The first time I saw Paul McCartney, I was standing at the counter searching for the camera he was actually holding. He looked at me briefly, before staring off into the middle distance, something had caught his eye. I stood back, was it him I thought while turning my gaze to the direction of what was taking his attention away.

Outside the window was the most extraordinary bird I had ever seen, the bluest of blues. And in the twilight, it had almost disappeared the way a gecko would or whatever that creature is that can change itself from one colour to the next. “So beautiful,” I heard him say, “beautiful,” he whispered to himself. I took a step towards him, as he took a smaller step towards the window, looking further, squinting his eyes.

“Dear God,” he exclaimed, “that snake is the most marvellous creature I have ever seen.” I wondered what on earth he was referring too. The creature I saw had just chirped, extended a wing in a stretch before preening its stomach. As I stepped closer, I realised that he and I were concentrating our eyes on two very different things. In fact, in that Dear God moment, what he had alerted me to was indeed a snake. Its luminous body was twisting around the trunk, eyes fixed on the blue bird content in its solitude.

With a sharp ring that pierced the air, his phone announced itself. And as the words of “I told you I’m not going.” fell from his lips he slipped the phone into his pocket which missed and hit the floor, smashing to pieces and leaving shards in our path. At this moment I too noticed he had moved further towards the window, his mind fixed on the bird and the snake and the story unfolding on the tree in front of us.

Then I remembered something. He and I were both vegetarians, what the fuck were we doing? Standing to wait to see a bird be swallowed whole by its predator, I couldn’t bear the situation any further. It was time for courage; I didn’t care that this was Paul McCartney, the man who had sung Black Bird. I lunged to the window and clapped my hands together, punctuating the drama of the moment. The snake and the bird looked up. They’d not noticed our presence, the girl with the crimson cheeks, the pop star holding a camera.

In what seemed like slow motion the bird let out a squawk and flew off leaving the snake to wonder what might have been. Turning back towards Mr McCartney, I suggested, “if you’re not going to buy that camera, then I’d really like to.”

It was with some trepidation I made my way from Werribee to Carlton to lose my virginity.

My writing workshop virginity, that is.  I was Last-Minute Lucy, booking at the latest opportunity, when I couldn’t change my mind or let something else take priority. At least I didn’t look out of place, like a country mouse in the city house. We were a room full of middle-aged women upstairs in a Carlton café listening, laughing and realizing all the excuses we make for not writing are bullshit.

Dev the Diva says, in the tradition of well-known sportswear manufacturers, Just Do It.  No, it’s not selfish, self-indulgent or vain. No, you don’t need to do the ironing, wash your hair or walk the dog. No, you are smart enough, good enough, interesting enough and your story is worth telling. Life is short. Don’t be frightened – it’s not like your going to kill someone!

I thought I really should be writing in a handcrafted journal with a beautiful pen instead of thumping away on the keyboard – I can hear myself tap, tap, tap and everyone else is smooth and silent and I’m probably distracting everyone. I’m not a great typist, but I can edit as I go and what I like about the digital age is that the finished product is much neater and more accessible than my handwriting.

Perhaps you give away less of yourself when you use a keyboard – nobody can judge your handwriting or take it away to forensics and compare it to the murdering adulteress who turned her victims into soap and candles.  A typed paragraph is more anonymous, but equates to a smaller ratio of black to white on the page.

So, the message of today was to just keep writing, like Dory, just keep writing…. Don’t worry about what people think – it’s none of your business what other people think! All your misgivings, lack of self-confidence and excuses are not barriers but obstacles that can be overcome with determination, persistence and a few sticks and carrots thrown in along the way. So, in the words of that ageing musical aficionado, Do Yourself a Favour. Book in and spend the day with Dev. Eat great food. Write a bit. Then write a bit more and just keep writing.

Thanks Catherine, for sharing with us how to hack our own mind games. I hope one day I can pay it forward and give someone else the joy of reading that I have experienced.

Once upon there was. Upon a time perhaps. There was a family of individual people. The only thing they had in common was they liked to wear large black overcoats and hats – preferably top hats but bowler hats would do if you couldn’t get a top hat that fit.

This family of individual people was made up solely of males as the lady who was the wife and mother was dead. This was an unhappy event however every day the boys would look at a keepsake locket which contained a small, withered, browned at the edges, picture of the lady.

This family of individuals was distinguished by the fact that they were markedly different. The father was of average height, the first born was of a height that could at best be described as “of a small and somewhat miniature stature” and the third individual was what could only be called a “very above average stature”.

One day the two sons had started to argue over which hat was better, a top hat or a bowler, when their father walked in.

“I am the eldest, and if I say bowler hats are more comfortable, then they are. I’ve been around longer, and I know best” he said.

“You may be older, but you know nothing about hats and their wearing, as you’ve worn nowt but a bowler in your short life”, the younger brother replied. It was due to this comment, that the argument escalated, and the brothers became physical, attacking each other with gusto. The elder, wrapped his arms around the younger’s legs and, opening his mouth wide, took a great bite. And because of this, their father finally stepped in and declared “You’ll need to compromise”.

“Compromise!” spluttered the long, tall top hatted brother. “Compromise? I can’t compromise with that little weasel. He bit my kneecap!” and grunting with the effort he dragged himself over to his brother and began batting him about the head with his top hat. Determined to put an end to the nonsense, the father stepped in, shouting, “I said compromise! Not beat the living daylights out of each other”.

That was it, the final straw. The younger brother hoisted the older one under his arm, then shoved him underneath his big black coat. The older sibling squirmed and kicked but he was held fast.

“What are you doing?” screeched the father in horror. “You know he doesn’t like enclosed spaces”.

“I’m sick of this argument and I’m sick of having sore kneecaps” said the younger brother. “I’ve seen a new bespoke milliner has opened down the back alley so I’m taking the little fella there this moment. He’s jolly well getting a top hat fitted TODAY and he will jolly well like it!

“You have until ten PM before the wheels fall off”, the speaker droned on and on, same message, same monotonous tone. Was it meant to inspire them?

“This really isn’t helping” said Helen. Her feet were hurting, her sandal had broken and she’d eaten too much. Janet felt much the same but ploughed on.

“Just. Keep. Writing. We can drown in beer later” She was staring at a photo her daughter had torn from a magazine. An ape cradling a kitten. Helen looked over, “Ahhhh, cute”…

*****

Before the Magic Kingdom was shut down for animal cruelty, one of the most popular exhibits was the loved up gorilla, Maisy. The object of her affection; Jumbo the cat. Visitors flocked to see the two starts of the YouTube videos, the most popular time just after lunch, when Maisy would gently cradle Jumbo as she did a gorilla sized poo.

It was guaranteed to raise a giggle or an “Ahhhh, cute” in the assembled crowd. And enough for the welfare activists to launch a campaign to halt the embarrassing invasion of the couple’s most private moments.

But were Maisy and Jumbo any happier with the blinds drawn? Perhaps we all need an audience sometimes.

There once was a woman called Dev

Called to give wannabe writer’s a rev

The wind rushed through her fur as she ran.

Fur where the fuck did that come from, what was she?

The shot blasted over her shoulder, too close.

Adrenalin pushed her faster, now running on all fours she leaped over the creek and up the hill.

Strong muscles pumped her legs, no time to think, no time to think, shouts from behind, keep running.

Heading downhill picking up speed, she knew this place, it was familiar just up ahead was the large dead tree.

She skidded to a stop and crawled on her belly into the dark damp space, panting her tongue rolled over her bloody, razor sharp teeth.

She tried to slow her breathing she could hear the men close and their baying dogs barking wildly, fuck! her scent was strong no way they were going to miss that.

Slow the heart, clear the mind, she could do this.

Her vision blurred, her pungent smell started to fade, she fell into the blackness, she closed her eyes and let go.

Only one chance, she had better make it a good one.

Once upon a time there was a young man who had X ray vision. He’d inherited it on his mother’s side of the family, which probably explained why he was distant from his father.

His parents grew up in Melbourne, met at work and moved to Hobart, where he was conceived. The boy never met his mother’s parents until he was a young man. In the first instance this was because they refused to travel over water, but later it was because they became too sick to do anything at all apart from go to the hospital or to see their GP.

Every day the boy’s grandfather on his mother’s side would rise at 7am, go out to the kitchen and make a cup of tea for his wife of 50 years. He’d take it to her as she sat propped up in bed, lying against the pillows in her pale pink bed jacket with its ribbon ties and lace edging.

He would place the cup on her bedside table on a coaster and sit at the foot of the bed whilst she sipped it.

He himself preferred coffee, but he knew the smell upset her, so he waited until she had her shower before he had his.

One day, as they were waiting for their taxi to arrive and take them to a specialist’s appointment, there was a knock at the front door. Thinking it was Kevin, the Sikh taxi driver, the husband pulled back the door with a flourish and a smile. But it wasn’t Kevin on the doorstep, instead it was a young police constable, shifting nervously from one foot to the other as he waited for the door to open.

Because of that, the old man knew that there was bad news coming. As he ushered the constable into the lounge room, he called out to his wife to put the kettle in.

“Now office, what has happened?” he asked softly, not wishing his wife to overhear. He wanted to be prepared so as to comfort her if need be.

The young officer coughed and played with his hat, which he’d removed when he entered the house.

And because of that, the old man was distracted and didn’t realise his wife had entered the room.

“Are you Mr Herbert Georges?” the young police officer enquired.

“Yes I am”.

Suddenly they both turned as there was a noise behind him and his wife grabbed at the buffet as she started to fall, pulling a doily and with it a photo frame and vase of roses as she sank to the floor. They two men watched in silence until finally she landed in a heap with water, roses and shattered glass all around her. As her husband rushed to her side the constable did his best to explain.

“I’m sorry sir, I just wanted to inform you that you’ve won First prize in the Police Cadet’s Christmas raffle. It’s a dinner for two plus drinks at the Caulfield RSL. I’ve brought the menu with me for you to look at, although the meals listed are serving suggestions only.”

Once upon a time there was a small girl, who lived with her foster grandparents. She wore two plaits in her hair. And her life was dull and really quite boring.

She collected the eggs, feed the chickens, and milked the cow.

And then one day, as she was feeding the chickens, she noticed a strange object in the chicken house. It was quite small, leather-like, and round. She collected the object and admired it for its glorious roundness. It fit neatly into her pocket.

Every day from that day on she looked for further strange objects in the chicken pen. Or an explanation. But her curiosity was confounded. There was never another object, and there seemed no purpose to the small round leather object she keep secreted away in her pocket, never revealed to a single soul.

The girl watched the chicken house day and night for signs, clues, traces.

One day during her morning inspection she noticed a trail of silver leading from the chicken house, it glistened in the sun, and lead away into the fields beyond.

She knew she had to complete her chores and return with the eggs and milk for breakfast or her step grandparents would be cross. But because of that silver trail, and its promise, she ignored her fears about returning late, and followed the glistening string.

As she walked the ball in her pocket began to warm. She felt drawn to feel its smooth, soft skin, like she had many times before, but this time she felt a warmth, she pulled it from her pocket, and it seemed to glow. Iridescence emanated from with in the ball, and then a pulse. The pulse grew stronger as she followed the gossamer thread.

And because of that, she was drawn further and further from the familiarity of the farm, and into the deep dark forest, a place long forbidden to her. The silver thread and the glowing ball pulled her deeper towards the darkest parts of the forest until finally the thread weaved its way around the base of one the forests largest and most ancient trees. It disappeared high into the boughs and the rustling silver leaves. The ball became more alive, pulsing, throbbing and threatening to burst its very seems. In fact she thought it quite likely the thing would detonate in her very hands, such was the power it contained.

Up she climbed.

Up, up, up until she felt the air closing in around her, always following the silver thread and feeling the pulse of the ball, which seemed to find a synchronicity with the life-force of the tree.

Before long she had reached the topmost branches. The ground was far below. The string disappeared into what seemed like a thicket, made of the silver thread, moss and straw. She reached her hand into the thicket, felt its soft inner layer, a nest of some sort she thought.

She climbed up further still until she could peer into the nest. She found the gossamer string woven with the most glorious feathers she had ever imagined. Golden, topaz, magenta and aquamarine. Before she could marvel longer at the feathers she noticed, at the very farthest side, lay a golden bird, its body slumped over as if in the deepest grief. Only the bird’s eyes moved. They met hers searchingly. She held up the now glowing, pulsing ball, and the bird’s eye filled with light.

As she had felt compelled to follow the thread, so too did she feel compelled to place the ball into the nest. As she gently set it down on softest feathers of the nest, the bird transformed, renewed with the joy of its return. A magical song burst forth from as if from the soul of the forest, as bewitching as it was beautiful. She fell deeply under its spell and was soon soundly asleep, dreaming a silver dream.

She woke later that night, in the forest lit by the silver light of a thousand fire flies. They led her home with a such great joy in her heart, and from that day forward if you looked closely, plaited into her hair, were the most tiny, shiny, gossamer threads of silver.

And now for something completely different.

Fuck Me, I’m Internet Dating. 

A forward – and this is really just for those people who like “staying in or going out”. In fact you are either in or out. There really is no other fucking place to be, you are in or you are out. Unless, of course, you are the Grand Old Duke Of York.

Index.

Chapter 1. The 37 year old virgin (my first)

Chapter 2. A feast of farmers.

Chapter 3. Top 10 Cancellation excuses (inconveniently made when one is in full make up, and/or at least half way to venue)

Chapter 4. How to get from “hello” to “show me your tits” in 30 seconds.

Chapter 5. A smorgasbord of dick, fish and car/motorbike pixs. (featuring the all time favourite a of a guy on a quad bike fishing with his dick out)

Chapter 6. My wife left me for another woman.

Chapter 7. The (biggest) lying, cheating arsehole

Chapter 8. Another lying, cheating arsehole.

Chapter 9. I love you but…

Chapter 10. Men called Stuart.

Chapter 11. Self-destructive sex in vehicles.

Chapter 12. Self-destructive sex in nature, laneways and gardens.

Chapter 13. Coming to terms with self-destructive sex through therapy and more self-destructive sex.

Chapter 14. Unrequited love and a slight obsession.

Chapter 15. Scammers, Mirages and Foreign Princes.

Chapter 16. Who the fuck is “easy going” and why the fuck would we like them.

Chapter 17. Mark my words…into the unknown.

An aside. Top 10 reasons for instantly swiping left.

Coming soon.

Really? What the fuck were you thinking?

A guide to not writing the most boring profile in the world.

I visited my parents recently.

They still live in the house where I grew up with my sister and two brothers. Where my brothers hog-tied me in the lounge room and amused themselves by dangling me upside down over the toilet or off the edge of the veranda. Where my sister and I held concerts and gymnastics competitions and accidentally set fire to the 1970’s orange nylon carpet.

Mostly, my memories of the time I lived in that house revolve around the garden created by my Dad; where my brothers taught me to play cricket, where I would find a quiet sunny spot to read a book, and where my sister and I spent hours building cubbies, running under the sprinkler in the summer and swinging on the Hills Hoist.

My Dad has created this garden over many years and, while it still invites human adventure, it is now more regularly visited by the birds he has designed it to attract. A birdbath filled regularly, especially in the summer, has replaced the cricket stumps. Fresh meat is put out for the kookaburras and a seed dish now marks the spot on the verandah where a small girl was once dangled over the railing.

On this recent visit, my generally erudite Dad pulled out a bag of marbles. (“Nice,” I think to myself. “Quaint and retro. He’s going to teach my kids how to play marbles…”) and a sling shot (“Mmm… Maybe not so nice.”)

While Dad has always fed the birds, he has also chased away those he doesn’t care particularly for. Notably the Indian Mynas – aggressive, nasty birds which threaten and bully the native lorikeets, king parrots and bronze wing pigeons he favours. The birds that peck and squawk, intimidate and steal all the seed are all subject to his wrath, native or not.

Recently, he’s taken it to another level hence 1. the slingshot and 2. the bag of marbles.

“Here”, he says to my 14 year old trying-to-be-vegetarian daughter. “Have a go.”

She is horrified and fascinated in equal measure that her crusty, creative, usually gentle Grandpa is taking pot shots at myna birds and cockatoos. My 12 year old son is more enthusiastic in taking up the opportunity to master a new skill.

The next hour or so is spent being educated in not only how to manoevre the sling shot and best direct the marbles but, more importantly in how to recognize the goodies from the baddies. – which birds to scare off, which are welcome and why the difference. So maybe this is not such a bad thing after all.

Bored, with the lessons in ornithology and low-level violence, and pleased that my children are engaged with someone and something other than screens or me, I turn away and start a conversation with my mother.

Suddenly, THWACK!!!

Cheers from one kid. Squeals and subsequent tears from another.

And from one crusty, old self-satisfied Grandpa, a simple “Got him”.

I remember asking my old man every day for a week to help me with an art assignment. He was usually pissed and didn’t pay me too much attention. I’d learned young to duck and weave and stay out of the way. I had asked for a piece of timber to be cut. Eventually, I did what I always do (to this day) when I want something done. I did it myself. I raised the axe (possibly not the right tool for the job) above my head, the handle and the axe head separated and fell right into my face. I was eleven. I walked to the house up the hill. The home of my best friend and they took me to be stitched up.

Conveniently close, the house up the hill. My home away from home, the place I went when things were really shitty.

My dad’s response to the incident went something like “the only thing you had going for you is your pretty face and now that’s fucked too”.

I decided I would have an amazing life. Stand up, be successful and strong, responsible, accountable, sensible, sober.

I barely graduated high school. I was high or drunk most of my senior years. Pregnant at 22 and again at 23. My Dad reminded me of my failures on a regular basis. I don’t feel sorry for myself.

Sometimes, I nail it and sometimes I make terrible fucking decisions and so, the journey continues.

I remember hiding under the bed when I was small. Hoping to be overlooked in the latest drunken rage, I remember being told I was worthless and pointless and that I had ruined his life. I don’t remember any kind words or hugs. I don’t remember ever being encouraged. I remember the shouting and the smashing, I remember the backhanders for no reason. I don’t feel sorry for myself.

I am a grown arse woman. I am accountable. I take responsibility, I look for a lesson in most things. I don’t believe any parent sets out to do a shithouse job raising a kid.  He was just doing the best he could do with what he had. Fuck, aren’t we all.

Life rises and falls in stories. I am aware: my moods, my emotional wellbeing, my mental health. I am like a book. Each new story has a beginning, a middle and thankfully always an end.  I can sense it before it arrives. I manage it. I take extra care; I prioritise and schedule around it. I don’t feel sorry for myself.

Most days, this journey is filled with intense happiness, the other days are just horrible. I don’t feel sorry for myself, but then I don’t feel sorry for my father either.