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,…
Author: Jen
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…
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…
Notes from the Eurozone
A café at Schiphol Airport—Amsterdam. I ask for a decaf soy latte. The waiter tips his head back a little. ‘We have no soy milk,’ he says. ‘No soy at all?’ ‘No. Starbucks has soy milk.’ There’s a challenge in his expression. Am I the type to decamp for Starbucks? Or am I a sophisticated…
Don’t be sorry! Ask away.
I was at our doggie playgroup last Wednesday afternoon, talking to Rose (another human), and mentioned MS in passing. Dean had been listening. ‘So, is that what you’ve got? MS?’ He was new to the group and we hadn’t had that conversation yet. ‘Yep.’ I gave him that wry, weary smile. If you have MS,…
A clear answer to an unclear question: Helen Caldicott on SA’s nuclear future
Dr Helen Caldicott, anti-nuclear activist, humanist, physician, returned to Bermagui on 10 February during a week when South Australian Premier Jay Weatherill’s Nuclear Fuel Cycle Royal Commission was preparing to deliver its “Tentative Findings”. Dr Caldicott was speaking at the Bermagui Institute dinner; her topic was “Nuclear South Australia”. The speaker shared anecdotes from her…
To sleep, perchance.
Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman … And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the…