All posts by Princess Sparkle

The Mother Tree – Amandine Blasius

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Once upon a time, there was a tree whose roots spread for miles and miles across lands and countries. It is said that if one was to touch one of the roots, and if anyone else was also touching the tree, they could hear each other’s thoughts. The Mother tree was a messenger and wisdom keeper of service to the tribes living around her. Wherever on the land you would be, if her roots were close to you, she could receive your message and answer. The original wireless connection.

The Mother tree had a special affinity with children. They would hear her calling their names in their sleep, telling them to come and listen. Every day, she would call another child who will come to meet her. Today was Lila’s turn.

When Lila arrived by the Mother, she bowed in respect and approached the ancient and vibrant trunk. The Mother tree was huge, and the closer she got to the trunk, the more details seemed to appear engraved in the bark, creating pictures and scriptures. The elders say these are the memories of time that the Mother kept within, just like a living library.

Fascinated, Lila leaned her ear on the bark and heard a deep and warm voice telling her that one day, she will have to be the voice of the Mother tree. The spirit of the Mother, for it was her voice, asked Lila to rest her forehead against the trunk so she could see. As soon as Lila did so, her entire vision was filled with bursting colors, even though her eyes remained closed. She witnessed the vision of a world which did not remember the Mother tree. Because of that, men from foreign tribes were threatening the peace that had been existing around the Mother for millennia. Lila saw and felt that these men were sad, deeply sad inside their heart and she knew that they would find the answers to their longing and their questions if they listened to the Mother, just like she was now. To her intuition, the Mother showed her visions of people from the white men’s tribe, cutting down trees all around the planet. And because of that, they were losing their connection to Nature. They needed to remember and it would change.

Lila knew her role in this story. The Mother agreed until finally she asked:

–       “Please, be my voice to the deaf men tribe which has forgotten to listen. Share my stories with them and be strong Lila.  I have faith in you. And remember, every time you see a shooting star in the sky, there is more love coming to the world and soon enough, the deaf men will love themselves and each others again.”

 

The end…or is it just the beginning? J

 

 

 

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That Nagging Sensation – Julie Cowe

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Gin squirmed, trying not to move too much but needing to move more than she was. Maybe if she shifted right? No. Left? No that was worse! She tried to slide forward in her seat and stretch a bit; maybe that would fix the problem.

“Gin, sit still!” her mom hissed. “It’s like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
“Sorry.”

Gin looked straight ahead and tried to focus on the pastor’s sermon but the pulling discomfort was not letting up. It was getting worse. She tried to cross her legs but that didn’t work. She tried crossing her legs the other side…

“Gin, what is wrong with you?” mum lowered her head, with a harsh whisper “Have you got a dirty bum?”

“No!” Gin said but was instantly hushed and tapped on the knee making her almost drop her Bible.
“Sit quietly, please.” her mum said and looked away.

“I need the toilet.” Gin announced and mum sighed, “Can’t you hold it?”

“No.” Gin stood up and shuffled along the pew in front of other parishioners, who tsked and pulled their feet in tightly against the bench as she got to the main aisle. She walked towards the back and noticed people looking up to watch her. Some of them made curious faces but soon they all began turning pages in their hymn books as the organ began to play. She walked faster towards the safety of the church toilets, pain in every step.

When she was in the stall with the lock slid in place, she relaxed but nearly cried while trying to free a pubic hair that had become stuck in the adhesive of her maxi pad. She’d not had her periods for long and this was becoming a regular torture. Maybe the magazines were right and mom was wrong; it’s not dirty to wear tampons. Look, even the church is okay with tampons; there’s a dispenser right here in the church toilets. 50¢ for freedom. If only she had 50¢.

 

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The first step – A.P.

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

The first feeling was relief. I was just so relieved l was right. I listened to that feeling, that voice. It was right, l was right. I held back until l had enough proof. He couldn’t deny it.

He had unknowing delivered the last piece of the puzzle that afternoon. I choose my moment. I executed my plan, l had been going over in my head all day. I felt l only had one shot at this.

It was late. The kids where in bed, fast asleep. He was on the couch. We just had the most amazing sex we had had in ages. I had to prove to myself that he was capable of it. I had been given so many excuses over the past year, why he couldn’t make love to me – stress, work… I made sure this time that he wouldn’t be able to resist – it was part of the plan.

He was sitting on the couch. I sat on the coffee table in front of him. Eye to eye. “…So do you want to tell me what’s going on with Kate?… I have all the text messages, l could read them out to you, or do you want to tell me yourself?”

I could tell by the look on his face, that feeling l had been carrying around with me for years was right.

 

Written by A.P

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Skeleton Man – Justine McInerney

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER. 

Once upon a time there was a lady who was scared to show her full self to anyone. She hid behind clothes, facades, stories, her job, her relationships. She knew that the day would come where she would have to shed her armour and crank it up a notch – her life.

She knew she had to step up.

She encountered an old man with red socks at a bar one night, and he told her many tales. They spoke for hours and moved the conversation back to his house when the bar closed. It was damp, and full of piled up records and dusty VHS Tapes. There were collections of dolls and figurines still in boxes.

They conversed over a cup of tea and the man began to play guitar. He shared his stories in song and sang, freely. She sat and listened and was encapsulated by the man’s way with words. Every day, she thought, he must write. He must observe. He must capture snapshots of life with a blue pen, as his words weaved worlds.

She saw herself outside of herself for a moment, sitting on his vintage satin and wood couch and she saw her layers melting away, just witnessing him. Seeing him in his element was stripping her own layers away. He was baring his soul.

He was old enough to be her Grandpa.

She saw him for a split second as a skeleton; too old to care what anyone else thought. Too wise to play games. Too far into this journey called life to hide any part of his beautiful heart.

She admired him and his ability to be his true self.

Her daydream was interrupted, as he was calling her name. Coming into her body awareness again, she realised he was saying, “Your turn.” “My turn to what?” She said. “Sing” he said. “Yeh, one day maybe,” the girl replied. “No, now.”

She blushed and thought she couldn’t possibly. What? Allow a stranger to bare witness to her voice? Her true, vulnerable voice?

He helped ease her into it and they began by singing a well-known song together. She warmed, and his voice slowly faded, until she realised she was singing alone.

Tricky, she thought. And humbled.

This old man, a stranger, had helped bring her voice out. He’d given her the time of day no one else ever had. He genuinely cared. She got teary. He read her like a book, and because of that he said, “Here, sing these words” and handed her some lyrics.

“These are my words. You have no connection to these words, so just tell the story.”

She was confused but she agreed. Nervously, she began to sing.

“CUT!” He yelled and stood up telling ‘all the cameras to stop filming’. “Cut! Cut! She doesn’t want to be watched guys; this is for her and her alone.”

This prompted the girl to think about why and how she was singing. The man said, “Sing as you sing, not as you want to be heard.”

The girl cried.

She breathed deeply and began to sing. Until finally she heard her real voice for the first time, ever. At this age; as a twenty something young woman.

Again she witnessed herself from afar and felt as though she was naked, sitting on that couch, baring herself and her soul to this old, skeleton.

His freedom had freed her, and she felt exposed.

She reached for a blanket. The man again read her like a book and said with a wink, “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it”.

They sat there in silence for a bit, just being still. Thanking each other for the other’s presence.

This old man probably hadn’t invited anyone into his home for years. And for a long time, this young lady hadn’t let anyone into her heart.

 

_________________

 

 

** Lovely to meet all of you fabulous humans. My website is JustineMcInerney.com if you want to connect. Music is on www.ikigai.world. Our business is @soulsparkmgmt and our heart’s work is over at www.thepositivityproject.com.au (launching this week). I have two workshops coming up you might like to come to, ‘Blogs for Beginners’ and ‘Creative Sluts; We put out’. The first is a hands on workshop where in one night you will have your own blog up and running and know how to use your platform on going. The latter is a 6 week journey of a mini artist in residency, where every week we meet, dance, move, make weird noises and remove creative blocks. We meditate, we share, we work in the space, and at the end of the 6 week journey you share your production; dance, song, poem, story, painting – whatever your form. I wish you all luck on your writing journey and give a huge thumbs up to everyone telling their story. It’s why we are all here. Stay true to you.**

 

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All In A Day’s Work – Vanessa Hoy

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

5 minutes non-stop
I have no idea how I’m going to do this. Its just not how I work. I’m a control freak. Nothiing is spontaneous. Everything has to be planned. Carefully scripted. Thought through. This is just a random walk through my mind. How alarming.
So, what is in here?
I’m totally over being late this morning because Nic didn’t get Delilah dressed in time and then we couldn’t find her pink boots. Or am I? I guess the fact that I’ve even mentioned it means I’m not. I should be though, right? It didn’t matter. I took a short walk across the park and got here just before they opened up. It all worked out fine.
But Nic knew I was annoyed. And she will have stewed, while she wondered around Luna Park with a bunch of three year olds and their parents – none of whom we know. She will probably be miserable, not that she’ll admit it if I ask her later. Let’s be honest, when I ask her later. Because I’m feeling bad about it.
I always feel bad about it but I keep doing this stuff. Why?
—
10 minutes
Tuesday. Without a doubt the worst day of the week. All the positivity and good intentions born of a weekend of eating, sleeping and playing are long gone by Tuesday morning. Monday saw them off. And yet the working week has barely begun. There are still four shit filled days of getting up earlier than you want to, driving in rush hour traffic for way longer than you want to and sitting stupefied at your desk for hours more than you want to left. Four days before you get to eat, sleep and play again. Well, not really but that is how it feels.
So, of course, inevitably she calls on Tuesday morning…
—
6 part prompt
Once upon a time there lived a little girl who loved to wear red. Her name was Cath. She was bold, she was sassy and she was always right.
One day Cath went out to visit her friend, Keely. Cath and Keely had been friends for a long time but despite this they were very different. Keely was timid, she was quiet and she thought she was always wrong.
On this particular day Cath and Keely decided to go to the park to feed the ducks. It was a fine day and the walk from Keely’s house to the park was long enough to allow both girls to feel the warmth of the sun on their backs.
In fact, every day has been sunny and fine recently. It was as though the world had forgotten about cold and wet and windy. No one seemed to have noticed, or if they had no one had seemed to mind. And certainly not Cath and Keely as they made their way to the park.
“Did you remember the bread” Keely asked, anticipating that Cath, in her enthusiasm, may have forgotten the bag of crumbs they had prepared.
“One day” said Cath “you’ll learn to trust me. Yes, or course I have the bread.” And to prove her point, she pulled the bag out of the pocket of her red dress.
“I’m sorry Cath.” Keely mumbled “I do trust you, mostly. But sometimes you do forget things. And I don’t want to disappoint the ducks.”
“Disappoint the ducks! How could we? If we forgot the bread they would just have to compromise. We could feed them grass or leaves or something.”
“I don’t think ducks eat grass” said Keely.
Because of that Cath fell silent. I hate it when she tells me I’m wrong, thought Cath. I’m never wrong. And because of that Cath pounced.
“Ducks do eat grass and leaves and cheese and sweets and cake and tizzer and …
… Cath went on and on and on until finally Keely couldn’t take it any more.
“Look Cath” she said pointing up to the top of the hill where the bandstand stood.
“What” said Cath annoyed that her monologue had been interrupted.
And there coming over the hill was the most enormous 10 wheeled, duck killing, monster truck that Cath (or Keely) had ever seen.
“Shit!” they both said together and ran as fast as they could towards the duck pond.
—
10 minutes
Julie’s Progress
It was strange, thought Julie as she exited the park and turned left up the hill towards home, how behaviour that would have had you committed twenty five years ago was now so unremarkable.
The man talking animatedly to himself, while his dog sniffed about unwatched nearby, was oblivious to everything going on around him, including Julie’s brief glance his way.
Only the tell-tale white wires running from his ears down into his jacket confirmed he was talking to someone on his phone, not ranting at some unseen demon.
That’s progress I guess, she thought. Being connected, contactable, available 24/7. Despite how it makes you look or indeed makes you feel. Its what everyone does now. Its what everyone expects.
Not that meeting other people’s expectations was particularly high on Julie’s list of priorities. Not now anyway.
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School run thoughts – Tamara Protassow

Gunnas-Masters

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.

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Bomb Hoax – Malcom Brown

Gunnas-Masters

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.

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My game plan – Rosie Wheen

Gunnas-Masters

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

 

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Nappy Novice – by Scott Haines

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

I changed my first nappy at the age of 40.

I managed to dodge and avoid changing nappies by craftily concocting a story that I evolved of a number of years. Despite having navigated the baby and toddler years of 3 nieces, a nephew and countless friends with babies, I managed to never, not once change a nappy. I don’t recall how I came up with my excuse, but at the time I thought it was a bit of genius. It went something along the lines of…

“Scott, can you change Chloe’s nappy?”

“Well, Kathy, you know I’d love to change my baby niece’s nappy, but you also know I’ve never changed a nappy before and as I’ve told you I want to save that unique experience for my own first child. Would you want to take that bonding experience away from me?”

The answer was always “I’ll do it then”.

This worked for many years, as four babies became toddlers and then outgrew nappies. They were teenagers before my wife and I had our first child when I was 40 years old.

In writing this, it perhaps strikes me for the first time that what I’m about to tell you might be a bit of karma.

I can’t say changing this particular nappy was definitely the first, but it was one of the early ones and certainly the most memorable.

Our first child, a little girl, came into the world at 32 weeks, so spent the first 5 weeks of her life in hospital. When we finally got her home she seemed even more special and precious because of the extra wait.

We had a great change table in Amelia’s bedroom which sat in the corner of the room. My Dad had made it for one of his earlier grandkids and it had been passed around the family over the years.

As I assume is the case with most new babies and new parents you tend to do everything together. We bathed her together, we fed her together, if she woke we would both get up (at least for the first few weeks).

So, I was standing at the end of the change table. Amelia was lying on it with her feet resting toward my large round stomach. My wife was watching from the side of the change table. I removed Amelia’s nappy, gratefully realising that it was just wet and not dirty. As I folded up the nappy to put it in the bin – it happened. She farted and shit at the same time. It was projectile, landing all over my considerable stomach, up my chest and on my shoulder. My wife laughed so hard she almost wet herself. I was in absolute shock. Amelia lay there oblivious to what had just happened. My wife was in tears with laughter and pain at the same time due to the recent birth and loss of muscle strength. This all in-turn made her laugh more, which made her almost wet herself again, which made her laugh again. She was laughing too hard to get me a cloth or something to wipe myself down.

At this stage I could feel the poo going cold as the moisture soaked through my shirt onto my skin. To say the least, it wasn’t pleasant. As I started to lift a particularly wet patch off my skin, Amelia farted again. I instinctively threw my hands out like a karate block, towards her little backside. This time it was just a fart. Thankfully.

It is amazing the poo, wee and vomit stories that new parents swap. We’ve spoken about a range of things in those early parenting days we never dream of discussing.

Since then I’ve changed my share of nappies for both our children and was pondering as I started to write this that it may be time to change my earlier story.

It could go something along the lines of… “I haven’t changed a nappy in years and I think the next one should be for my first grandchild. You wouldn’t want to take that experience away from me would you”… Or am I asking for more karma?

 

 

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Ssticking out like a sore thumb living in small town Turkey Alexandra Newhouse

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Hey there,

You, I mean you.

What’s your story?

Not the potted version you tell Aunt Freda and the well-meaning relatives. The one where it all hangs out.

The real one.

My gift to myself pure freedom, unadulterated freedom to share your story.

Here is mine.

Once upon a time…. There lived a princess and a prince. Screw that. This is no fairy tale. Simply a human tale full of mistakes, retakes and outtakes. Like bloopers. Those unbelievably funny moments that you can’t believe actually happened. In a nutshell Mummy met Daddy at the airport. Being from two different countries and meeting in a third followed plenty of international travel. It was pretty full on and now I’m totally sick of airports.

So bounce, bounce, bounce went the ball. Back and forth. Get your tennis rackets at the ready set one to Turkey. Oh, but then match point Australia. It’s going to be a close call. Oh, Turkey is making a comeback. Goes to a tie-breaker, advantage Australia. Now it looks like it is too close to call. Back and forth. Bouncy, bouncy tennis ball. Well, then it hit me like cricket ball to the stomach.

Let me see if I can set the scene. Small town in Turkey so far off the tourist track it’s not funny. There is one main street. I’m blond so no chance of blending in. I have one word of Turkish to my name “yes”. And this town is my new home indefinitely. So, I feel great!

The first time I walked down the street alone I was in motorbike get up. Oh my god did I feel self-conscious. I’ve never seen a man walk past dressed like this. I was really keen to find a toilet. Any toilet. Last time I went looking for one I found the male toilet. I’m not fussy but it gave the two girls sitting at the café a fit of giggles. Fine by me. I wasn’t making a statement. I didn’t see the “bay” sign by the door and if I had it was all goobbledygook to me. Five minutes later I had two words to my name “evet” yes and “bay” man.

Here I am. Everything is new and assaulting to the senses. I’m in constantly overloaded and ignorant. Being ignorant is exhausting. After a whole day of being out and not understanding a word I’m spent. I’m also pretty alone and using lots of energy trying to understand what might be going on. Not to mention feeling like the odd one out.

Where are the others foreigners? I saw one African women. Oh, and I met a Romania. So, let’s say there were three of us out of a close knit town of 150,000. I could feel people staring at me. In fact I noticed when people didn’t stare. That’s because it rarely happened!

The question I got asked most asked most was “where are you from?” This is after it was already assumed that I must be Russian or German. Probably on account of the blond hair. Australia? Where’s that?

Then there was the time I tried to ask a friend how his sister was. What came out is “do you have a girlfriend?” Like I was interested. But I was utterly surprised when he told me he was single. Whoops!

And this is just the beginning. There are plenty more stories where this came from. Watch this space….

If you would like to share your story I’d love to hear it. Drop me a line at

alexnewhouse@hotmail.com

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