Daphne turned the corner, heaved the shopping bag back onto her shoulder, sucked in a lungful of hot, dusty air, and took off again with her house now in sight.

A walk to the shops had seemed like a good idea, save the environment and all that, but it really was stinking hot. Every so often the tar on the road would feel sticky under her sandshoe and she could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of her neck. Black T-shirt and jeans were probably not the best choice for an outdoor adventure.

As she neared her house she spied the neighbour’s child playing in the gravel that ran up the middle of their concrete driveway. She was focussed on building roads, and little dwellings made with sticks and leaves, and a creek lined with shiny blue marbles but looked up as Daphne checked the mail.

‘Hello there’, Daphne said, but as usual the girl just stared at her with big, brown eyes that were almost black. ‘This kid is weird’, she thought, but smiled in what she hoped was a benign and friendly fashion. Kids always made her feel a bit uneasy. They watched and judged you, all the while working out how they could manipulate you. She couldn’t see the appeal.

Dropping the shopping on the front porch, she rummaged blindly in her overly large bag for her keys while looking over the front yard. It was overgrown with weeds and long grass, brown and yellow from the summer and crisp to the touch. A ‘tinder box’, she thought wryly, as she struggled with the lock and pushed the door open with her hip. Calico immediately sprung through the open door, meowing and winding around himself around her calves in a perfect figure eight and making walking near impossible.

“For fuck’s sake Calico, move!’ she barked, as she tried to manoeuvre down the hall and into the kitchen at the back of the house. She pulled a can of tuna from the shelf under the sink, peeled the lid back and put it into the cat’s bowl before it killed her. She could see the headline now: ‘Mad Cat Lady Killed by Pussy’.

Daphne shoved the cheese, orange juice, grapes and yoghurt in the fridge, grabbed a beer, and headed for the back porch. This was her favourite part of the house. The porch itself was filled with pots of different shapes, sizes and colours that also spilled into the garden. Having rented for years she had grown plants in pots, her own mobile garden. She took a swig of beer, put it on the plank of wood on bricks that substituted as a table, and took a few minutes to bucket water into the pots.

She had only been in the house for six weeks. Her first foray into the property market. It was a deceased estate and had been empty for almost three years while relatives argued over how much they were each entitled to.

According to the real estate brochure, it was ‘charming with the potential to make your own mark!!!’. (Real estate agents love to use a lot of exclamation marks, because houses are very exciting!) In reality, this translated to ‘way too orange and green, sad and neglected, not quite old enough or cute enough to be retro and in desperate need of renovating’.

It wasn’t at all what she was looking to buy, but something about this slightly broken and neglected house got under her skin and she’d jumped in head first.

Iris, Daphne, Rose, Jasmine, River and and Lily.

The first time  they dropped the bomb, people were shocked. The sheer overwhelming incomprehensible scale of the destruction. The loss of life, the ruin of history and civic life. The second time they dropped the bomb, people were stunned. The opposition called it a travesty. Judges and lawyers and academics and teachers spoke out against it. The third time the dropped the bomb, it fell on the opposition, the judges and lawyers, the academics and teachers who spoke out against the second bomb. The third bomb they dropped for spectacle. To celebrate the crowning of the new Queen, the Queen of the mushroom cloud, a fourth bomb was exploded in a small village in her honour.

“I have no idea but one.” said the Queen, upon her inauguration. “Our society is better now. People cannot be fixed. One simply removes the broken ones. We who are left shall make a new world. A better world. Where there is no crime or grime or unexpected ideas that frighten the children and visit our sleeping minds.”

“The bomb, the mushroom cloud has cleansed us.” She mounted the platform but could not take her place upon the throne.

“Someone’s been sitting on my chair.” Someone indeed had been sitting on her throne. And they were still there. It was a small boy.

“You exploded my dog.” He said to the Queen. “I think your bombs are bad.”

The airforce officials surrounding the Queen looked at one another. This was not the plan. They moved towards the boy, ready to lift him from the throne.

“I think your bombs are bad.” He repeated. “But my bombs are good. Especially the one in your crown.”

Before the Queen could throw the crown from her head, ‘POP’, went the crown and ‘poof’ went her head in a puff of smoke.

But the Queen did not fall over. She stayed completely upright and, from her smoking neck, a strange voice shrieked “Arrgghg!” Get the boy!”

The airforce blokes did not know what to do. What was that thing they thought had been their Queen. Is it human? How is it still alive and speaking?

Next minute, a spaceship descended from the clouds and hovered above the platform.

“People of Earth!” Came the sound of the loudspeaker. “Submit to our will. Hand over your chocolates and bananas and Karl Stefanovic and ten Hong Kong dollars and we will go in peace.”

And the people celebrated. Because although they mourned the loss of all of the chocolate and bananas in the world, they were happy that Karl had gone to share his unique talents with someone, anyone else in the universe. It was worth it.

My wife Julie asked me this morning if I wanted to go to the Canberra Show. “No thanks” I replied politely. Julie knew that would be me my answer. And I knew that she knew that would be my answer because she then said “that’s what I told my mother yesterday when she asked me if you would be going”. Then Julie asked me if I had ever been to the Royal Easter Show in Sydney, or ‘the big one’ as she called it. “Yes” I said. “Several times when I was a kid, and a couple of times later on”. “Wow” said Julie.

And then the memories started coming back to me. The flashbacks.  The first was one of the earliest. The family arrived at the Show at night, in the dark – no daylight savings back then. My parents pointed to a mysterious tent, plain and with a single sign on it (which I was too young to read). “That’s where you go if you get lost, the Lost Children’s Tent” said my father. I was mortified. Forget the Haunted House. Forget the Ghost Train. If I got lost I would have to spend the rest of my life in The Lost Children’s Tent. I couldn’t see what was inside the tent, and I wanted to make sure I never did. I tightened my grip on my mother’s hand, and all attempts to interest me in going on a ride, through a maze, or anything that required me to break contact with a parent, were rejected.

Some years later, and after I had gotten over that trauma and developed a better understanding of how The Lost Children’s Tent actually operated, I was able to see the appeal of sideshow alley and the rides. And I was that age when I believed I was ‘grown up’ so I insisted that I was indeed ready to go on a ride called ‘the wild mouse’ – basically a single seat mini roller coaster with some seriously sharp turns. I.Thought.I.Was.Going.To.Die. I had been brought up as an atheist but I made a promise to God that day that if I survived this horror I would become religious. Hell, I’ll even go to church on Sundays. I am a man of my word but, even though I did survive I didn’t keep that promise – one of very few that I haven’t.

Don’t get me wrong, the Easter Show is not all horror and near death experiences. A very fond and very early memory for me is riding home from the Easter Show in the back of the family car – an FJ Holden panel van. My parents in the front, and me and my two brothers in the back (seat belts were just a concept then). I was only four but I can vividly remember the sharing of the spoils from the show bag pavilion. In those days show bags were sample bags from confectionery manufactures and the like – Cadbury, Rowntree, et cetera – so you got a lot very little cost. And all product – no discount coupons or plastic trinkets. As well as being brought up atheist, we were also brought up as communists, so the spoils were divided equally between the three of us. Karl Marx would be very proud. My dad was.

Perhaps I will accompany my wife to the show this year

Early in January, off the back of a new year’s resolution to put myself out of my comfort zone and find a creative outlet, I booked into Catherine Deveny’s Gunnas Writing Masterclass (with some trepidation, presuming most people in the course would be fully fledged writers and esteemed academics). Thankfully, I hadn’t resolved to get fit and eat better, as I went straight from the Masterclass to the bar, and then to a pizza joint.

I have always loved writing. I loved English in school and I loved writing essays in uni. I realised on reflection today that I even enjoyed writing exams (I know, I’m not right). I love stationery – pens, highlighters and nice paper make me excited, and sometimes I think I actually just like the site of my own handwriting. From about the age that I was 15 to the age of 20 I wrote pages and pages in a series of journals, reflecting on my feelings – and mostly if I’m honest about what boy I was in love with at any given time (often drunk and illegibly). The journals are now locked in a toolbox with a padlock on it, somewhere in the depths of my parents’ garage in Perth. One day, I intend to go back and publish them or burn them. Or both.

My writing at the moment is limited to opinionated Facebook status updates that probably many people don’t read, and which probably cause me to one by one lose any followers I have. But I LOVE writing them. I love the feeling of choosing the words, of making the sentences witty, of making people think and of making people laugh. I also thoroughly enjoy the feeling of saying things that are controversial – I feel like it’s a giant middle finger from the safety of my screen at the issues, people and opinions that I don’t tackle in the real world. In reality, it’s textbook slactivism. During the recent global women’s march I researched, I found activists to follow, I watched live webcasts from all over the world of women marching and felt inspired and reassured as the women of the world finally banded together to stand up for their rights. But did I march in my own city? No, I was far too busy for that (too busy reading about it, probably).

I never enjoyed writing fiction. In school when I had to write stories I bribed my best friend to write them for me. I hate writing poems and I have no imagination. But ask me to analyse a book, an issue, a film or a person and I could say what I think and write forever (controversially and anonymously, obviously).

Which brings me to what I think until now, has been my biggest barrier to writing, even though I want to and I sometimes feel like I need to. Since I can’t write fiction, and have no imagination, that leaves me really only with only two potential choices – my own life and experiences or analysis of some of the issues I enjoy reading about so much.

Until today, I believed that people who write about world issues and current affairs spend their days working full time in those areas and have thoroughly researched and evidence-backed opinions. As I obviously can’t compete with that depth of expertise when I have a day job, I ruled this out as an option for me.

Which leaves the one topic I have a unique perspective on – myself, and my experiences. And the thing that stops me writing about that?

It seems narcissistic. It seems self-indulgent.

Maybe because I started my writing life penning drunk pages of unrequited life… but it’s a feeling I haven’t been able to shake.

I am a single, childless women and I have all of my time, thoughts, income and choices to myself. I have opportunities, I am educated and I experience first world guilt every night before I fall asleep. My life is, by comparison to a lot of people, easy. Do I deserve a voice?

To me, writing as reflection seemed another form of self-indulgence. Akin to saying to my friends and family – ‘hey, look at me! Not only do I have time to get regular manicures and massage, have sydney’s finest restaurants deliver to my door each night and live in my west elm catalogue of a home – I now want you to read about my life too!’

In the same way people talk about crafting an online social media identity that represents the good parts of your life and what you want people to think about you – I felt that starting a blog was the written equivalent.

I also was a little afraid of being the childless adult self-improvement cliché – get a life coach, have NET, meditate, do yoga, become a qualified yoga instructor (but never use it), travel to india, go on retreat… and then decide to blog about my own self exploration.

I didn’t want to write about myself and believe that anyone would want to read it. I didn’t want to be ‘arrogant’ enough to think that anyone could learn things from me or my experiences. It just seemed narcissistic to think that I have anything to teach the world that anyone else doesn’t also have.

After outing myself as having these feelings in today’s Masterclass, I know that many other women felt this too- that we are a fraud, or that we are not worthy. We are so uncompassionate to other women that we fear that we will be scrutinised in the same way as we scrutinise others.

Today I was challenged to reflect on whether I feel other people who write are narcissistic. I answered no, of course. But to be honest I do think that some people who write amateur blogs are narcissistic – and that they are seeking validation, understanding, an audience for their feelings and an outlet for things they should probably go and speak to a counsellor about. But real writers? I read as much and as widely as I can. I read the pamphlets in my hotel room. I read the signs on trains. I read every newsletter I subscribe to. I read books, I read newspapers. I read horoscopes. I don’t for a second think that anyone that authors the writing I read is self-invovled.

So today, getting together with 20 others and discussing a shared love of writing and hearing what each wanted to write has blown my last barrier away for me. I am going to write, and I have taken away three things that have changed how I think about writing.

Firstly, that there is no such thing as a real writer. Everyone who wants to write, can write. They can write for everyone to read it, or for no one to read it. They can write anonymously or they can write as themselves. They can write an Instagram photo caption, a facebook status update, a description of a food, or a book.

Secondly, if writing – like most things we do as humans – has an element of narcissism about it, so what? People write to express their feelings, to feel better, to share opinions, to escape, to share and to be a better person. And that is harmless, and okay.

Lastly, I was told and believe – it could be viewed as selfish not to write. How much of other people’s writing do I consume, without ever giving anything back? How many ideas do I have and reflections on the things that I read, without every saying anything?

I don’t think it will be easy for me to write and I think it will take some time for this view to completely go away (I am probably the very person that needs to get counselling on self-worth). I know that I want to write, I and I know that I enjoy it. I love that other people write, and I love reading what they write.

So I’m going to choose a nice font, and choose a nice colour, and start writing.

Thanks Catherine, and thanks to my fellow Gunnas.

I’m gunna.

I was a million miles away when staring blankly at the departures screen.  Sydney to Alice Springs.  Oh my fucking God how can I get out of this?  Alice Springs.  Go to gate announcement.  Major sweats started but I convinced myself that it was the start of the end for my girly biology and just a part of life – not anything else.  35 degrees wasn’t helping.  Decided to sooth myself by texting Alice to relay the fascinating news that I’d made it to Sydney and was nearly on my way.  Like he would care.  Not that I was going to see him.

Her daughter wasn’t at the airport to greet me.  What a presumptive cunt I was to presume she’d be there waiting like some kind of puppy dog.  I was of course important to her in my own mind.

I was introduced by her and extended my hand.  I wanted to pat her hair.  She dropped her eyes and looked really awkward.  Oh no, not a mum thing.  I remembered how much I hated meeting great aunts and random distant family and looked away like it didn’t matter. Blinked away some tears and decided to pretend I didn’t care.  I was of course just hitching a ride to meet their half dingo (I mean yellow Kelpie) and the 3 pet snakes.  Yeah I love snakes.  Cough.

A hard thing faking that when she was the image of her mother.  OK.  Just be cool.  A long way to go yet and plenty of time.

Looking out of the panes at the top of the door you would think it was a good day to go out. There is a lot of blue out there.

But it’s not.

It’s cold. There is snow and ice on the path and I’m sure to get wheelspin.

I like the chair. Don’t be shocked. You expect me to hate it – but why?

It is my freedom.

When I travel, I move with style. I have strong arms and I like to think I cut a fine figure.

But not on days like today. I can slip and slide and drift on ice. Not as fun as it sounds and I feel unaccountably feeble.

Oh, the looks I get when I struggle.

Maybe I notice it because I’m not moving with purpose.

You know I think fair weather strangers are easier to take.

I’m going anyway. I can’t be shut in, the dog needs to go out and I need to get over myself.

Plus I have work to do.

I do reception at the Doyle Hotel. The dog sleeps at my feet while I check in guests and I can sit without explanation. It is bliss.

The gravel outside the door gives a satisfying crunch. The wind is icy and the sky is clear. My cowl is pretty and feels snug against my neck. I’m up for this. I’m off.

The dog is dancing around my wheels and deftly avoiding the tyres in a way that is terrifying to the uninitiated.

She’s being a fool but will calm down. Half way down the hill and all good so far.

Into Fred’s for a long black and a pigs ear for Pup. All good.

I’m going past the grass patch so I get my bag ready on the way. I’ll pick up the shit. I can do that shit too. Ha ha!

So, turning into the motel drive, Pup is feeling relieved and I’m feeling good. And over I go….

Slam. Stars. The taste of blood in my mouth.

Tangled lead and spinning wheels.

Yelping.

At least no one saw.

Now the dog is walking on my face.

The stars recede.

A couple of kids walk past and I’m relieved they don’t stop. Then annoyed. They. Didn’t. Stop. Bahhh!

Now I’ve wedged the chair against the letterbox and I’m getting back in. God it’s hard.

But I’m doing it.

I hear footsteps and a couple of male voices.

“You ok missus?” the short one asks.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Yep, could you just hold it steady?” I ask briskly.

They do. And I’m back in.

I say thanks. One of them says “Don’t mention it.”

And then they don’t mention it. They don’t ask “Why are you in the chair?” or “What happened?” or “Do you hate it?”

God I love them for that.

Why do people think I want to start every conversation that way?

The dog is grizzling. The handsome one in the leather jacket lifts her onto my lap.

I salute them in a self-conscious faux military way. They both wink and nod and I wink and nod back as I wheel in. They go on their way, going back to their conversation.

God, that was nice. Pup is put out, but ok. I feel good.

I can do this.