Where is Womboin?

The hills around Womboin were alive with the sound of renditions of Dylan, The Beatles, James Taylor and Neil Young. The lyrics were elusive, verses were repeated or lost until someone came up with the obvious. Google them! Lyrics and guitar chords up on the large TV we gave the karaoke queens a run for their money.

A group of school friends now dispersed to all parts of the country came together to laugh, talk and make new friends with partners of the same. The wild and woolly kids, the unconventional and the rebels all came to show how they had changed. Middle aged and middle thinking? Not likely. Conversations ranged from death and dying to death and religion with a good sprinkling of politics and law thrown in. These school friends moved onto university, mostly together, and these musings were long removed from pot induced conversations from the 70s. Or were they?

So who were these people who were never going to stay in 'the Shire', well all bar one? An environmentalist, a river specialist, a lawyer, several teachers, a palliative carer, and a government official.

So what did these non-captains industry do besides sing and eat? This interloper was intrigued by a very strange game, perhaps peculiar to Sutherland Shire, which involved finding a non-funny transposition of the word love for knob in popular songs. Various offerings included the obvious She loves you, Love is a many splendoured thing, and This is just another silly love song. But of course the winner was My love is like a red, red rose, which some unkind person pointed out was actually a poem and in fact the funniest. (you have to do the substitutions yourself and speak them out loud. They are funny. I was told so.)

We ate some more and then decided a walk was in order. In the gloaming we raced up a Womboin hill to see the lights of Canberra starting to twinkle. Magnificent and so quiet. We descended and retreated into the warm fire-lit house to observe the falling frost from the inside and to talk some more!

Rampaging trees

Fig trees in Newcastle's Civic Park are on the rampage. These large figs planted around 1930 which give the adjoining Laman Street its character are set to be the council's number 1 enemy. We, the public, laugh at the signs and the removal of the benches. Across the park, equally large figs have lovely benches underneath.



This park with its towering trees, splashing fountain, scattered artwork and the war memorial is the location for all the end of year proms photos, weddings and even the filming of Superman 2. Carefully planted flower beds form an incomparable backdropin Newcastle. I cycle past and watch the shadows and the light playing in the branches and imagine the trees in Ent style moving slowly at night, crossing the path to the safe side of the park.

Honeysuckle

I used to cycle through the Dorset lanes buoyed up by the heady fragrance of honeysuckle. At the time it made a lot of things easier.

Now I cycle to work along the Honeysuckle foreshore in Newcastle. Honeysuckle grew along the banks of the Hunter River (Coquon) long before the settlers came. The wattle birds were attracted to the emitted soft scents and had no inkling of the dirt and destruction that would be caused by the deposits of coal found in this new settlement.

Today the area is paved, the dirty railyards have gone (not in Tighes Hill or Carrington thanks to Port Waratah) The pathway linking the inner city suburbs is fringed with salubrious high rise apartments mostly housing the newly retired coming up from Sydney. They are attracted by the harbour, the beaches and the harbour life.

Old warehouses are being turned into expensive dining options, gyms and museums. Former dockland is being landscaped with sculpture and seating areas around the reclaimed boat sunk in the harbour many years ago.The boat had been used for target practice and was unceremoniously sunk. Now it has a new life, deconstructed and reassembled into an installation wafted by the sweet smell of garlic at a nearby Italian restaurant.

Installations come in all sorts of shapes and sizes and I recently heard that the piles of books or unorganised items loitering around your house could be said to be wondrous art installations. Welcome to my gallery!

Reflections on being a mother

I am a little late, it being nearly a week since the much celebrated Mother's Day. But it is a time when we reflect on what it means to be a mother. Memories rueful, memories laughable, memories poignant and memories ridiculous.
So what do I most remember?
Looking at two little heads covered hopefully with Father Christmas hats fast asleep on their pillows and wishing I had a partner to say, "Come and look, aren't they adorable!"
Peeling onions in the kitchen with my eldest crying tears of laughter as we looked at each other in swimming goggles trying to avoid the tears!
Locking the doors to foil the determined exit of my youngest who complete with pyjamas in her backpack was running away to spend the night on Lewesdon Hill.
So happy to find other parents who actually liked swimming and felt it natural to spend hours in chlorine laced pools watching slim figures slice their way through to the next PB (that stands for personal best, something I did learn).
Reaching the sun gate gazing down at Machu Picchu holding one daughter faint and weak with Montezuma's revenge and smiling at the other with the sheer achievement of it all.
The despair when you are far away and not able to surround them with loving arms and kiss it all better.
The homemade cards and the sentiments within - unconditional love indeed. How you have made my life worthwhile. To my darling daughters, I love you both.

Needing a lift? Wireless bras.

Ok so who thought it was funny to make all wireless bras as dull as ditchwater? There are the most amazing styles and designs of bras out there, not to mention colours and fabrics but if you want comfort and no wire as well , forget it. My sister and I went out for the ultimate intimate apparel shopping experience and came back dejected and jaded. DJs promised a better shopping experience in their newly remodelled store but no,they had no styles that took our fancy. If you want tulle, they have it, if you want lace they have it, if you want any colour from faded lavender to hot pink they have it, if you want daring they have it, if you want black and sexy they have it, if you want cutesy polk dots they have it, if you want any with bows and buttons they have them, if you want silky satin they have it but not if you want to couple any of these with NO UNDERWIRE.



Do the manufacturers think that no wire means no colours other than white, beige or black? Do they think we have lost all interest in our bodies and wish to be strictly utilitarian? Think again Triumph, Berlei and all those Pacific Brands etc. There is a huge market for those who believe that underwire is not the way to go but would still like to cash in on the beautiful designs now available.

It seems I have choices, I can just cut out the underwire and see what happens or I can look at some online products. Meanwhile I will enjoy moaning and waiting for the perfect bra!

Sculpture by the Sea

We were all looking at it. A motley collection of flotsam and jetsam. Broken chairs, umbrellas, pieces of canvas, newspapers and pieces of stick. Were they modelled into a shelter? Was this a comment on the wastage of society, a very blot on the landscape, positioned as they were on the cliff edge? The magnificent coastline stretched out around the installation. A couple were vainly searching through their guide for some information on the sculptor, shaking their heads, no black number sign on this one.

Those of you who read your papers carefully might have realised that this was not a post-post-modern sculpture. This is the abode of a well known homeless man, Peter James Millhouse,who unfortunately has been accused of raping a young woman who was visiting the Sculptures by the Sea festival. So gawpers beware and stick to the path!


Walking against the flowing tide of visitors was not an option. The endless multi-coloured snake made its way around the headland, stopping to look and take the same photos as everyone else.


Tired of giant pegs and watches we hoped for the one piece which would stop us in our tracks and cause a break in the flow of people. Many we liked, a few more than others but the winner left me as cold as the granite of which it was made.
So I didn't even take a photo of the winner. A little old lady who spent a lot of time in her garden smoothing facets on the granite. I wonder what she will spend her $60,000 winnings on?
Passing a steel horse I caught this enlightening conversation between two half dressed teenagers.
'I can't believe we know the artist!'
'We've been to his workshed - we saw it in its making,' said several times at an ever-increasing volume to anyone who would listen.
'Have we done looking at the horse now, done by the artist we know?'We didn't know any of the artists but would like to share a few more of the notable sculptures. I am sorry if we have missed your favourites. Follow the leader and fall off the plinth!

Dust storms!

Ok this was a few weeks ago but I am still finding little piles of red dust. Areas I haven't cleaned, ornaments I haven't moved, books on bookshelves bringing a new meaning to dust covers.


I woke to an eerie orange glow coming through the blinds. Armageddon it wasn't but spooky it was. If I hadn't seen the news the night before I might have been forgiven for thinking that climate had changed - well rather more suddenly than the scientists think. But actually it was of course a weather problem, a slipping along the continent of usual red centre life.

Cycling along to work, I was struck by the thought of pea soupers, green fog, and how this was a more modern version, possibly carrot and orange or pumpkin and cumin. Boats loomed out of the cinnamon harbour, waves slapping hollowly against the harbour wall.

Yes, the dust finally lifted and the silly souls who had to rush to the carwash to clean their soiled people movers were feeling even more silly the next day when another storm moved in.