Once upon a time there was a circus performer. She arrived from the old country, landing in NYC with a babe on her front and a gold coin in her pocket.

Central Park was the largest open aired big top she had ever laid her eyes upon. Her son, happy in his place, woven to her back, participated with or without conscious knowledge of drawing in the crowds as his Mother performed feats of dare defying acts on a tight rope she pulled from the only bag she arrived with on the Island. It also contained an image of her husband. He was killed before her babe was born. He too a circus performer, killed in a train derailing.

The New World called her, NYC, the place of her dreams. The place she knew, mythologically as where she could be free and find her place of belonging.

Between two old Oaks she walked the tight rope, babe in tow, day after day after day. At night she slept in the shade of the Oaks, knowing full well from the life of her past that the earth beneath her feet and at times the air beneath her feet held her solid.

Every day she drew the crowds, everyday they grew larger and larger. Everyday she gave thanks for this life that meant she was free to do what she loved, feed her baby and sleep on the green, green grass of the beauty that is Central Park.

It did begin to get cold. The leaves did begin to fall from the Oaks. And nights did begin to cool right down. In her evenings, she began to knit and knit and knit in preparation for the cold that would come. Not a cold like she had experienced before, but a NYC cold. A cold that would bring the joy of the skaters to the park, that would bring the smell of roasted chestnuts and the joy of hot chocolate.

Warming her nest, her baby grew and he grew and he grew towards the dawning of winter. Autumn came and autumn went, and the snow mounted in the skies above.

One day as she was devising a winter hammock home for her and her babe, when a package appeared. It was addressed to the Tightrope Walker and her Son. She looked around her. In the distance she could see a bicycle crossing the bridge over Swan Lake.

Because of that moment, that magical moment (as it became known to her), the moment she saw the bicycle and the bridge and the frozen Swan Lake, she found herself no longer living in what was becoming a crumpled, too small life for her and her soon to be crawling babe, she found herself on top of the world.

A key. An address. A miracle.

A high rise, empty but clean apartment with furnishings unlike she had ever imagined before and knew could have only been dreamed up by the kindness of hearts, a window open and caged and soft with the fur skins of sheep, a place for her babe.

And because of that, she found her self at HOME in NYC.

Her child free to breathe the air of the birds, her soul free to dream and imagine and realise a soft place for she and her babe to watch the snow fall.

And still she walked the tight rope by day and in the spring and summer by night.

Until finally She was the Woman who came to NYC from the Motherland with a babe on her back, who walked the tightrope between the Oaks of NYC and by winter, watching Swan Lake turn to ice and the last of the bicycles head into hibernation, she and her son, now toddling learned to skate.

Wollman Rink the playground of a boy and his mother. Smiling as flakes of snow danced this snow globe of wonderland into the good life and the magical reality.

THE END

Once upon a time there was a land of death. We could smell it. The decay. We could hear it. The screams. We could see it. The blood. And we lived it. The hopelessness.

We knew that in all of this assault on our senses and our spirit we had to find a way to survive, to fight. Not to fight our enemy but to fight ourselves, our fear, our desire to just give up. It wasn’t like we could just go down the pub and drown our sorrows. Or wrap ourselves in the arms of a lover hoping that, if they held us long enough and hard enough, that the pain and the fear would disappear like gun-smoke in the wind.

Some days all you could do was stay alive and stay sane. And that’s where He came in. For us, Jimmy, Steve, Billy and me, He became our symbol of life and survival.

Every day became like the next. An endless stream of a bitter cocktail of boredom, fear and waiting. Waiting for the next assault, the next bomb, the next wave of death or despair.

But he changed all that when He came into our lives. As mates, we always looked after each other and had each other’s backs, kept each other warm and listened to each other when fear and pain and loneliness had to be vomited out so that it didn’t fester like a pus filled sore. But sometimes friendship wasn’t enough. We all started to live within ourselves, to withdraw from the madness.

One day he just appeared. We don’t know how he came to be in this hell or how he made it to us alive. But He did. And He changed everything. It was like we became one man with one purpose and that was to protect Him, to make sure that whatever else happened He survived. It was like the tiny slivers of hope that remained within each of us had morphed into this solid bundle of furry love and if that hope was to remain alive, He too had to survive.

Because of that we became better soldiers, we became a team, closely knit with a common goal, a sense of purpose that had deserted us. At night we’d surround him to make sure that even when hands turned blue with cold He stayed warm. If He whimpered in the night, the act of providing comfort would warm the coldest heart. A lick on the face, as weird as it sounds, was a salve for a wounded soul. And His antics brought laughter where there had been none.

And because of that, we did survive. And as dawn came, the word spread that peace had risen with the sun. As the cheers of excitement washed through the crowd, cleansing away despair and fear like a sudden rain washes away the dust, we stood and embraced each other. Friends through war, friends for life. And He just stood there, a straggly skinny stranger wagging his tail and watching us with a smile that looked so human. And then He barked, as if saying farewell, and ran off over the hill. We thought he was just having a joyous run into territory that had been denied him. And we waited.

Until finally we knew he wasn’t coming back. We saw no rhyme or reason to explain his appearance nor why he chose to leave us. We just had to accept that He would always be one of life’s mysteries, a blessing, a savior.

So to this day Jimmy, Steve, Billy and me meet each year on this day to celebrate life and salute Him, the one soldier who we believe saved our lives and our sanity. Who we only knew as Dog.

Our house, so far had been saved.

Years ago you would have driven down our road and seen perfect gardens, with white picket fences, and children riding their bikes until called in at night for dinner.

But now, the houses are empty. Not a single sound. You can only walk down our road and not drive as there are burnt out cars, fallen trees and decaying bodies lying everywhere as far as the eyes can see. You get used to the smell. You get used to the sight. What I can’t get used to is our house. Still in pristine condition, two story looking like it had just been painted, beautiful lush green grass and roses, so many roses. Lucky, because the stench of death surrounding you, seeping into you, needed to be masked by every breath you took.

The coin had not been delivered to us yet but we were ready. Mr and Mrs Jefferson from across the road received the coin last. The delivery came to them in the middle of the night. The moon was out and it was so cold. I could feel that something was going to happen. The chill in the air was a warning that they were on their way. I was upstairs and ready to go to bed, it was very late and something just didn’t feel right. I looked across to the Jefferson house and their bedroom light was still on. It was never on after seven at night.

I started to shake, and my body was covered in sweat. I saw movement outside their house and then I saw them.

‘Oh god not the Jefferson’s. Dear god no.’

It was time for them to receive the coin. Please make it quick for them. Don’t make them suffer, they are old, they don’t deserve this. I shut my curtain, turned around and lay on the bed. I curled into a ball. That’s when I heard it. The most terrifying howl from Mr Jefferson. A sound of pure torture. The torture for him, that lasted all night. They had received the coin, and now we were the only house now left standing.

A code of conduct is a set of rules outlining the social norms and rules and responsibilities of, or proper practices for, an individual, party or organization. Related concepts include ethical, honor, moral codes and religious laws. So here is my code of conduct for giving ZERO FUCKS.

Zero Fuckers should behave in the appropriate way as follows at all fucking times or risk expulsion to a life of misery and ass kissing.

– Be badass at all times. Perhaps the most important part of giving no fucks, is actually giving no fucks. Be badass, it works well.

– Say what you think, ask for what you need, and express how you feel. Fuck pleasing people.

– Wear what you want, when you want, wherever you want.

– Eat whatever the fuck you want.

– SWEAR

– Don’t apologise for who you are

– Listen to your own story, not others people’s version or chapter of who you are.

– Be unapologetically successful. Succeed and own it. Be proudways.

– Don’t ever put yourself down or you’ll be required to vacate the premise of your own soul to be sucked into the societal void of everyone else’s unhappiness. And no one needs that kind of fuckery.

– Play every goddamn day. All work and no play makes you a boring old shite who may have loads of money, but no sense of how to spend it.

– Put yourself first and unapologetically give zero fucks about it. People hate it when you speak your truth and put your needs first. Fuck em! It’s not selfish, it’s basic self care.

– GIVE ZERO FUCKS AT ALL TIMES

Ohhhh – Singapore!!

People say it’s sterile, Asia for Dummies…but I love Singapore! A glorious melting pot of so many cultures – Malaysia, China, India, British Colonial, Australian, European, rich investment bankers, and the poorest of the poor.

The immigrant labourers asleep at lunchtime anywhere they can find. The gleaming buildings, the beautiful gardens. The humid, steaming heat with the spectacular thunderstorms rolling in in the afternoons.

It was the first proper holiday we had taken together and we were sooo excited. We got smashed on the flight over and had so much fun. We were met by my brother who lives there and was so happy to see us.

Our hotel was a boutique (yet cheap) retro-plush place called the Scarlett – it looked a bit like a bordello. The room was tiny, but we had a big balcony with big ceiling fans – how colonial we felt, sitting beneath those whirring fans in the heat, smoking in our hotel dressing-gowns.

Across the square was Chinatown and the hawkers’ markets with the best food in the world. The Hainanese Chicken Rice, the Char Sui Pork for three bucks a serve. Yet the street behind us was Club Road with its expensive Spanish, French, Japanese restaurants, sophisticated wine and cigar bars, and clubs. On the corner was a pub. We went there and found karaoke, darts and pool. We were the only Westerners there and we slayed them singing Elton John and Kiki Dee.

We went to Raffles and spent $120 on Singapore Slings …and the $10 on dinner at the hawkers’ markets.

It was amazing. It was there that I read The Happiness Show. We visited my brother and his wife and daughter and 4-day-old baby son.

We went to the Night Zoo where the fish ate our feet.

We had the best time of my life. We have been to many places since and loved them all, and we will travel the world when we can. We have so many incredible experiences ahead of us – but somehow I don’t think anything will ever be quite the same as Singapore!

WHAT I REMEMBER MOST

 What I remember most about that day is the smallness of the room. A tiny table with only three chairs – but there were four of us. My brother elected to stand. Nearly every available empty space on the floor was filled with boxes, folders, files and bags. The lawyer and the barrister were sitting opposite me. My breath was catching and my throat was aching from trying not to cry. All I could think of was those boys, my precious two sons, sitting on their own in another room like this. Two young men in their suits, pale and anxious and wishing to be anywhere but there. I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t talk to them. I couldn’t hug them and tell them I loved them.

What were they thinking? What were they talking about? Did they understand everything? Did they hate me? Would things be better after today?

I remember when I first saw them there, outside the Court room – and I kissed them both and had to walk away – I was crying hysterically. How DARE he, I thought. How DARE he make our sons come to the Family Law Court. He had no conscience, no shame, no empathy, no humanity. How dare he put them through this, just to make ME suffer?

Once upon a time there was a young girl who although born in England had no English blood. That girl is me. I am & was that girl. Where did I go from there?

I’m not sure where this fits into the story but this young girl did not know who Coco Chanel or Ivor Stravinsky were. There were so many things I didn’t know. Things like who my father was & why my mother was so unhappy.

My family lived in a world of competing movies. The rugged outdoors man fought the lyrical Irish tenor; they both ganged up against the sensitive artist & the romantic heroine. I watched all these movies play out. The action movies, the horror movies the romantic movies with happy endings but there was no happy ending for my mother.

When I was ten I came to Australia. Every day was the same. I cried. I missed my grandparents. I wanted to go home. I didn’t understand why this was supposed to be good. I didn’t understand why mum & dad fought. I didn’t understand why there were no bluebell woods & no open fires. Or why the kids at school laughed at my accent. I didn’t understand.

One day I was playing outside our front gate & I saw a man turn into our street. I became alert & I felt a yearning I hadn’t known was there. I wasn’t sure, could it be? Yes, yes my uncle was there & I felt how much I had missed him. He laughed & I fell into his arms yelling & yelling Paul is here, Paul is here.

My grandparents came to Australia soon after my uncle & I was happy again. My mother wasn’t. I understood what made me happy didn’t make my mother happy. Now I am here. At an age my mother never reached, still feeling like I’m groping towards something important. Maybe I can learn from that ten year old, she knew what to do.

When you see something you love don’t think, just run full tilt towards it.