My Suburban Life

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, ...

At a time when half the world became expert at making sourdough, I turned, like many, to my garden. A long time love of growing plants of all kinds, but particularly edible ones, kicked in and there I was planting, digging and relocating. The process of creating a garden is interesting. In another life when I was married and lived in the bush I loved the garden we created. Planting out became an experiment in patience and as I thumbed through books about growing food in rural areas I started to realise that there would always be compromise. The challenges of growing in rural areas is the competition with possums, wallabies, rats, rogue chickens and sometimes even snakes. At first I'm sure I puffed out my chest in colonialist ignorance and shouted into the paddocks...'I will beat you. I will build fences and make traps and ....' You get the picture. However, as I observed the environment, the behaviour of the animals and our needs as a family, I started going down a differen...

I don't think of myself as a panicky person but past life experiences have taught me to be a little cautious and to follow your instinct. My approach to the current coronavirus is to remove myself as much as possible from the outside world and limit person to person contact. Prompted by my concern for my sister who has a compromised immune system. I have started minimising my world to home, daughter, sister and work colleagues. Oh what a joy to be single, I hear myself saying. This is one occasion when I am thankful for this, but once all this palaver is over, look out!. I am luckier than many who work in the arts industry. While I have been operating as a freelance Arts Consultant for 12 years, I currently have a permanent gig with Resource Work Cooperative which brings in enough to keep the wolf from the door. It also connects me to a whole swag of fascinating and highly skilled individuals. Feast and famine is the nature of freelance work so I have ferreted some cash away ...

I met a woman on my travels to New South Wales who had moved from Regional Victoria to Woolgoola, north of Coffs Harbour. She was volunteering in a local regional gallery filled with arts and crafts produced by the artists and makers from the regions. It mimicked the many regional galleries dotted along the regions and coastline. We chatted about the gallery, the artworks and the place. She was a maker; manipulating textiles and colour felt into creations that are reminiscent of conventional clothes, but a little more quirky. Outside the skies are blue and the temperature is a very acceptable 23 degrees on a wintery day. It seems perfect. However, over a cup of tea I discovered the curse of climate on an artist. She had previously lived in Southern Victoria, on a large rural property surrounded by mountains. The summers were bright, light and fragrant. The winters were harsh, dark and foreboding. They locked her inside, within the four walls and after a suitable period of bumping w...

I am sitting by a saltwater river in Eden, NSW; camped on a stretch of land that sits between it and a long white beach that I am overdue to walk. Tomorrow before I head off. The taste of steak is still on my lips. Thin strips of beef cooked over my gas stove with onions and an egg. All thrown together into a fresh roll with my homemade chutney and fresh real butter. Mmmmm. Yum. The task of eating this delicacy required a teatowel; tucked into the top of my jumper and covering my favourite jumper. One hand grasping the roll and the other occasionally reaching for the small vegemite glass of red wine as I overlook the water and try to see the many fish that are jumping. I think it’s this time of the evening when the insects begin to hover over the water and the fish lay in wait. Launching their bodies out and slapping back down onto the glasslike dark water. I had cooked the meat and onions perfectly and as the melted butter dripped down my chin I was somewhere else and much younger....

Every year my fascination with growing stuff increases. It’s an obsession that is fueled by both the bountiful crops that are picked at the end of a successful season, and the effect it has on my mind and body. My mother was an excellent gardener. She taught us all how to grow, prune, kill and cook. We had a double block; half of it filled with fruiting trees, raspberry bushes, vegetables and yards of chickens and ducks. We would sit under the prolifically fruiting apple tree while plucking the freshly killed chickens. Our chest freezer was filled by the end of summer with plums, stewed apples, raspberries, peas and every sort of vegetable. When life as a kid became overwhelming, the garden and the chickens were my sanctuary. I would often sit in the chook yard with my guitar, serenading the bantams while nibbling on cherries or freshly podded peas. As an adult, that sanctuary remains as I plant out my suburban garden with bird attracting and fruiting bushes and trees. I wake t...

Yesterday was hot in Hobart. Real hot. I left my Moonah office early with the soul purpose of heading to the local icecream emporium, Valhalla, to buy a large delicious scoop of my favourite -  salted caramel. Mmmmmm! Outside the shop sitting on the bench seat is an older woman with a large icecream cone in hand.  She has the most youthful, joyous expression and as we glance towards each other, we both smile.  In that moment we are connected through the unspoken solidarity of mature women unashamedly eating large cones of good icecream on a hot day. Her legs are swinging like a young girl, so happy with her moment in the shade on a hot day. I remember my ex mother in law telling me that as a young lady she, and her cohorts from the ladies college, were forbidden to eat icecream in public. I don’t think this was just about the risk of stains on uniforms. I suspect this was concerned for the moral fortitude of the young ladies and the risk that licking an icecream in...