Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

This story is about the Power of Love. That 80s rock ballad just went through your head momentarily, huh? Sorry about that.

In 1984, I was 5 years old. Whilst all parents are sure that their children are blessed with gifts beyond their age, I wasn’t. But that was okay, because I was happy, my chief hobby was snuggling up with my grandmother, on her single bed, learning how to read from her Mills and Boon novels. To me, this equaled a perfect existence.

Not only did I have a grandmother completely committed to equipping me with Important Life Skills, but I had a grandfather, who undoubtedly buoyed by rapid progress on the Mills and Boon front, believed that I could Do Anything. So over the long days of the holidays I would swing from reading lesson with Nan to days out with Granddad, and life lilted by at a glorious pace.

Until: The Day.

You will have to forgive that my memory is a little patchy, as I was only 5, but I am going to say that it was a warmish early spring afternoon. My grandparents, sister and I had driven from their coastal home at Saratoga in to Gosford City in order to borrow some books from the library; this was a weekly exercise and one I enjoyed no end. After attending to our book duties, we decided that seeing as we were in town, we would meander across the way to the shopping centre and Make a Day of It.

So far, so good, right.

As we enter the shopping centre there was a stage in the centre of the forecourt, that on this day was hosting a display from a local piano retailer, complete with spruiker that would give John Burgess a run for his money. I was transfixed. And then it happened. Baby John Junior called for audience participation, and from a crowd of around 50, I whipped my hand up and gave the best smile I was able. I think I was even making some of those straining sounds that kids make when they really want to get picked for something.

Jackpot. He picked me.

An important side note to this story, is that I had on a dress this day, and a favourite hobby of the time was to gently press down the front before grandly lifting out the sides of the material before I would take a seat. And so, as I made my way to the stage I began to gently pat down the fabric, and as I approached the stool, lifted the sides and assumed position.

The thing was – I actually had no idea how to play piano, but here I was – with the crowd now swelling, in front of a baby grand. I caught granddad’s eye, he gave me a big smile and away I went. I am not talking softly tapping the keys, I absolutely went Mozart on this thing, my hands bashed the keys, my head lolled and as I became more convinced that this was actually sounding quite spectacular – I fell off the back of the stool. As in splayed out on my back, legs in the air falling off.

And in that moment, I discovered a secret about life.

Still lying there, I commenced the patting down the dress, stood up, lifted the sides, resumed my seat and finished with a cacophony of noise that was so spectacular, I’m pretty sure the applause I got at the end was just relief that it had stopped. And it was only later that I reconciled myself that I would never be able to play piano, but the secret, is that love, real love, gives you the courage to try anything and I was happy.

The end.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Four years ago on my Mum and Dad’s anniversary,
I was swallowed down under the sea.
A wave of emotional darkness crashed over me and my family.
It was a significant marker to that day,
Didn’t need another, but I got one anyway.

My doctor was concerned with the lumps in my breast which I presumed were blocked milk ducts. She told me to have a scan the next morning. So there we were, driving along wondering about things in our own quiet way, my husband and my baby daughter and I. Pavement’s “Range Life” was playing in the car as we parked at Mater Private. When we returned to the car about five hours later the song “Range Life” continued from the very same place we had left it. But so much had happened within those five hours. So many cycles of thoughts and feelings and resolutions to do this and that. And the tears I did cry. I held my husband’s hand in my palm and wept. Our world had upended but the song still sounded exactly the same way it did before those five intense hours.

I have never been afraid of much or believed in destiny. I have always believed in things turning out well. They always do because you adapt and make it so. This can’t be different. If I just keep one thought in my mind, turning it over, it’s that we grow forward. We don’t stagnate or turn back. We keep on moving. I am not alone here. People have done this before. My biggest hurdle to date was to be told I was infertile. I have two beautiful kids. I can be told all sorts of things and given all sorts of odds. Stage IV terminal cancer. I will rise and I will fall. I will rise again. My feelings dissipate and I will crumble, only to build up these thoughts again. Sand castles. Wave. Sand castles. Tsunami. Sand castles.

Four years on and I’ve done it again. I am here. Living and breathing after another occurrence of cancer. I am here because of many things. I am here because my Mum came on a boat from Sri Lanka with her family, dreaming of a better life, without fear of war as independence became a reality after years of British rule. I am here because my Dad’s grandma lived next door to my Mum and a blind date was successful. Cancer was not part of my vision of my future. But I do believe in the Buddhist saying that “pain is inevitable but suffering is optional”. Life is full of pain. I’m just focusing on that little bit extra I can squeeze out of life. My life took a nosedive into deep water, but even against the current, I am here.

Http://megsheartproject.tumblr.com

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

At my Hill’s Hoist, beneath the stars
Pegging uniforms, towels and bras

After chaos of dinner, bath, bed
Each squealing child’s laid down his head

The house so quiet and dead asleep
The sensual flap of a cool damp sheet

I am of, am one, with the night
I dissipate, tiny, out of sight

With each wet item lifted, hung
I breathe in deep, a day is done

Yasmin Gunn yasmingunn@ymail.com

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I always fib a little when I get the morning after pill. I’ll say I’ve had it before, but often one or two less times than I actually have. I’ll say there was a condom (it broke!), when there wasn’t. And I always make sure I go to a different chemist – because you wouldn’t want your local pharmacist knowing you were promiscuous and irresponsible.

I’m surprised at the shame that sits around me when I access emergency contraception. It’d surprise most who know me – I’m open about sex, my body and its myriad of functions. But having been born in the 80s and educated in the 90s, I had always expected and believed that any sex I had would be ‘safe’. There would be no STIs and no unplanned pregnancies in my life – no siree.

Of course, life and sex are a bit more complicated than that. And while I enjoyed telling the tales of my time as a ‘lady about town’, I never liked telling the tales of the few times or moments when sex went unprotected. Nor do I like telling the tales of the consequences of those times.

I’ve often blamed myself for the slip ups – it was my fault, I should have been more assertive, I should have put a stop to things. But judging by the number of men I’ve slept with who felt being asked to wear a condom was a personal affront – “But I’m clean baby, aren’t you?” – I’m not sure if I’m entirely to blame. I sometimes wonder if men only feel ashamed about unprotected sex if they actually catch something.

I only really thought about my morning after pill shame this week after a fairly ridiculous contraception fail. The condom broke and I had missed a pill in the last seven days – a contraception no-no according to my GP and the internet. My paranoia and my determination not to have a child saw me march right down to the chemist for yet another morning after pill. But this time it was different. I was all jokes and laughs – much to the relief of the pretty 23 year old male pharmacy student who served me. I didn’t feel ashamed because I was in a relationship and I had done everything in my power to be safe. Unlike the other times when mistakes had happened during casual sex with strangers. I walked out smiling, but I didn’t feel liberated.

More than anything else, the experience unsettled me. It reminded me that I am not as immune to gender-based assumptions about women and sexual behaviour as I think I am. And that bugs me. I know the personal is political, but I bristle when it becomes obvious to me. I try to rise above it – be tough and stand proud. But it isn’t always easy. Right now the best I can do is remind myself what I’ve learnt about shame from Brené Brown.

Shame is different to guilt. Guilt is knowing that I did something bad, but shame is believing that I am bad. What I’ve learnt about shame is that it hates being spoken. And now that I’ve given it a name, shown it to the light, and shared it with those I trust – it will get easier to combat. And maybe, one day, I will feel comfortable walking into my local chemist and asking for the morning after pill.

 – www.anneshirley.com.au

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Choosing to be at Catherine Deveny’s The Gunnas Writing Masterclass was the first step. My year of responding to invitations and ideas by saying ‘why not’ with Gilly made for so many amazing moments and opportunities grasped, awesome tunes, mind blowing experiences, dodgy and flash hotels and memory making that it was time to pull my finger out and revisit that mantra of ‘why not’.

Choosing to be here was designating today day dot, ground zero, a line in the sand of ‘from this moment on, I choose to spend my time on this rather than that.’ The other stuff will get done or not, but its guaranteed the sun will still come up tomorrow. There’ll be something for dinner…or not. The dog hair will be vacuumed off the carpet…or not. Note to self, remembering some day-to-day practicalities will be useful, such as going to work to pay the rent. Ditto remembering to eat greens to keep the scurvy at bay. But choosing to start this process was such an important milestone for me.

Choosing to be here was, in a sad way, giving myself the permission I had decided I somehow needed. Permission to use the creative part of my brain, get my creative self moving, make things that look beautiful, feel beautiful and bring me and the people in my life joy. That joy could be in the form of a good-for-the gut kind of dinner for my wing woman and I; a mermaid tail dress up for a little friend or a carefully crafted message on a postcard to connect with someone far away. Spending a day at the writing masterclass was the start of giving myself the permission to choose to spend my time and energy playing with the intangibility of a collection of words to get it just so for a day. And writing – just writing! Choosing to be here was the first step, taking time out from my usual choices, more often than not unconscious choices that didn’t value creativity.

Choosing to spend a day doing something that my instinct was to name as indulgent – but was actually enriching – was such a gift. What a way to spend a day – hanging at Avid Bookshop (a non-chain megalopolous bookshop and one of my favourites), being outside on the back verandah (in itself, a treat for an office worker), with other people interested in words and creativity and sharing their work AND working with someone like Catherine Deveny. I have much gratitude for her choosing to spend her time with us and gratitude for her son’s desire to live in Japan that lead her to hold these workshops for Gunnas like me who are gunna get brave and get writing once we’ve perfected the art of procrastination. I’ve been gunna do it for so, so long and today I started.

www.notsonanna.blogspot.com.au

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I don’t want to change the world. I don’t even want to change my sheets half the time. Well that’s a lie, I’d like to change the world but only if the world wants to be changed.

$54.00 – A day in the life of a temporary tight arse.

Last night I flew into Brisbane.  I was sitting in the plane with my phone defiantly switched on (fuck their rules I’ll leave my phone on if I bloody well please).

Bored after 5 minutes seated and requiring some form of visual stimulation, I commence a search for reviews on the hotel I’m booked in to. I’m not sure why I booked the cheapest room in the suburb. I think I was trying to be conservative with money; I was made redundant recently and have been lectured by others about watching what I spend.  Perhaps I didn’t feel a weekend in a hotel was something I was worthy of. Especially as I was going to do something completely self-indulgent.  I was flying to Brisbane for a writer’s workshop.

“Ladies and gentleman, welcome onboard your flight JQ881. Please give us your attention for the inflight safety demonstration.” I instantly tune out and return to staring into the electronic gadget in my hand I am so helplessly addicted to. It’s my crack. It also has a massive crack in the screen which gives me the shits. But that’ll cost money to fix.

Scrolling, scrolling – ah here we are, my accommodation reviews.

“Smelly, dirty and desperate for an update” read one. Hmmm, sounds like some of the guys I’ve shagged.

“Run down, tired looking and filthy” read another. These reviews are beginning to look like a glossary of my ex boyfriends.

Ok, ok, keep reading,  Have some faith.

“Great location and good pool” alright then – this is more like it.

“Our ensuite was blocked so we had to use the showers down the hall”.

“The communal showers are okay but could use a good bleach”

NO FUCKING WAY!

I can do budget hotels, I can do simple, basic and unpretentious. But I cannot and will not do communal showering. It reminds me too much of living in a caravan park as a kid. In those days caravan parks were for poor people and paedophiles. I was a poor person. Everyone else was a paedophile.

I furiously started googling. Tap, tap, tap on the glass face.

Hotels…. Tap, tap, tap South Brisbane. Enter.

WARNING message appears on the screen – you have 20% battery left.

Shit hurry, hurry. I curse myself.

My phone is crap. I’ve needed a new phone for ages but my inner tight arse thought I could just stretch it out a little longer.

“It’ll do for now” I’d say.  It still does the job….. sort of. I’d lecture myself. Folks in foreign countries don’t even have homes or food. I can live without a fully functioning phone.

Typing – Last minute, hotel club…… fuck, fuck.

The hostess is coming and she’s looking toward me.

Quick hide the phone. Phew! Got away with that one.

$54 a night. That’s’ what I paid for the original hotel. What was I thinking? Free Wi-fi and walking distance to the venue,  that’s what I was thinking.

Page loading your results……….

Secret Hotel deal!  5 star including full buffet breakfast! Woah! Tell me more.

Usually $294 per night but as this is a secret hotel deal you only pay $204.00 per night. My inner tight arse rejoices!

“This amazing hotel has blah blah and blah” – whatever 5 stars = clean sheets, functioning  toilet and a private shower. Buy buy – take my money damn you the hostess is coming.

Credit card name – I’m still under my ex-husbands surname. God I really need to change that.

Expiry date – 11/14

CVC number – 757

Loading …… waiting, waiting.

Processing payment…. Hurry hurry.

Confirmed. Congrats! Your booking number is 57874….

Hostess…. “Excuse me ma’am you have to switch your phone off right now” Ooooh. This hostess is a snappy one.

‘Oh sorry.. yes of course” I insincerely apologise to her whilst the passengers nearby look at me like a I’m a serial killer. Don’t they realise I have a major crisis. Can’t these people see the drama I am in?

SWITCH OFF? The phone asks me. Yes I hesitantly respond.

1 hour 45 mins later

“Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare the plane for landing. Our cabin crew will be coming through collecting rubbish. Please stow your tray tables.

“Yeah, yeah” I think to myself. We know the drill. Really who doesn’t know the drill? Who hasn’t sat their regular sized arse into a minute sized seat with their knees up around their necks?  Who hasn’t chowed down on a cold and dry $9.50 egg and lettuce sandwich whilst sipping on 187ml bottle of warm Sauvignon Blanc?

My hand slides into the seat pocket to retrieve the phone which was earlier forcibly removed from my possession.

SWITCH ON

Loading loading….. ok now what is my new hotel called.

OPEN EMAIL…. Nothing.

RE-OPEN email. Still nothing.

In my haste I have typed in the wrong email address. My hotel confirmation is lost in cyberspace.

10% battery left

“Maa’am you need to leave your phone off until well inside the terminal”

Fuck. Battery dead.

$54.00 for a cheap room.  $204.00 for the replacement room.

Where did I sleep? In a hotel I walked into off the street. That’s another $268.00

1 night in Brisbane cost $526.00 but let me tell you, the private shower and feather down pillow was worth every cent.

Thanks for reading.

FB me @ clarebearyeah

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Hi everyone, I’m Jill and I’m a shopaholic.  It’s been 13 days since my last shop.

Ah I can hear you snickering now.  I know, I know – you don’t believe in such a thing as someone who shops too much.  You probably think having a compulsion to shop is like being addicted to chocolate, or watching footy, or sex.  Couldn’t possibly be true and even if it was, what’s the harm?

And my answer, in that uniquely Australian vernacular, is “heaps” (and as a sidebar, where else in the world is “heaps” a legitimate unit of measurement?).

I can tell you first hand that having a compulsion to shop, and shop, and shop, can seem harmless enough, but it can wreak real havoc.  Havoc not only on the obvious levels, like the financial, but on deeper levels including relationships (which are often indirectly harmed by too much shopping – not a lot of energy left for one’s partner if all one really thinks about is that cute little pair of patent red heels on sale), one’s emotional life (which can become impoverished when all you want to do is shop and shop and shop, and when you’re not shopping, you’re thinking about shopping) and the big one of self-worth (many women who shop too much, and I’ve met a lot since I started on my own journey of healing, suffer with almost permanent self-loathing of a mild or lethal variety).

One of the reasons so many people don’t believe in, or at least discount the impact of, overshopping is because it looks good.  There’s all those gorgeous bags with even more gorgeous contents.  How could anything that cute be bad for you?

But compulsive overshopping is as just as ugly as any other unhealthy or addictive behaviour like gambling to excess, binge drinking, drug abuse.  None of those behaviours, done to excess, is pretty.  You only need one walking picture of drunken misery to realise how horrible drinking when done to excess is.

Drink too much and you could end up throwing up on the footpath or in a garden bed (or one terrible story I heard, and I swear this isn’t some ‘friend’ story dressed up as one of my own examples of extraordinarily bad behaviour from my misspent youth in a Queensland mining town, of throwing up into your date’s motorcycle helmet).

Not pretty.

But shopping looks good.  It’s an ‘attractive’ habit, and there’s very little vomiting involved, usually. Those who indulge in it, including those who over-indulge in it, are often a weensy bit interested in, if not obsessed by, appearance-related activities and things.  And they often look good themselves.

But the internal experience of feeling unable to control your spending habits, and feeling compelled to buy more, and more, and more, bears a remarkable resemblance to the internal experience of over drinking, or abusing drugs, or unhealthy gambling.

My journey back from unhealthy shopping started in 2009 when I took a year without clothes shopping.  Not a big deal for many people (but then again, a year without alcohol, or watching footy, or chocolate wouldn’t be difficult for me and that would be pure living torture for some) – but a life changing experience for me.  I now shop consciously, and only when I choose to shop.  It’s liberating, and a dramatic change in how I used to consume (which could broadly be described as impulsive, erratic and rapid).

I’m not asking you to suddenly have a deep and abiding compassion for those of us who have overshopped, or are still overshopping.  But I would ask you to at least please stop snickering.

Jill Chivers is an advocate for conscious shopping and helps women who shop too much to stop, or at least cut down. She has a fascination with style and identity and the significance of clothing in our lives.  Among other things, she worries about the problems of fast fashion and the unreal role models presented on reality television.Learn more at www.shopyourwardrobe.com

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Of course I was fucking crazy when I lived in Dili, in East Timor. But anyone who has been a volunteer aid worker in the country will tell you, everyone goes crazy in Timor. I’ve heard about volunteer groups in other developing countries who organised party weekends and slept around like mad with locals and got right into the cheap, cheap drugs. Not me. I just had a fuckload of time on my own to find out I was shit at harmonica, get ring worm from patting the house puppy and struggle with my PTSD from being abandoned in a developing country by my boyfriend and getting chucked out of my house by my arsehole neighbour-landlords.

***

Kate Olivieri writes about shit she can’t believe happens in real life, except it happens to her, so she faithfully records it so you can be equally dumbfounded. She can be found retweeting like a fiend on Twitter @kateolivieri, sporadically writing about life in Lismore, NSW at www.kateolivieri.com and writing about aforementioned shit she can’t believe happens at http://practicalempath.tumblr.com.  The above snippet of writing is about her year working as an Australian Volunteers International volunteer in the Government of East Timor.

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

In the early 90s, I had my 15 minutes of fame across a couple of National Rugby League football seasons. The media called me ‘the feminist fighting football’ after I wrote a controversial article on masculinity, football and players’ violence on and off the field. This article focused on an unpleasant incident in a Brisbane nightclub where some Queensland National Rugby League players, fuelled up by drink and testosterone, played dirty by manhandling a girl’s boobs and roughing up the club manager who tried to stop them. This incident was glossed over by the Sunday Mail because News Limited were major sponsors of the State of Origin.

When the match against the Blues happened on the Wednesday, these abusive males were glorified as Maroon heroic warriors on the field and their off-field transgressions were muted. The woman concerned was objectified and rendered invisible, while the manager was marginalised as an inferior form of masculinity.

I was bombarded by requests to comment on radio, TV, in newspapers, and even to commentate a whole NRL match on TV for Seven, from a feminist perspective. As a media academic I became both object and subject in the media, quite an uncomfortable position to be in. Funnily enough, often drive-time male radio announcers would agree with me, congratulating me, for instance, in the NRL heartland of Newcastle and Western Sydney, for being game enough to tackle a taboo topic. By contrast, I was viciously attacked once by a female radio announcer in Hobart, for daring to criticise sporting heroes.

After that, I wrote a couple more articles on sporting masculinity, homoeroticism in football, and further explored off-field violence against women including rape. I was almost signed up by a well known publisher to write a book. Unfortunately, they wanted me to write about violence and masculinity across all footie codes, whereas I felt I had enough material on NRL. When that contract fell through, I decided to leave sporting heroes to others, and began to specialise in the representation of disgracefully ageing male bodies in popular culture – e.g. Andy Sipowitz in NYPD. Funnily enough the media rush transformed into a mere trickle! Ironically, however, while I still fiercely condemn excessive violence on-field, and any manifestations of violence and abuse off-field, particularly against women, I have become a great fan of State of Origin matches.

An old Queensland comrade has recently written a musical on the State of Origin. Hopefully this will be produced by 2015, and will then tour the NRL heartland, delighting everyone. Watch this space! I have fond memories of the momentous Origin 1 when our team, led by the legendary Artie Beetson, beat the Blues for the first time. I was actually present at Lang Park for that historic occasion.

My one-time spouse played on the wing for Easts and when he stopped playing, we used to go along to watch various games. He had boarded at one of the top Brisbane church schools where Union was king. However out of rejection of that school’s culture, when his school days finished, he chose to play the working man’s game, Rugby League.

Over the years, vacillating between enchantment and disenchantment, I have found that I did not enjoy the TV commentary at State of Origin time, preferring to turn it off and listen to the wit and wisdom of comedy duo Roy and H.G. Hence I chuckled when they commented on Deborah Kerr – from The King and I – ie Wally Lewis, the King. Also of course Glen Lazarus the Brick with Eyes featured a lot; he is now a member of Clive Palmer’s party and even more brick-like than before.

These days I am a dedicated fan of the brilliant S of O Queenslanders Cameron Smith, Billy Slater and Jonathan Thurston in particular. My friend Juanita and I were hoping that Cameron would leave Storm in Melbourne and that the boy from Logan would return to play in Queensland for the Broncos. Sadly this did not eventuate; we will just have to enjoy his playing as Queensland and Australian captain.

I am still fascinated by media reportage on the NRL. For instance recently the Courier-Mail earnestly discussed at length the ramifications of the fact that Greg Inglis’s partner was expecting their baby on the same date as Origin 2. We await with bated breath for the outcome, a battle between nature and culture writ large.

Right now I am already humming possible tunes in my head for the (hopefully) upcoming State of Origin musical extravaganza. Who indeed will play the onstage Wally, Mal, the Brick, Alan, Cameron, Billy, Greg and Jonathan..?
http://moviebuffq.wordpress.com

 

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Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time in Wonderland, Alice was sitting quietly under her favourite tree, reading her book, when she looked up and saw the Mad Hatter bouncing down the road towards her.

“Whatever is the matter?” she called out.

“The circus,” he shouted. “The circus is here and I’m going to be late!”

Alice closed her book with a *pop* and stood up excitedly.

“Circus?” she said. “Where?”

“At the castle!” cried the Mad Hatter as he bounced past.

Alice fell into step beside him, skipping to his bouncing, her long legs allowing her to keep up. Every day she had practiced her skipping, so she was now just as fast as he…. and she looked a lot more graceful!

“What do they have in the circus?” she asked. “Animals?”

“No!”

“Clowns?”

“Pah!”

“Trapeze artists?”

“Oh good gosh, no!”

“What a strange circus!” declared Alice. “One day this silly land might learn to be normal!”

“Harrumph!” huffed the Mad Hatter. “Wonderland is normal, it’s you who is strange.”

As they got closer to the castle Alice could see the bright flags flying from the top of a big tent, and she could hear the sounds of a fair. Because of that sound people were streaming in from all over the countryside. Alice saw the White Rabbit and Bill and Ben, and the Cheshire Cat leapt from branch to branch above her, not at all his usual gruff self. Even the Smurfs had come out of their village for the spectacle!

So many people, and because of that the castle grounds were filled to swelling and the noise was ginormous in Alice’s poor ears.

She put her hands over her ears and shouted “I wish this wasn’t so loud!” and immediately everything went quiet.

“Thank you,” said Alice, graciously, as she made her way through the crowd to get her ticket.

The acts were already lining up inside the tent but this was not like any circus Alice had ever seen, it was all back to front!  There was a rabbit which pulled a man out of a hat, the top and bottom of a person who had been sawn in half waddled into the ring and were magicked back together by a Bearded Lady, and two jugglers rode in on a push-me-pull-you bike and juggled each other. Alice thought it was all very strange.

Then it was time for the final act.

“I wonder what it will be,” said Alice to no-one in particular, and, of course, no-one answered her.

The Ringmaster spoke but Alice, because she hadn’t unwished the silence she had wished for earlier, couldn’t hear a word he was saying, so she just had to sit quietly and wait.

And, just when she thought she was going to see something spectacular….

She woke up under her favourite tree, with her book still in her lap.

“Oh well,” she said, “I suppose in Wonderland even dreams have no ending!”

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