Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 27, 2020

Ok, so driving with me is a bit of an experience.

But, then, driving with anyone is a bit of an experience. Because, if you pay attention, the way someone acts behind the wheel can be quite revealing about what is going on in the thinnkbox atop someone’s neck.

The most obvious is the selection of music. You can learn a lot about a person based on their playlists. With me, you have the depressing indie songs that allude to my pretentiousness. There’s the Fleetwood Mac, which suggests I’ve reached a certain level of maturity in my late 20s where I crave easy listening music. The selection of a few specific Top 40 songs that say I’m aware enough about current trends to be relevant, but not so obsessed with them that I’m mainstream. And then you have the sprinkling of Lee Kernaghan to communicate my regional town roots but complete lack of agricultural knowledge – in case the clean Akubra and liberal use of the word “mate” didn’t already drop that hint.

You also get a glimpse of the rage that bubbles underneath my serene (it’s serene, right… right?!) exterior by my angry commentary of the drivers behaving like absolute roo heads in front of me. I mean, I’m not someone who hangs out of the car screaming obscenities at people and shake my fists or anything.  I don’t want the other drivers to know I’m taking about them, so I am usually quite restrained in my body language. My style of road rage is more like a stream of consciousness kind of a thing – I’m more of a mutterer, kind of like I’m hexing someone under my breath.

But perhaps the best insight into the way I think is when people are giving me directions.

When I’m driving by myself, I usually stick to the same routes I’ve travelled before as I click into a focused but somehow also absentminded autopilot mode. I tap into a way of thinking that feels more instinctual than analytical. More humanities than science. More art than maths, ya know?

Like, I go by feel, not by following steps.

Kind of like how learning a dance by breaking it down into tiny steps feels impossible and silly, but breaking out an interpretive number on the dance floor is completely natural.

That’s like how I drive.

I mean, people can say “turn right” but what does that actually mean, you know?

This is the part where I level with you.

I’ve always had trouble with my lefts and rights. It’s just never been my thing. Like, you know that thing where you make an L shape with your index finger and thumb on both hands and the one that looks like an L is your left hand? Well, for the longest time, I just thought the angle of the left hand fingers was closer to the 90-degree corner angle than your right hand, therefore making it a better L shape. It just didn’t occur to me that one of the Ls was back to front.

Maybe it’s dumb, but maybe it’s an example of my brain just not confirming to the boxes of society, man. Like, maybe it’s not that I don’t know my left from right, but that I transcend lefts and rights.

And maybe me needing to go for my Learners’ test four times because I kept mixing up my lefts and rights was a journey I needed to go on because I still had unfinished business on the school bus that I couldn’t have completed if I was behind the wheel of a car, you know?

So, with all this in mind, I’ll describe a recent scene when I was driving with a first-time passenger who directed me to turn right and was flummoxed when I changed lanes to turn left.

I had to explain that, sometimes, it just doesn’t occur to me that left is left or that right is right. That it’s more of the vibe of the thing and that, sometimes, the left direction just has more of a righthand vibe, you know?

It’s been a little while now and that first-time passenger hasn’t become a second time passenger yet.

I’m not really sure why.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 29

Anzac day was a different one this year.

When I was living in Sydney, Anzac Day had a completely different energy about it. For a lot of people around my age, Anzac Day was when you would crowd into pubs for rowdy games of two-up, where it was not uncommon for people to ride a few fifties on the flip of a coin. There were drinks specials and long lines at the bar and the whole thing had vibe that I would liken to Australia Day yabbie races. It was all a bit weird.

Like, I’m very much pro yahoo-ing and hooha-ing, but standing in the scrum of screaming people packed into a bar didn’t feel right – and not just because the drinks “specials” were still ridiculously overpriced.

I mean, this obviously feeds into the I’m-a-small-town-girl-with-a-country-heart-and-geez-I-have-a-hat-and-all-that identity I like to play up to, but I do much prefer the way we do Anzac Day back home.

Being back in Queensland, I was looking forward to settling back into the routine of the annual calendar. My middle sister and I haven’t lived at home for years now, but we like to go back for Anzac Day when we can. We stay the night before and all set our alarms for the dawn service. It’s usually pretty crisp so we hastily pull on jumpers and thick socks as the kettle boils. Then we clump together in the kitchen, which is silent except for the sound of sips of tea. Then we walk around to the cenotaph in the darkness.

It’s not a long service in the morning. There’s no unnecessary pageantry or pomp, but it’s very moving to hear the Last Post played live as the sky starts to lighten.

The dark silhouettes lighten to reveal the features of familiar faces. The birds start chirping. Old friends shake hands other after not having seen one another for the entirely subjective, immeasurable unit of time that can only be described as “yonks”. Then there’s the scraggly procession down to the main street towards Senior Citizens Centre for the gunfire breakfast and, if you’re game, a rum and milk.

It’s all very lovely.

The collective ritual of remembrance leaves you with an overwhelming feeling of connection. And that sense of belonging that is hard to manufacture.

But this year, obviously, none of that could happen. We had to make do on our own.

Earlier in the week, our house decided we’d do a driveway dawn service like we had seen on the TV ads. We weren’t really sure how it would come together. We figured we’d get up just before 6am and cobble something together on the veranda. There was an audio file of a dawn service we could download from a website, so we’d just play that.

I woke up at about 5.45am and up and down our street were clumps of people standing on the footpath in front of their homes holding candles.

I grabbed two candles we had floating around the house – we didn’t have any of those plain white candlesticks that are suitable for a wide range of liturgical purposes, so our wanky don’t-tell-Dad-how-much-I-paid-for-these scented candles had to do the job.

Then my housemates and I stood on the footpath.

For some reason, the audio file wasn’t playing on my phone, but thankfully the people a few houses down were broadcasting the service through their car speakers.

It was just a bunch of people standing on the footpath in their pyjamas – expect for the one kid who wore his Navy cadets uniform – but it was actually quite moving to be part of it.

There was no mingling after the broadcast was over, everyone just turned back into their houses and apartments. But we tried to recreate the gunfire breakfast experience. We poured ourselves a rum and milk (which, I have to be honest, was mostly milk). We cooked bacon and eggs on the barbecue. And then we whipped up a batch of Anzac bickies.

And when I scrolled through my phone, I saw a lot of people had done a similar thing – dressing up mannequins in military uniforms, making wreaths out of old fencing wire, drawing chalk poppies on the footpath, lighting up candles. My Instagram feed was full of it.

Even though we weren’t physically close, that sense of connection came through. As my father would say, we were “doing it in different towns together”.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 22, 2020

I’m supposed to be making postcards right now.

A very, very sunny lady I used to work with decided to start up a postcard swapping scheme to spread a little bit of joy in These Uncertain Times. The idea is that a bunch of people she was friends with on Facebook would send her their addresses and she’d partner the participants up, like a matchmaker for pen pals.

It’s a lovely idea. I mean, I love getting mail that isn’t the state government reminding me to have my cervix checked. It’s such a thrill.

It gives you something to do other than staring at the void fretting about the almost comically depressing state of the world.

And, in theory, it would give you an inner glow thinking about spreading a wee bit of cheer with a stranger.

I received two postcards the week leading up to Easter. One was from the lady who rigged up this whole system. The other was from my postcard partner, a florist with loopy handwriting that suggests she was feeling quite serene while composing her prose.

I’ve yet to respond to either of them.

I told myself that I would get to the postcards over the weekend, reasoning that the delay in my reply would be totally understandable due to the two public holidays that bookend the resurrection of Christ.

It’s now Thursday (Easter Thursday? Can I still get away with that?) and I haven’t so much as picked up a pen.

I had “reply to postcards” on my to do list, but apparently I was too busy to tick that off. I spent the weekend watching Tiger King (mostly so I could understand the memes), sharing memes, finishing a book and starting a new one… using the two postcards as my bookmark.

Part of the hold up is because I don’t have any spare postcards laying around (well, that’s actually a lie because I like to buy postcards of the paintings I like at museum gift shops and then stick them to my wall to fill my room with great masterpieces for a bargain bin price – so I’m not about to send them in the mail).

My plan was to make some. After all, I DID do art all the way up to Year 12.

But postcards are typically short messages describe what fun you’re having on a holiday with some lovely picture of your current exotic, beautiful location on the back.

I’m in suburban Brisbane and the most fun I’ve had recently was having a discussion about the difference between the word “quash” and “squash” at work the other day (FYI: they both have similar meanings to the word “crush” but “squash” typically applies to a physical object, while “quash” is more figurative and can be used to describe things like legal invalidations).

I mean, I could lie about the fabulous things I’m absolutely not doing, but I prefer unembellished, dryly-delivered truth instead.

So I’ve boiled the postcard convention down to an even simpler form, which is: an illustration of your location on one side and a description of your activities on the other.

Here are some examples of that:

Image: My laptop resting on my unmade bed. Message: “I ordered several pairs of stretchy, high-waisted knickers to wear around the house instead of pants. I also bought some discounted scented candles I do not need but hope will be therapeutic in some way.”

Image: My phone, sitting on the kitchen bench. Message: “I called my mum today and had nothing interesting to tell her.”

Image: My darkened lounge room with several cups and a plate dotted with toast crumbs resting on the arm of the couch. Message: “I lost all sense of time while watching House Hunters and low-budget home reno shows today and now I think I’m going through an existential crisis because I’ve realised that even the shiny, new kitchens of today will be described as “dated” in a few years. I know you don’t know me, but do you think I’m a bright, patterned backsplash that was bold and refreshing when it was installed but now comes off as tired and garish?”

Image: A close up of my bathtub. Message: “I spent ages scrubbing this but you can’t really tell just by looking at it.”

Hmm. I’m not sure if this is what my friend had in mind.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, April 15, 2020

I’ve bought a lot of ill-thought-out stuff lately.

What with all this uncertainty and confusion and general gloom, I’m a little on edge. And when you’re a little on edge, you can act in odd ways.

I’ve been going through the peaks and toughs of COVID anxiety and eerie calm that comes from passive acceptance. I swear my state of mind is nothing to be concerned about – at least, no more concerning than usual.

But I’ve noticed my shopping behaviour is a little different. I know I’m not the only one to come back from the shops with something I’d probably not buy in different times.

These items were probably not essential in an essential goods and services sense, but at the time they felt entirely necessary.

It’s not so much panic-buying, but buying things when you’re not really yourself. As such, I don’t want to use the phrase “panic-bought”. So here are a few things I have recently bought… on impulse:

Tigernut flour: Yeah, so apparently this is a nut-free alternative for almond meal and almond meal is often used in the place of flour in some super rich, decadent gluten-free cakes. So this probably makes tigernut flour the most alternative flour alternative I’ve ever beheld. It came into my possession last week sometime. It was at that point in the pandemic when everyone seemed to be baking their feelings so there was no flour left – except for this stuff. I picked it up because I wanted to know what tigernut flour was and then realised that I’d touched it with my grubby hands and didn’t want to play the guessing game over whether I’d infected the packet with actual germs or just the essence of me, so I bought it. It has all these stern warnings on the pack practically screaming at me that it’s not a suitable alternative for flour which makes it quite intimidating. So I probably should just try to bake the recipe on the bag but it’s also highly likely that I’ll go rogue just to prove that bastard of a packet wrong. Again, my state of mind is nothing to be concerned about.

A comically-large canvas: A few weeks back I went to the art supply shop to make sure I had enough paint to get me through These Uncertain Times. I’d also decided that, after a few practice runs on paper, I was ready for a canvas. But to get to the art shop, I had to go through the nearly baron halls of a shopping centre. Most of the stores had been shuttered up. The lights seemed dimmer. There were two police officers patrolling the halls. It was all very post-apocalyptic. I began to have a bit of a panic attack and just wanted to grab what I needed and get out of there. But because the shop was having a 50 per cent off sale and every other basic white girl had taken up painting (guilty!), there were no normal-sized canvases left. All they had were the ones that looked like they would have been big enough to save Rose, Jack and even that delightful Mr Andrews in Titanic. After painful deliberation, I grabbed the most-reasonable sized one and high-tailed it out of there. This was the day after our Prime Minister classified puzzles as essential items, so I reasoned I was allowed to buy art supplies. But the sheer size of this canvas didn’t scream “essential” to me. It was so big I had to lay the back seats down and put it into my ride through the boot. I had to store it under the house. When I took a photo to send to my sisters, I used a wheelie bin for scale and realised my canvas was one wheelie bin squared. That’s ridiculous. I don’t know if anyone snapped of a photo of me struggling to cart that canvas through the shops, but if they did, it definitely deserves to be a meme.

A carton of beer in cans: My parents have never really forced us girls to confirm to their way of thinking. We were allowed to decide if we wanted to get baptised. We were allowed to freely play our Britney Spears album. It was a very liberal household. But there’s always been strongly implied that glass stubbies were the superior vessel for beer. Cans were for Heinz spaghetti and condensed tomato soup. I’ve carried this belief with my into adulthood and will always opt for a stubby over a tinnie, no matter how much tinnies fit into the ironic Australiana worship we’re still seeing in modern meme culture (which, I have to admit, can be great fun to play up to). But I went into the bottle shop after the canvas incident and was still jumpy. There was only one carton of the beverages I was after in plain sight and I wanted to get myself home before I began hyperventilating so I didn’t ask the shop assistant about stubbies. I just grabbed it and went. I mean, it’s what’s on the inside that counts anyway, right?

White high-waisted shorts: This brand of shorts is prefect – they have good pockets, a flattering fit and this little clip I can hook my keys too. I have them in navy, which is a sensible colour for me to have in shorts because I:

1. Like sitting on the ground
2. Am a bit of a grot
3. Involuntarily wipe my hands on whatever bottoms I’m wearing

These are also the exact reason why having light-coloured shorts is a terrible idea. I mean, this isn’t a Degrassi episode, I’m not worried about squirting my uterine lining all over them, but the are going to get very dirty very easily. I’m also shithouse when it comes to stain removal, so this was extra dumb.

Three six packs of hot cross buns for one person: I’m hoping to emerge from this self-isolation situation completely and totally ripped, so buying decadent seasonal breads is a counterproductive move. I’m also someone who hates wasting food, so it’s not like I’d be able to live with myself if I threw perfectly good food in the bin. The first pack was a warehouse share special, but my housemates weren’t keen until I sliced it up with a cheese platter. The second pack saw me eating a luxe brioche chockie chip bun every day for a six days. I turned the other pack into a bitchin’  rhubarb and apple crumble which you can bet your sweet bippy will soon be he subject of an unimaginative recipe filler post.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, April 8, 2020

I’ve got news.

I don’t want to oversell this but, at the same time, I don’t want to undersell it, so I’m jut going to come out with it: I’ve had a lot of double yolkers lately.

Now, I know a couple of extra bits of yellow in a few eggs might not sound all that that life changing.

But my world is small right now. I’ve spent the past week and a bit on a self-isolation staycation. Aside from my government-mandated exercise, I’ve barely left the house. The Harry Potter series ended nearly a decade ago. I’ve seen all the episodes of The Simple Life.  I know seen what happens when you add bicarb soda to vinegar.

I’ve seen a lot in this lifetime of mine.

And I’ve seen my fair share of eggs. Heck, I’ve had quite a few eggs with double yolks in my time.

But not like this.

It started about two weeks ago when I cracked into my boiled egg and found two yolks. I found it mildly interesting and took a photo to send to my Snapchat group, but forgot to do anything with it by the time I finished my breakfast.

The next time I had a boiled egg, I was once again greeted with two yolks instead of one. “Huh,” I thought.

Then it happened again. This was now three double yolkers from the same egg carton. I had to honour this occurrence. So I posted it on Instagram.

My fans (yes, I’m calling them fans now) were thrilled. And by that I mean, eight per cent of the people who have been guilted into hitting “follow” on my account were impressed enough to compel their fingers to move a few millimetres from a resting position to press the “like” button.

A few days later the same thing happened again. I arranged the eggs to make a face and posted it online. Again, the response was overwhelming. 6.8 per cent of my followers were moved to the point of hitting the like button.

I had a new purpose.

I began planning my breakfasts so I could provide my fanbase with the eggy updates they were craving.

I was playing around with paints one day and found myself painting an impressionistic, almost Van Gogh-like image of egg salad without even realising what I was doing.  I posted this to my Instagram account and got an 8.2 per cent like rate.

I had found egg-related fame. It was dizzying.

By the time I was down to my last two eggs, I’d had nine double yolkers out of 10 eggs. That’s unheard of.

I felt like I had to do something more to document this monumental collision of chance and chicken reproductive systems before I ate them.

So I did what any sane person who had spent a week in self-isolation would do: propped up the two eggs on a pile of sheets and posed them like they were getting glamour shots. Then I painted a portrait of them.

Maybe it was the self-isolation talking, but I began to see personalities in their beige shells. With each different pose was a different story. Tender eggs. Defiant eggs. Terse eggs.

I ended up painting three portraits. My housemate said they were “pretty good”, which was probably her way of saying “they are so deeply moving – you have a gift Dannielle” without making things weird.

Now, with one egg left, I’m contemplating the end of what will be historically known as my Double Yolker Phase.

And I’m not sure how to mark such an occasion.

This carton was the last carton on the shelf at my local supermarket, so it’s not like I chose it. It’s more like it chose me, in some kind of mystical way.

I mean, I’m not saying that this is one of those “everything happens for a reason” things. I don’t know who makes the decisions about the happenings of the universe, but I highly doubt this higher power decided to unleash a global pandemic in a Chinese market at exactly the right date so it hit Australia at exactly the right time to induce people to stockpile essential goods to ensure that at the exact moment I stood in front of that open fridge there was only one carton of eggs I could select. I dunno about you, but don’t reckon this whole thing was orchestrated purely so a middle-class white girl could, as they say, “live her truth” and have something to post on social media for validation purposes.

But, at the same time, it’s fun to entertain the idea that something’s… afoot.

Anyway, that’s how my self-isolation is going. How are you all holding up?

Originally published by the Clifton Courier on April 1, 2020 

I’m currently* on stay-cation.

* I WAS on stay-cache, but now I am an backing to being an essential cog in the machine that is our economy again.

I’d put in for some time off from work this week because I was supposed to attend two weddings and have a little jaunt around Tasmania.

Not sure if you’ve been following the news lately but to cut a long, virus-related story short, I’m not able to do any of those things right now.

But I was still off for a hunk of time.

So I’ve had to change plans and have what is known as a “stay-cation”. Normally, a staycation is where people take time off work but don’t go on a holiday – they go to their local cafes, head to the beach, maybe go to a few museums and visit a bunch of mates.

Again, not sure if you’ve been following the news lately, but to cut a long, virus-related story short, I’m not able to do any of those things right now.

So I’m holidaying at home, pretty much exclusively – except for going on the occasional grocery run and fulfilling my civic duty by ignoring government self-isolating advice to stay at home to vote in local government elections.

Here’s a list of a few of the fun activities I got up to in one fun-filled day of myself-isolation holiday:

Spent hours trying to put a puzzle of my brother-in-law’s face together: For Christmas last year, I put puzzles on my list of suggested gifts. Puzzles are fun, force you to focus your attention on something other than the news alerts that come through on your phone and they’re great actives that facilitate day drinking. Perfect for when you’re trying to forget what’s going on in the world for a minute. My brother-in-law took this gift suggestion and ran with it, finding a company that turns photos into puzzles. He chose a picture of himself smugly raising a wine glass in a taunting “cheers” pose. My housemate and I have been staring at that face for days, trying to complete the puzzle. It’s getting weird.

Ate two cheese platters: The first one was for lunch, the second one was for dinner. My housemates were supposed to get married on this particular day in social distancing paradise but had to postpone it last-minute. So we did the next best thing: watched several hours of Kath and Kim while drinking prosecco and eating cheese.

Cleaned the taps in the bathroom: I mean, they’ve never been overly grimy, but I cleaned them so hard they could be used as mirrors.

Seriously considered making my own set of bagpipes: So I was just minding my own business, stalking the dark, shadowy halls of Facebook when a suggested link popped up in my feed and captured my attention. That link was to an article titled: How to Make Bagpipes Out of a Garbage Bag and Recorders (the word “recorders: refers to those wind instruments they make primary school children play and produce the shrieky sounds that, no doubt, haunt the dreams of most Australian parents). Now, I’d like to point out that I didn’t seek this advice out. It came about thanks to The Algorithm, which is something I don’t fully understand but know it takes my previous activity into account. Facebook takes note of the things you do on its platform and will use that information to show you things that, based on your prior behaviour, it assumes you will be interested in. I’m not sure what I did on Facebook to suggest that this is something I would be interested in, but I have never had more faith in artificial intelligence.

Googled where to buy two recorders from: I have it on good authority that you can buy second-hand recorders from op shops. However, my experience as a recorder player (I could play Celine Dion’s Oscar-winning song for the feature film Titanic called My Heart Will Go On, which is just so moving when played on a recorder) is that it can get quite caked in saliva on the inside. And congealed spit from a stranger might be acceptable in normal times, but in The Age Of Coronavirus, it just doesn’t have the same appeal, so I’d want to get my mine brand new. It turns out that you can get a basic model for about ten bucks, but there are legit “renaissance” recorders that can set you back more than two grand. That’s more than your basic-model Wallace Bagpipes – I mean, I’m no expert but I’d have thought bagpipes would have cost more. I just Googled how much bagpipes cost, clicked on the first link I saw and found there were a whole heap of different types of pipes. I clicked on the “Wallace” category because Braveheart is an excellent movie, no matter how historically inaccurate it may be.

Became increasingly concerned about my state of mind: Refer to the list above for evidence.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, March 25, 2020

I usually wait until two weeks after my column has been printed before I post it online, but I feel as though this particular message is quite timely. 

Geez, what a time we’re in.

As far is risky places go, it’s easy to say that Clifton’s pretty low on the list. I mean, despite how many people I tell about the rich bloke our thrifty forefathers buried under the church or the tree jammed with cement, we still don’t see the same number of international tourists as, say, the Vatican does.

I used to lament how long it would take to do a late-night Macca’s run from our place, now I think it’s a real strong point for the town.

But, all the same, all this corona talk has made me a little uneasy. We don’t know a whole lot about this virus, but what we’ve seen is that it seems to be harsher on older and already unwell people.

If you’re anything like me, you might feel a little bit helpless. Most of us aren’t biochemists who could work on a vaccine or powerful politicians who can smash out some legistlation (or, as I’d call it if I were a pollie, legislache) to ease the economic impact of the fallout of this thing.

But helping the people you love, particularly the more vulnerable among us, gives you a sense of control. A feeling like you’re doing something that will make a difference. That you’re not lying down and letting this virus defeat us.

And, look, it would be great if we could literally take up arms against this thing. But we can’t get out a medieval-style sword and slash the air gallantly to kill the virus.

Not only would that be totally ineffective because viruses are too small for even the most skilled swordsman or woman to violently butcher, but medieval swords are actually super heavy and if you’re not used to wielding one, I reckon it would be real easy to pull a muscle.

All we can do is small, rather mundane things to protect the people we love from getting sick.

Things like going to the shops for them and leaving supplies on their doorstep. Or dropping off their mail at the Post Office. Or sharing your wifi password with a neighbour who doesn’t have Internet so they can stay home and Facetime their family.

They’re small things, but they make a difference in the long run. I don’t want to be preachy or sound like I know what I’m talking about, because I’m not doctor or social health expert. I mean, I’ve read some Dolly Doctor sealed sections in my time but that’s about it.

However, I do hope I’m not out of line to tell everyone, particularly those more vulnerable among us, to accept help when it’s offered.

I don’t think I need to say it, but I’d like to point out there are a lot of iconic Clifton characters in our midst who I wouldn’t dare label as “old”, but they have… been around long enough to have an informed opinion about whether the first frost actually does come after Anzac Day or not.

These well-seasoned folk are the kind of people that give our town its personality. They’re often the people manning the fundraiser barbecues, delivering Meals on Wheels, organising town events and coming out with some stinging wisecracks at the pub.

They’ve done a lot for us and, let’s be honest, some of us young folk just wouldn’t be able to run a Shrove Tuesday pancake stall on our own.

You’ve been the caretakers of our community and stepping back might go against your nature, but it’s time to let us return that favour. We don’t want to even imagine life without you, let alone have to endure the reality of it. We need you. Our town needs you.

So when the younger folk among us offer to help, please don’t feel like we’re patronising you. You’re not weak, you’re not over the hill and you’re definitely not a burden on society. You’re a vital resource, so to speak, and we want to keep you safe so you can keep contributing to our town (look, it’s a little selfish, I know).

These days, telling someone you don’t be anywhere near them comes from a place of love. I know it’s not easy, but try to see it as a compliment rather than an insult. Please, let the people who love you protect you.

Especially because, by accepting help, you’re actually really helping those people offering you help. We can’t predict the future, but with each small thing we do for each other, that feeling of dread softens.

Let us take care of you now so that, when all this is over, we can have one heck of a barbecue together… where we can be closer than 1.5 metres apart.

Originally published in The Clifton Courier, February 25, 2020

Do you ever have mornings that set the crappiest possible tone for your day?

Like when you drop a whole tub of yoghurt so it lands lid-off, face-down on the kitchen floor? Or you got to put moisturiser on your toothbrush? Or you wake up covered paste grimy paste of sweat and human dust?

It just doesn’t put you in good stead for the day ahead.

I’ve been led to believe that we all have days like these, mostly because of the theme song for Friends. But I don’t know if my most recent example of this would fit into a jaunty song about friendship.

I’d had a pretty big night (and by “big night” I mean “I stayed up beyond my bed time to watch a talk by Grand Designs host Kevin McCloud”) and when my alarm went off at for work 3.30am I was in no way excited to start my day.

I got up, I turned on my light so I wouldn’t go back to sleep and had a cheeky scroll through my phone while I lay in bed so I could wake up properly.

We all know this is a terrible idea. You’re not going to “wake up properly” if you’re still horizontal after your alarm goes off. That’s not how things work. You’re going to go right back to sleep.

But still I tell myself the lie that my will power is stronger than my body’s need for rest and that the internal racket in my head is loud enough to stop me from sinking back into my slumber.

Of course, on this morning, I began drifting off again.

But a few seconds later, I was jolted awake but the sensation of something clambering over my body.

And then I remembered the massive cockroach I saw flying around the room when I went to bed a few hours before.

It wasn’t dog-sized or anything, but it was big enough for me to be able to see without my glasses on. It looked like it had been living a very comfortable life. Too comfortable, if you know what I mean.

I wasn’t in a good way. I was awake at 3.35am and had been woken up by a beefy cockroach scuttling all over me.

And, look, as far as creepy crawlies go, I don’t think cockroaches are the worst of the worst.

They don’t seem to be bitey. They’re not slimey. And even though all the logic I posses is screaming at me that they’re covered in disease, I don’t find them as filthy as rats.

I mean, I don’t want them touching me. But so long as they respect my personal space, I don’t have the all-consuming desire to destroy them.

I guess it’s what they represent that irks me the most.

The presence of cockroaches in your living space suggests you’re someone who doesn’t wipe down surfaces*. Who doesn’t cover meat when they put it in the fridge. Who collects old newspapers – not because they want to have a physical log to act as a record keeper when we enter the age of digital-only, subscription-based everything – but because they can’t be bothered to place their unwanted items in a bin.

* But under my roof (which isn’t technically “my roof” in that it belongs to me, but in the sense that it’s the roof I’m most often under) the surfaces are wiped often – maybe even too often. I mean, it’s a very clean house. I have a few magazines I haven’t yet read, but newspapers get turfed by the next visit from the garbage truck and we have an supply of ample Tupperware containers for ensure all food is properly covered in our fridge. 

In short: someone who is lazy, untidy, grubby and, since we’re going there, probably smokes cigars that smell like the tobacco was cut up with the stuffing from a old couch left out in the weather for a few winters*.

* Again, under my roof, we may laze about a bit over a weekend, but we are very tidy people. We watch a lot of HGTV and have quite a lot of house pride – I’m pretty sure that’s just correlation though; it’s not like we were slobs before our addition to Americans lusting after countertops and making bad realestate decisions. We’re functioning, tidy adults, for heaven’s sake.  

It paints a picture of a chaotic mess. I’m also picturing a lot of muddy browns, snotty greens and stain-like yellows*. Cockroaches have a lot of unpleasant connotations. And I don’t want those kinds of associations pinned to me.

* Most of the colours in this house are whites, purposeful greys and varnished timber. And the greens are far from snotty, for your information. 

So to have a cockroach not only living in my house, but thriving in it to the point that it feels entitled to climb all over me doesn’t make me feel like my best self.

How did I pick myself up after this? I boiled the kettle, fixed myself a cup of tea and carried on with my day. Eventually, I got through it. After vowing to personally take out the cockroach that dared disturbed my slumber (but, helpfully, made sure I got to work on time) decided not to let The Incident determine the course of my day.

I don’t know what the takeaway message from this is. Maybe it’s about keeping up with pest control measures. Maybe it’s about closing flyscreen-less windows. Maybe it’s about acknowledging that bad days happen while still hoping for brighter dawns ahead.

* Ok, despite my original conclusions, I’ve not seen a cockroach since that incident. This leads me to believe it’s less of a pest thing and more of an insect haunting situation. And by that I mean, an insect flying into my window, hanging around and messing with me for shits and giggles. No one can say who sent said cockroach and, while some might say it would be a folly to try to point fingers of blame over a single insect encounter, I can’t help but think The Universe is behind it all. Perhaps it’s trying to teach me something about closing windows or was trying to keep me grounded. Or maybe, for some reason, despite all the complexities and large-scale events going on in the world, The Universe had a vested interest in me going to work on time, but wanted to communicate that it was a little miffed with me so it sent a cockroach to do its bidding. 

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 19, 2020

I’m extremely disappointed in myself.

Last year, standing in the pavilion on the Friday of the Clifton Show, I made a vow. I promised myself that, by the next Clifton Show, I’d have something to be proud of. I’d have a hat worthy of entering in the Old Hat Section.

I was standing there, looking in awe at the collection of battered, misshapen, faded and, in a few cases, multi-coloured headgear on the wall.

Each one of them looked like they had more than a couple of yarns to tell. The kind of hats that, if they were people, were the sort of people you’d want to have a beer with.

I was enamoured and inspired.

In 12 months’ time, I wanted to be able to contribute something worthy of being on that wall.

I’ve been a hat owner for a few years now.

One day a few years back – when I was in-between jobs and just beginning to feel human again after a rude case of bronchitis that hit me right like a sack of potatoes to the guts and proved that life just does whatever the heck it wants – I went out and bought my hat.

I was feeling a few bit off. I cut a visit with one of my sisters short and drove back to the refuge that was my other sister’s spare bedroom, kindly offered after my first interstate jaunt sucked the life out me like I was one of those yogurt pouches marketed for school lunches and the greedy kid was a regional newspaper restructure program. I was listening to Sheryl Crowe on repeat on my drive back to my sanctuary when I went past an Akrubra stockist and decided to spend some of my annual leave payout on headgear.

After a long consultation with a patient salesman, I walked out with a fawn-coloured Cattleman and a renewed sense of joy.

Since then, I’ve taken it to as many outings as I could.

It’s been in multiple pools, the Pacific ocean (but only in low-wave areas, because I didn’t want to have a Castaway moment) and in the sludgy brown of the Condamine River.

It’s been upturned into a wide-brimmed basket used to hold freshly-picked basil (yes, I make my own pesto now and I am unashamedly bragging about it), road trip snow peas and hot chips.

It’s been dressed up in bottlebrush leaves, lost at the races and returned safely atop its grateful (and, admittedly, quite concerned) owner’s head.

I’ve even worn it in the snow at a place called The Top of Europe (even though I suspect it was wasn’t actually the highest point of Europe, given there was a chocolate shop and a café up there).

And all I have to show for it is some mildly faded fabric and a few rusty eyelets.

I mean, I could stomp it a few times, soak it in a puddle of particularly potent port and give it to a dog to chew, but that’s not in the spirit of the competition.

I wouldn’t want to artificially weather my hat. I don’t want to go doing things with the express purpose of wearing and tearing my hat. Because it’s not about the damage inflicted on the headgear, but the character impregnated within the fibres of the pressed rabbit hair.

I want to have a hat with stories to tell and that means breaking it out more often. I could wear it to work, but I don’t know if an air-conditioned office environment would have the desired effect.

What I really need to do is get out there and really do some good, old-fashioned livin’.

I’m giving myself another 12 months to get it done.

Originally published by The Clifton Courier, February 12, 2020

I’m really keen on entering something into the Clifton Show this year*.

* Except I didn’t end up entering anything.

But, ever since I got a Highly Commended prize for my handwriting – which is extremely surprising if you’ve seen my penmanship – in primary school, I haven’t earned myself one of those sweet, sweet Clifton Show Society certificates.

Last year my sister and I entered some baked goods in an early-morning flurry on the Friday. I confidently broke out my gingerbread bickies, while I had to really coax her into chucking a few scones together.

It was great fun baking under pressure and rushing to get our offerings plated up and into the pavilion before the roller-door closed, kind of like a really low-budget reality show (I mean, I feel like a Keeping-Up-With-The-Kardashians-style reality show about the Maguires would no doubt be a commercial success, but I think we all know that Mac and Deb would carry the whole series).

My sister walked away with a second place prize, but I’m no longer able to hang my self-esteem on my prize-less gingerbread bickies* so this year I’m thinking I’ll move away from baked goods.

* I respect the judges’ decision, but I tell myself that my gingerbread didn’t win because they just didn’t, like, get what I was trying to do with my bickies. Like, it’s not regular ginger bickie – it transcends all that, you know? I mean, it’s hard to even call them ginger bickies. They just didn’t fit into the category. They couldn’t be marked abasing conventional criteria. They’re beyond that. 

But I still want that thrill of having entered something in the show. I can never go because of work, but I have my minions that I send into the pavilion on the Saturday to see how I went, which isn’t as great as being there yourself, but you do what you can to feel included.

So I’ve been going through the Clifton Show Society Pavilion Schedule (which is thankfully available online, because for some reason my local Brisbane news agent doesn’t have the booklet) to see if there’s anything I could enter in a different category.

I obviously am unable to enter anything into the farm produce section, because the backyard isn’t big enough to get much sorghum going.

As for the vegetables, I could maybe one day enter my silverbeet, but I’ve potted it in a high-maintenance area that gets far too much sun and if I ignore it for a day it looks like a peeled off face mask. So maybe next year.

And then I remember something, which hits me like a flash of lightning.

For years I’ve been wanting to enter something in the Adult Needlework Section.

I mean, I’m not particularly adept when it comes to needles and thread – the art of needlework requires a certain amount of determined precision and attention to detail which I don’t really posses. I mean, if you were to go back and look at my entries in the Rose and Iris Show’s colouring-in competition over the years (which I would like it imagine are kept on file somewhere, to be brought up in case there was a need to analyse the minds of Clifton children based on their colouring capabilities) you’d see that I’m more of an abstract artist. I don’t confirm to pre-drawn lines, man. I transcend lines. Free-spirited, and all that.

However, I like to think that in the case of adult needlework, I would make an exception.

Because, while the phrasing implies the needlework is done by an adult, I preferred the take that the needlework was adult in nature.

Now, I’m not sure what exactly my design would be, but I had hoped it would have straddled the lines between obscenity and art, resulting in a tasteful and community-appropriate, yet somewhat… suggestive embroidered scene.

I have the threads. I have the needles. I have the lack of anything better to do than to spend hours embroidering erotic imagery for the sake of a weak pun.

I was inspired.

Then I flipped forward to the needlework section.

And it seems as through someone had anticipated this exact scenario.

Because the Adult Needlework Section that had existed in my head after years of flipping through the pavilion schedule isn’t in the 2020 edition, and perhaps it never actually was in previous versions.

There’s an Open Needlework Section, which is the category I would fall under (because despite what the collection of Harry Potter figurines in my room would suggest, I’m not a juvenile).

The Adult Needlework Section is for over 70s.

I sighed heavily but recognised that this was probably for the best.*

* Because I’m well aware this does not fit the “tasteful and community-appropriate, yet somewhat… suggestive” brief. It was honestly the best I could think up right now.