Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

What do I think?

What do I think?

Who wants to know what I think?

I’m just a nearly forty mum of two from the outer suburbs. I couldn’t possibly have something to say.

I have a dog. And a cat, seven chickens and a husband.

I’m on the grants committee on the school council.

I have a renovated house, and a car. I do yoga, with an enthusiastic, spiritual young teacher with the energy of a puppy and many tattoos.

I have safe-length blonde hair, and now I get highlights put in regularly, by my friend, who is a hairdresser.

I eat ethically sourced meat, and I take the kids to the beach in summer.

Most days I try to pretend that I don’t think.

That I don’t think about how much I’ve let motherhood crush creativity, about the life that could have been mine if I’d followed my own agenda and not married, not bred.

That I don’t think about the what-ifs and the whyfores of choices – mine, other people’s, and why we choose the same things over again and again and again.

That I don’t think about whether a suburban life of work, tv, kids and weekend lawn mowing is all that there is, and why so many people settle for that and teach their kids that that is all there is too.

That I don’t think about the happy accident of my existence. Of how my Baba, my mother’s mother, was displaced by the second world war, and only found her brothers again fifty years later, living in the village that the Germans took her from, but who never saw her own mother again.

That I don’t think about how I won’t get to live in other places long enough to become a local in each one, to put down roots, to be able to say, “Back when I lived in Tobago…” (or Taiwan, or Tierra del Fuego.)

That I don’t think about who I used to be, before I somehow settled without noticing for the life I have now.

I put a photo of me from 1999 on the fridge a couple of months ago. It’s a photo of myself and two friends, camping for New Year’s Eve at the turn of the millennium. I’m wearing sparkly green pants, a petticoat dyed green, a top made from a pair of black stockings, and my head’s shaved, the stubble dyed fluoro orange. I’m smiling, I’m independent. I know who I am.

I made money life modelling for artists, dancing in a floorshow and, at the point this photo was taken, was going to work at Earthcore for the biggest New Year’s eve of the century.

It took my kids more than a week to notice the photo, and more than three to ask who it was on there, and why it was on the fridge.

Neither of them recognised me.

The kicker is that I still feel like that me, on the inside.

And I look at my mum, and know that she feels like her younger self inside too, without the arthritic hands and hip replacement pirate walk that she has now. Inside, she’s bright young thing, making her parents proud and going to university, the first one in her family, and sneaking off with good Russian boys in sports cars on dates.

So the kids didn’t recognise me, and neither did I, but in reverse.

I don’t recognise the me that I am now.

Inside, I’m still the activist feminist ballet dancing, life modelling, idealistic radical showgirl in the photo.

I have a station wagon family car.

I have a veggie patch with weeds in it, and unkempt lawns.

I walk the dog through the safe little suburb where I live, and I take the kids to their activities.

I teach my son about feelings, and about consent. My daughter about boundaries and “no”.

I rail about feminism and despair that it’s STILL got a huge way to go.

I publicise gender pay gap day, and explain endlessly why it’s important.

I support causes and volunteer sometimes.

And I think, “What would that me in the photo do?”

And some days I do that.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

My time at Wesley College seemed pretty normal right up until I was expelled. Dad went to Wesley, at great cost to his parents, I’m constantly reminded, and so I had to attend under the same stringencyies. Dad, being in the Church, felt that his service to God would provide a discounted entry , regardless of my academic and sporting abilities.

Well, that didn’t work. Not sure if it was because Dad’s God was different to the College’s God or all students were treated equal in God’s eyes.

I was in my third year at the boys only school and had created a bit of notoriety by being a minor wag and conducting a few pranks – dishwashing liquid in the water fountain, graffiti on the newly painted walls – and the like. Even rang up an escort agency to get some intros to girls that might want to come to the upcoming school social.

But the big one that cleared the tuck shop line for me was the bomb hoax. Mr Brown (no relation) had recently terrified Sydney with the threat of a bomb exploding in a mid-air Qantas flight. If the fight went below a certain altitude, then the bomb would detonate. Not sure what the demands were, but I suppose it was cash. The plane circled for hours while a solution was found, and thankfully a solution was found because I can find no historical reference to a bomb in a plane exploding over Sydney in the 1970’s.

Next day I was in the middle of a tedious Thursday afternoon Chemistry lesson. I didn’t hate the teacher, even though he was the deputy principal, I just hated the subject and the formulas and the symbols on the board.  My ears did prick up when the teacher reminded us that next Tuesday’s lesson after lunch will be a test. Not sure now why tests warranted such panic amongst students – it wasn’t as though they would be expelled from school. I suppose a test result is passed back to your parents and if they are paying big bucks for sending you to school at Wesley, they will want to see some pretty good test results.

Next Tuesday was nearing, although its imminent arrival didn’t prompt me to work any harder in preparation for the test.

It did make me think of another solution. Something really disruptive, like a bomb hoax.  When I mentioned the idea to my best friend since Primary School – Craig Inglis – it was only an idea. But Craig thought that it was worth doing and eagerly gave me the nod of conspiratorial approval.

“Yes,” he said with wide eyes. “Tuesday lunch time. Just ring the police and tell them that there is a bomb at Wesley College.”

He was script writing for me. I needed to earn some commercial benefit from this activity so I added a ransom note to the end of the instruction – something along the lines of:

“If you want to know where it is leave $10,000 underneath the plaque outside the Town Hall.”

I know about the plaque outside of the Town Hall, because my grandfather had his name on it as a founding Councillor. I have only just now realised that that could have given me away to any half astute detective.

I wasn’t thinking detection when I floated the idea, and to prove it I told every boy in the class what I was about to do.

Ring! Ring!

“Is that the South Perth police?”

“There is a bomb at Wesley College and if you want to do know where it is, leave $10,000 underneath the plaque outside of the town hall.”

There, it was done.

I didn’t REALLY think the police would take any notice of such a juvenile voice making such a juvenile threat.

The lunch bell went and we all filed into our classes, mine being the Chemistry test. We perched ourselves on the various stools in the Mildred Manning Science Lab and waited to receive the test papers. As usual I sat in the back row, next to Daniel Sephton and Squeaky Harrison. Tests were very formal and as usual everyone had to receive their test paper before we could start.

It was at this point that a message was delivered to our teacher. The Year Level Coordinator arrived, whispered something to our teacher, and their was a general slumping of disappointed shoulders. My teacher turned to speak to the class.

“Stop what you are doing and listen.”

My heart pounded.

“Some idiot has threatened the school with a bomb and we all need to evacuate now.”

And this was the point of no return.

Every kid in the class turned and stared at me, in wonder, in admiration, with incredulousness.

We were all guided out the door by the school prefects down to the pine avenue near the rear of the school, away from any school buildings and past the bike shed. I didn’t get very far before two prefects pulled me aside and asked that I go with them to the Principal’s office. I knew that the Principal didn’t need advice on how to find the bomb. I knew I was in deep shit.

I was taken straight in to the enormous Principal’s office, book lined, Chesterfield seats and couches, and two policemen. The gig was up and I was nabbed.

Did I? Why did I? Anyone else involved? Is there a bomb? Why? Why?

Who knows what answers I gave, and whether they affected the outcome.

It was the first time I had been driven in a Police Car. No flashing lights, but a sort of notoriety regardless. There was no smell in the car, no smell of doughnuts or coffee. No smell of fear or foreboding. It was blank.

We arrived at the South Perth Police Station and I was ushered to an office. The policeman, large and gruff, displayed no personality at all. His job was to take my statement, and I was only too happy to provide him with the story.  I didn’t detect any sympathy for my (successful) efforts to get out of a Chemistry test, maybe he didn’t even get to Year 9, maybe he loves Chemistry.

The recording of the statement really appeared to be a pre-emptor for the real event, which in orders was firstly a dressing down on how I had wasted the time of hard working police officers.

“There could have been a rape going on!”

But the really real event was the arrival of my parents to collect me. When father walked in I couldn’t really tell the mood, even though I had 15 years of experiencing all of his moods, this one had me confused.  His face was thunder, but his body was broken. I suppose he apologised to the police and walked me out to the car.

In the car was mother – this was the worst. She was crying and cowered. The cold front bench seat of the Holden added to the unwelcoming welcome that I was receiving from her and Father.

Amazingly, back home, my Dad was trying to understand what contributed to my behaviour. He was trying to get to the reasons why I had abused an opportunity to attend his favourite school.

“It was just to be famous and the centre of attention, Dad.”

And now I was.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Dear Catherine

I wanted to thank you for your generosity of spirit and for all you shared with me and the rest of the Gunnas!

My reason for coming along was to kick start my writing and to find my mojo. I came to Gunnas thinking you would have a magic tool for me to do that, and you did. You reminded me that I don’t need to have any special tools or methods or process I just have to do it! I have all I need!

What I loved though is that you gave me a sense that I am not alone! Hearing your journey and meeting all the Gunnas and hearing all their stories reassured me of that!

Here is my game plan…

On Christmas day 2016 I will give myself 7 pieces of writing. I won’t get hung up on whether anyone else will read them, like them, judge my opinions. I will just write them for me.

To get started I will build my motivation with action. Everyday that I catch the train to work (4 days a week) I will write from Eltham – Ivanhoe.

When I get to “rei me” I will pull out my head band and lean in some more! I am going to make myself (and for my kids) a stamp that says “That is fantastic! You are awesome. Keep going!” and stamp it on each piece I write at the end of each month.

When I hear those negative thoughts pop into my head I am going to say to them – “aha! Catherine told me you would come. Wait there till I am at Clifton Hill station then I will listen!”

Last but not least I am going to make my two boys posters about how fiercely I love them and crazy parenting advice!

Today reminded me again to make the most of every moment, to love deeply and to just enjoy life.

Thank you

Rosie

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

I changed my first nappy at the age of 40.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

The last time I saw my mother she squeezed my hand tight, then vomited. A week later she was dead.

When someone’s been slowly decaying for years, death shouldn’t come as a surprise. But somehow it was. I’d become so used to her zombie existence, though barely a life, it seemed as if it would never end.

Early in the disease, I’d fantasised about death. As Alzheimer’s began to strip her personality, when giving my father respite, I’d toy with ‘forgetting’ to administer her blood pressure medication. Would a week be long enough to trigger a fatal heart attack or stroke?

Decades earlier my mother said, “If I lose my marbles, just set me adrift on an ice floe like the Eskimos.” A witty woman. Always the carer, never the cared for. Those weeks, when I flew home to look after her, I tried to find the courage to push a pillow to her face while she slept.

Each time I failed.

If she’d been aware or pleaded, maybe. But by then she’d forgotten about the Eskimos. No matter how much I loved her, I couldn’t kill her.

It was hardest at the beginning. She’d pace the house, unaccustomed to rest. In a perpetual state of frustration, always busy but never knowing what it was that needed to be done.

She knew something was wrong but did a good job at pretence. There were pat responses, a little vague and nondescript. Her face mimicked interest, not belying the terror growing under the surface.

The nights were challenging. Wet beds, wearing jumpers for pants and raiding the house for cigarettes in the early hours. We’d learned to ration smoking during the day and learned to hide the matches. Though her memory receded, rat cunning prevailed. Half-smoked fags turned up in slippers, pockets and drawers. It’s miraculous that the house didn’t burn down.

My father in his 80s, never the carer always the cared for, did his best. But he took his eye off the ball once too often. Distracted, it took a while before realising the house was quiet. He felt relaxed. That was the give away. There’s never peace when living with the demented.

A stranger found her walking a couple of kilometres away. She was going home to see her mother. My grandmother’s funeral was in 1968; the house bulldozed a decade later to build a supermarket.

Eleven days before my mother died I saw her eyes light up for the last time. It was Christmas, not that she knew it. I lifted a glass to her lips and encouraged a sip. Despite forgetting how to walk, talk and laugh, she still remembered the taste of gin and tonic. In those final nine months spent living in a dementia ward, this moment was her happiest.

The morning my mother died, I got up at dawn to catch a plane. The phone call came five minutes before leaving. Arriving hours later, to a cold body of an unrecognisable woman. Someone no longer my mother, that last remaining sliver departed.

Despite everything, I was still surprised. She was gone.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Dinner parties. How I hate them.

I sit, one wine too many, and watch myself as if through a window, laughing and talking and being the charming hostess.

Our friends have no idea. The happy couple. Still finishing each other’s sentences and correcting each other on the details of “remember that time when…”.

It is an out of body experience.

I wonder what my children think about daddy sleeping upstairs. It’s been going on for so long it’s their normal, so maybe they don’t think anything about it. In any case, the little one wakes and gets into bed with me most nights. I wonder if I should discourage it, but I haven’t got the energy and anyway, I like feeling her little cuddly body curled up next to mine.

I realise I am starving for physical touch. Skin hungry.

I look in the mirror. Even though I look tired, I still call bullshit on his “not attractive anymore” narrative and give myself a pep talk. I am fine. There is nothing wrong with me. I am small, slim, fit, strong. And still juicy.

I am reading the paper at breakfast one Saturday morning. My eye is caught and held by an article on male escorts for women. I read it surreptitiously while my husband is occupied on his phone. I am quietly gobsmacked.  Here are stories of women just like me. Attractive, professional women, whose relationships have gone wrong. Whose husbands won’t touch them. Who can’t seem to untangle the intricacies of their lives together.

So they pay a stranger to touch them. I mean I wasn’t completely naive – I knew there was such a thing – but here it was in black and white.

Respectable people, it seems, actually do this.

I can’t get the story out of my head. I reread it a few times. I hesitate. Until I’m alone one day and then I google the escorts in the article.

One is a dark brooding latino pretty boy, exceedingly gorgeous but too young. One is a handsome blonde haired blue eyed porn actor. I don’t quite feel right about him either.

I can’t immediately see a photo of the third one on his website. It doesn’t matter. I like how his writing sounds. Intelligent. Articulate. And there is a photo of his hands. They are masculine and sexy. Something stirs in me and I immediately imagine them on my body .

I clear the browser history.

A few weeks go past. I have read his entire website, every blog entry and every testimonial.  I know what he looks like. 40ish. Handsome. Nice. I tell no one.

I am not quite ready, but with shaking hands and my heart in my mouth I call him anyway because I want to hear his voice, to see if how he sounds in real life matches how he sounds in my head. It does. He sounds real. His voice is sexy. He is clearly practised at this because he takes no notice of my nervous faltering attempts at conversation and does the talking for me. I tell him I’m not ready yet but will call when I am.

I hang up, already breathless and save his number in my phone.

Eventually I call again. Luckily he doesn’t answer, because my heart is pounding out of my chest, my mouth is dry and I don’t actually know what I want to say. I don’t leave a message. I compose a sensible sounding text and send that instead.

He calls me straight back – calm, self assured, matter of fact, no problem at all. I calm down a bit and we make the booking for a weeks’ time.

The week drags by in a haze of distracted fantasies. I worry about what to wear. I buy new knickers and get increasingly nervous as the day approaches. I confide in a friend with all the details because #whatifheisanaxemurderer and arrange to call her afterwards. She is shocked but supportive. She lectures me about condoms and contraception.

It’s the day. I get up and go through the motions – coffee, no breakfast, school drop off. My booking isn’t until the afternoon, so I do the groceries, a load of washing, some housework.  Eventually I have to get ready. I have already waxed off everything in sight and had a pedicure. I take the longest, most detailed shower in history. I brush and floss my teeth twice.

Hair done, a bit of makeup and I’m ready. Hardly.

I look critically in the mirror and consider what I am about to do.

I am a fit and attractive 46 year old married woman, mother to young children and I am about to pay a man I’ve never met to have sex with me.

Entirely reasonable behaviour.

Shit.

I get in the car and drive. I am full of adrenaline and am at the address before I know it. Way early. I wait in the car with the airconditioning blasting cold air onto me because its a warm day and I am paranoid about being all sweaty. Finally it’s time. Shaky but determined I make my way up to his apartment and hesitate at the door. He doesn’t know what I look like and I’m worried he won’t like me.

I take a big breath and knock.