amount of time I have taken off to look after myself.  Now I am home. Have been for weeks. The therapis...

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...