I was at a meeting in Cobargo one Monday afternoon in August last year. A committee member was running late. Eventually she arrived, grim-faced; there’d been an accident at the stock crossing on the Bermagui-Cobargo Road. A little boy had been hit by a car after getting off the school bus. The next day I…
Author: Jen
Quaama Express
You’d laugh to see us on the street The scooter, me, my doggies dear The small one, Wookie, leads the way The big one, Rudy, in the rear. They’re both tied up, I’m sad to say, Can’t trust either not to stray, Rudy cos he hunts down chooks. That’s cost me dearly. As for Wook,…
On to Plan B: adapting for a radically changing planet
It was pretty clear to scientists in the 1990s that man-made carbon emissions were causing climate change—it had started with the Industrial Revolution. Two plans of action were mooted. Plan A: reduce emissions (mitigation). Plan B: adapt to the changes. But we weren’t going to need Plan B, were we? The fix was clear, and…
Something to lean on
I was listening to a podcast of Richard Fidler interviewing Tim Ferguson the other day. You may remember Ferguson as one of the Doug Anthony Allstars. Long and lanky with a sweep of black hair across his brow, he was often referred to as ‘the good-looking one’—so he says, anyway. Fidler was an Allstar too,…
To: Tim Winton. Re: Island Home
Tim, I live in Yuin country on the East coast. The black and white communities here keep to themselves, in the main, and my contact with the locals is fleeting and superficial—a nod exchanged with the group who drink at a picnic table beside the carpark in Bega; a closer yet single-themed half hour a…
An open letter to author Sara Baume
Dear Sara Baume, When I heard about Spill Simmer Falter Wither I thought, lovely, a book I’ll enjoy, then lend to all my dog-loving friends. It’s not a long book. I finished it, breathed for a while, and went to scratch the heads of my own two dogs—both reprobates. The larger one has gained notoriety…
On the death of Gillian Mears
So, Gillian Mears is dead. Mears was an award-winning Australian writer of novels and short stories, and last year released a children’s book. She lived on her property near Grafton, NSW, with a horse she wasn’t able to ride and a cat. She had MS.
A sprinkle of charged glitter
Neuralgia again. Or is it? I’ve written about neuralgia—nerve pain—before, but this time it’s different. In the past it has started slowly—the occasional subtle ping, gaining in intensity and frequency, rising to a crescendo of penetrating stabs, seconds apart, with little relief between. Then subsiding again over hours, or a few days at most. But…
A response to Melvyn Bragg’s Interview with Dennis Potter, May 1994
The drapes are drawn, the tones are hushed, and the air is heavy with grief and anticipation. The patriarch hovers between life and death on the dank, crumpled bed, propped on stained pillows, surrounded by his court. The elder son, the younger son, the adviser, the physician, all with their own secret hopes, fears and…
Scandi-voir
We’re on the ferry from Puttgarden, Germany, to Copenhagen. Bleak skies, choppy, grey water, the mournful cries of gulls. Grim Scandinavians frown into their shot glasses around me while I sit in the bar, reading. Then, from somewhere unseen, Wallander’s ringtone. I know it’s not Sweden—not quite—but my stomach drops. It always portends some alarming…