So many things we say we love, from a pretty dress, to our child. From a beloved parent to a house. From our country to our spouse. There must be other words, but in English there’s really only one – LOVE!!

            I first realized how much I loved my country when a fellow countryman (so I’m not just xenophobic!) asked me to marry him and live in a foreign country. I believed I loved him, but apparently not as much as I loved my country. As it turned out, it was just as well I said no, because about ten months later he was dead at the age of fifty-two!

            So I love my country, but hate what is happening to it at the moment. I hope everything turns out well, but even a reversal of party at an election does not necessarily guarantee the sort of stability we are looking for. It doesn’t matter who you vote for, a politician always gets in.

            I used to look around the home I designed. It was exactly as I wanted. Yet I was homesick. This was my home and I was sick of it. I sold my home with great glee when I retired and chose a villa in a unique retirement village. There are only thirty villas here and by some standards they are tiny. But the single ones are meant for one person. How much room does one person need? I love housework – I love to sit and look at it all around me! Of course you have to ditch most of the furniture from your home, because it certainly would not fit here. My granddaughter calls it my dolls’ house.

            I love clothes, so I had an extra wardrobe and chest of drawers built into the bedroom. You think I can’t fill two full sized wardrobes? I’m not a fan of haute couture. I have my own style, even though a significant portion of my wardrobe is Fletcher Jones. I love thinking up new ways to look a bit different. That provides another example of love. Is that love of self?

            I absolutely loved my work. I loved it in the seventies when raising corporate funds, I had the temerity to call for quotes. One well-known merchant banker said, “We don’t do those sorts of thing here. No one will quote. Good God woman, this is Australia” as though we were the end of the earth, which I suppose we were then. Of course they quoted, including him (and no, he didn’t get the work!!). We went with a small emerging merchant banker Dominguez and Barry, who called after two weeks and wanted to know if we would like to double the amount!

            Oh yes, I loved my job. After the dollar floated it was even more fun. I got to debate strategy with the Board of Directors, all very smart, very experienced businessmen. At that time I was Treasurer of AUSSAT (yes that was its name all in capital letters),Australia’s national satellite system. The first satellite was scheduled to go up on the shuttle on a Saturday. It was postponed twice. A very canny lady from the Financial Review, Jenny Coopes, put out a cartoon showing a sign outside NASA with AUSSAT crossed out, then AUSSUN also crossed out, then AUSMON, crossed out followed by AUSTUES. It so happened that it was Tuesday when the shuttle took off with the AUSSAT payload.

            The second satellite went up on the French Arianne. The third satellite for which I raised the largest (at that time) onshore borrowing with twenty-eight banks (AUD695m in October 1988), was scheduled to be launched by Long March in China in late 1992. By the time of the launch Optus had taken over and senior staff of AUSSAT were replaced (that always happens in a takeover). So we redundant creatures were not noticeably upset when Long March with its satellite payload fell over on the launch pad.

            AUSSAT with minimal capital and staff had designed, prepared, financed and launched (or in the case of the third, prepared to launch) three satellites between 1981 and 1992. I understand that Optus with a much larger staff and a proper capital base had greater trouble than AUSSAT.  I LOVED being in a team that got everything right!

            When you look at your new-born child, the love wells up and cannot be denied. It is instant and grabs your heart and squeezes. No matter what dreadful things they do in their childhood and teens, you mentally make excuses for them. You may rave at them, or just act disappointed, inside you are hurting because no matter what they do, you love them.

            The strangest thing for non-tactile families (usually of ethnic British ancestry) is the love of parents and siblings. You don’t realize how much you love your parents until one of them dies. It is devastating because you realize you’ve never told him that you love him. You tend to cling to the remaining parent, usually your mother. You probably drive her nuts with your constant phone calls if you are physically remote from her.

            It reminds you that you haven’t told your siblings that you love them and for some stupid reason you feel embarrassed to do so. Why? What the heck – put it in an email, but do tell them!

            Then we come to the love of spouse or life partner. Usually it grows slowly. I have known people who claim to have loved their spouse at first sight. I don’t really think that’s love. It may grow into love, but that instant attraction is what gets you together. It may or may not develop into true carnal love that hopefully ends in marriage. The modern idea of simply living with someone AND producing children, does not appeal to me. It does not seem right. If you love someone enough, it should lead to a lifetime commitment.

           “What?” you say. “You got divorced.” Yes, I did after twenty-five years. In a way I’m glad. He was forty-eight when we divorced; still what one would call ‘a fine figure of a man’. He was tall, trim, plenty of muscle; he had a handsome face with few wrinkles topped with a shock of white hair (that he’d had since he was thirty). So I never saw him get old, develop a belly and look ugly. He had developed a mental condition that I could no longer deal with. If he’d been a horse, we’d have shot him.

            You can’t turn love off and on like a tap, but if it gets stomped on hard enough and for long enough, it dies. The strange part is that the memory of that love lives on.

            So there’s the range of loves that we talk about all of which deserve a separate word. Love of country, of home, of family, of ‘things’ e.g., books and clothes, of career, of children and of spouse. Have I missed any?

            Oh yes, love of friends. But if we told them we loved them, we might get a smack in the mouth. Somehow I wouldn’t recommend it!

             I’m back! Goodness, it has only been a fortnight but it feels much longer. I have been on a coach tour in Western Australia.  I chose this tour because it went to the places I most wanted to see. It was great. But if I’d taken the trouble to look at the map I would have realized that in order to fit all that into two weeks, there were going to be long, long days travelling over empty, featureless country. 4,800 kilometres later, I was glad to get into the plane, put my feet up and relax as it took me the 3,350 kms back to Sydney, then another 60kms to home. In the process 3 hours disappeared, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t bother to unpack. I just went to bed and slept.

           Perth is lovely, although I prefer Fremantle (where my mother was born), but the Western Australian scenery and flora makes it seem like a different country altogether from the eastern states. It takes up one third of the total area of Australia but has only 10% of the population, 85% of which live in the south-west corner. Most of the activities outside Perth/Fremantle are mining, agriculture and fishing but contributes 36% of the gross national product and produces the highest per capita income. Towns are few and far between.

            If you want to get a feel for the isolation have a look at the latest Australian film “Red Dog”. The action takes place in an isolated mining town in the north-west. The film itself is the true story of a dog and his adventures. Even if you’re not a dog lover, you will appreciate this. I had seen it before, but I watched it again on my flight to Perth.

            I won’t bore you with the details of a long trip, but some of the highlights are worth passing on.

            Wave Rock at Hyden, west of Perth, was and is, used as water catchment for the small local community. Someone sent a photo to a New York competition. I don’t know whether it won a prize but it certainly attracted some attention. Suddenly American tourists were turning up in W.A. wanting to see Wave Rock. Surprisingly, they were not deterred by the information that it was about 360 kms west of Perth. So the tourists came first and the infrastructure to cater for them came afterwards!

            The huge open-cut ‘superpit’ at Kalgoorlie is visible from space. Kalgoorlie is mined for its gold but is most famous for its brothels. They are colourful, plentiful, legal and on a main thoroughfare. The story of getting water to this outback town reads like a thriller, with political interference and rumours of corruption causing the designer/engineer to commit suicide a few months before the completion of the pipeline.

            Standing on the coast in Esperance and Albany, one is very conscious of the fact that there is nothing between us and Antarctica. The wind is freezing and feels like it could cut you in two. On a fine sunny day, there is mist covering the offshore islands. The mist is the wind whipping up the ocean. The ‘trees’ in this area are stunted and twisted. Not pretty, not ugly, just pretty ugly! Albany’s whaling heritage is brought to life in film and in commentary as you walk through what had been the onshore factory for processing the whales. Rather disturbing! But it was a different time, with a different set of values.

            The huge Tingle trees and the Karri forests a little way further north provided a welcome contrast to the ugly trees of the southern coast.

            Thank goodness for the Margaret River stop. It is famous for its wine and as we weren’t driving, we could indulge ourselves. And we did!

            We had a bit of a rest in Fremantle, with a night ramble in the mountains enjoying the nocturnal animals, woylies, Tambar wallabies, possums and little creatures. Not something seen every day or rather night.

            After that we embarked on the long, long road up to the world famous Monkey Mia in Shark Bay, stopping briefly at the Pinnacles and having only one overnight stop at Kalbarri.

            Now that everyone has heard of the activities of the dolphins at Monkey Mia, rules have had to be enforced to ensure that it can continue. An exclusion zone operates immediately outside the motel, where you may not swim. You may wade out with water only reaching below the knee. You may not touch the dolphins. The dolphins may touch you if they feel like it. These wild dolphins visit in the mornings and are fed three times. The times depend on when they decide to come in.

            Only mature females are fed. There are ‘regulars’, ‘occasionals’ and from time to time ‘unknowns’. The reason for only feeding mature females, is that it was found youngsters did not learn to hunt for themselves if they got used to handouts. Males hang around in their own groups and can be aggressive both to each other and possibly to people as well. It doesn’t take the dolphins long to get the message. The youngsters come in with their mothers but they know they will not be fed.

            People are encouraged to form a line in the water while the rangers talk and the dolphins check out the people. After the talk, everyone is asked to step back out of the water. Then about four people, usually older children, are given a fish and shown how to hold it in the water and let go as soon as the dolphin takes it. It’s a magical experience, but one that does not show up well in a photo.

            A catamaran trip out into the huge Shark Bay to look for dugongs was very restful. I saw a dugong which is a different colour from those in Jervis Bay on the eastern side of Oz. The Jervis Bay dugongs are grey and they just put their blowholes out of the water, take a breath, and then sink away with hardly a ripple. In Shark Bay, they are a bright brown and because they need to dive deeply to reach the kelp beds, they leap out of the water then dive, so they are more visible.

            Another feature of Shark Bay is the stromatolites or ‘living fossils’, said to be over 3,000 million years old (who’s counting?). What mad scientist garnered taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars to discover that these bits of rock were alive?

            No one was looking forward to the long trek back to Perth with just the one stop at Geraldton. We did go a slightly different route that brought us to a wildflower cultivation farm and Australia’s only monastic town, New Norcia. Both were worth a look!

            I had a great advantage over my fellow passengers. I had my Kindle. In the long stretches of nothing, I could read. When there was something interesting to see, our knowledgeable coach driver or our hostess, gave great commentaries. So I was never to miss out on anything. As soon as the PA system came on, I stopped reading. Very handy!

            Although the early mornings, and long days of travel were tiring, I wouldn’t have missed it. Today apart from washing everything in my suitcase (clean or dirty), I have done nothing. I went to bed almost immediately when I got home although the time said 9.30pm which would have been 6.30pm in Perth. I slept for twelve hours! I suppose I needed it.

             Over the years I have had many animals. When we lived in the country, I had a series of poddy kangaroos and one wallaroo. When roos are shot or hit on the road, if there’s a young joey in the pouch, inevitably the lady of the house acquires a poddy. Mine was not the only country home with flannel-lined bags of young macropods hanging around the fireplace.

            Eastern grey kangaroos can develop interesting personalities, but they are not the sharpest knives in the drawer. One roo we had was Barney, who lived with us for about four years. We castrated him to prevent him from becoming too aggressive. That was the theory. He became rather aggressive anyway, though rarely towards us. One time he reached up to the bucket of milk that hubby had just put on the kitchen table and pulled it over. Hubby kicked his arse out the door and he took off for the bush. Later in the morning, a tentative pull on the screen door announced his presence. Normally, he would simply have pulled open the door and come in, but he had been intimidated by hubby’s wrath.

              “Come on, Barney.” I called and in he came. There was a woman singing on the radio as I put a bowl of milk down to him. The singer finished and the male announcer startled Barney. He did not wait to see if hubby was home. He hit the screen door in full flight and I did not see him for the rest of the day. The next day he had apparently forgotten the whole incident as he made a nuisance of himself as usual when hubby was milking the house cow. I don’t think their short term memory is even as good as a horse.

             In the winter my husband would drape ribbons around Barney’s collar to make him easy to identify in a shooter’s spotlight (all the neighbours knew about our roos). The ribbons wore away as the weather warmed, pelts thinned and hunters lost interest. One day in summer, hubby went out to shoot a roo for dog meat. The mob came out of the scrub and stopped. One just kept coming. He was not afraid. Of course he wasn’t. It was Barney. He was a big roo by then. The dogs ate well that week.

            Our smaller female wallaroo, had more personality. As wallaroos live in rugged mountain country, they can attain a fair height from a standing jump. One evening I put hubby’s dinner on the table while Winnie (the wallaroo) made welcoming chirrup noises beside him. He turned and spoke to her. Big mistake! One jump and she landed in his dinner. He smacked her on the rump and she took off down the hall, turning from time to time to tell him what she thought of him.

            Once we left the bush, domestic pets were the order of the day. Over the years I have had many cats and dogs but only a few have captured my heart to such an extent that I miss them still.

            Wicca was a black and white Basenji. Wicca only ever had one mate, Boofy. Boofy however, had quite a few mates over the years (does that sound familiar?). I could fill a book with some of the exploits of Wicca and Boofy. Even though I have had other animals since, Wicca and Boofy remain firmly in my heart.

            When on the weekends I would have a cooked breakfast, I would eat the yolks from the eggs and Wicca knew that I would put the whites down for her. One day I was chatting and not paying attention. Wicca became impatient. She rushed to the back door demanding to be let out. That always got our attention. She did not really need to go out. When I went to the door, she ran back, jumped up on the chair and took her white of egg. She did not touch anything else on the table. That required considerable restraint as a full cup of coffee (her favourite beverage) was under her nose.

            One August school holidays, my youngest daughter and I took Wicca, hitched up the caravan, headed west and entered ten shows in three weeks. We had a lovely holiday, doing the whole tourist thing. No one objected to our dog going into museums and art galleries. Wicca had a lovely time too. Why not? She was the centre of attention. When we returned home, she was not so happy. She had to be physically ejected from the car. She stalked into the house, bashed up her main rival, even bit Boofy on the rump, then opened my bedroom door and spent the rest of the day and night on my bed. She didn’t even come out for her dinner. She loved the holiday, but wanted it to go on forever.

            Boofy became very ill when he was twelve and had to be euthanized. Each night for about three months, Wicca would call him. He had been her companion since she was little more than a puppy. She mourned him as we did and she let us know it. Wicca lasted until she was fifteen, rather deaf and almost totally blind. She developed cancer and also had to be put down.

            Old dogs learn the ways of a household and I was reluctant to buy another. The thought of contending with a baby puppy Basenji did not appeal, but I gave in to family pressures. I looked around and decided I would like a Saluki. No one warned me that while a baby Basenji could destroy the house to table height, a Saluki pup could destroy it to shoulder height. The new dog we called Puss, because of her soft coat and shy nature. The family called her Puss the Woos. She loved a couple of our cats but really bonded with a tortoiseshell that we called Rover. So we had a dog called Puss and a cat called Rover! Although our Dog Club had organized many successful days of lure coursing, when a TV show “Harry’s Practice”, came to film the dogs coursing a plastic bag zig-zagging around the paddock, only Puss put in a run good enough to make it to the screen. Our dog, the TV star!

            When Puss died at the age of fourteen, I gave Rover away and moved from my house with its big backyard, to a little villa with a tiny garden. I am not a gardener, but if your plants are native to your area, they thrive quite happily on neglect. Here I don’t need pets. The wild birds entertain me. Lorikeets swear at me when I go to the mailbox. Galahs and top knot pigeons stroll around the lawns in the common areas. Magpies beg at the door for meat. Every year or so, the lorikeets and the rosellas decide to have a war. Their noisy swearing brings me out to watch. Each species will occupy a different tree. After some verbal abuse, they appear to attack each other; their aerial gyrations making it look like a WW2 dogfight. Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to have been any casualties.

            Pets nail your feet to the floor. If you want to go away on holidays, you have to make kennel and cattery arrangements. No matter how we may like the accommodation, our pets don’t appreciate it. I love travelling and indulge myself more than I could if I still had pets. But I miss them, particularly Wicca and Boofy.

             The decades of a person’s life show fascinating changes in attitudes and personality. Let’s take a stroll through the timeline of life.

             First decade: It is surprising how differently people view their childhood. Some are interested only by the extraordinary things that happened to them, good and bad. Some can remember incidents in very early childhood. Some hardly remember anything at all about the first ten years of their lives, yet their experiences at that time often shape their attitudes and personalities. A British series that followed people at seven-year intervals throughout their lives was fascinating for the diversity of the individuals’ chosen and the growth or otherwise of their minds. Some seemed to change little. Others changed so much it seemed extraordinary that they were actually the same people.

             Second decade: This teenage period is the most hazardous. Males take extraordinary risks and too many die or are severely injured as a result. All teenagers have hang-ups. Their minds run on sex, fun, sex, drinking, sex, drugs, sex, parties – oh, and sex. All view their parents with embarrassment. I remember that my brother at fifteen thought that my father was a silly old fool. When he hit twenty, he said he was amazed at how much Dad had learned in the past five years.

            It’s a good idea to hire a teenager while he/she still knows everything. Some get into trouble with the law and do not seem to understand that once they are eighteen, those troubles will follow them for the rest of their lives. No one likes teenagers except other teenagers. Even their parents wonder what monsters they have raised. If they survive and are not driven away by excessive parental criticism, they will probably turn out all right. Most do.

             Third decade: The twenties are a magical time. A person is probably the best looking and the healthiest he or she will be in his/her life. Their sex drive is high but more in control than it was in the previous decade. Someone once said ‘youth is wasted on the young’. How true! They do not appreciate that things will change. They will not always be beautiful. They will not always be attractive to the opposite sex. In the early part of the decade, they are invincible and risk taking still carries over from their teen years.

            By the second half of the decade, most have decided what they want to do in life and are working hard to make their dreams come true. Many start families, although formal marriage seems to be less popular, except amongst the gay community. Even after having children, couples do not always proceed to formal marriage vows.

             Fourth decade: This decade is a heavyweight. If people have been careful, their good looks and health are still evident and they have realized or are about to realize their career potential. This is the decade when individuals work hardest and are away from home for too many hours. In the second half of the decade, financial independence is often achieved.

            On the downside, it is a time when couples can split up because of work pressures and roving eyes. Tolerance of each other’s habits lessens. Little things irritate. They are less likely to apologize, when a mishap is their fault. Marriages and partnerships split. If couples can get through this period with their marriages intact, they will probably be together into old age.

             Fifth decade: This is my favourite decade. The saying ‘life begins at forty’ is not too far wrong. If a person is going to ‘make it’ they have done so by forty. They are now comfortable with themselves. They know who they are. Their confidence is palpable. Many reach the pinnacle of their careers. They own the world and it shows! Children are becoming more independent and happy couples can rejoice in going out together again.

            Men should never think that their wives are sick of sex. If they are having problems, the cause is more likely to be that the wives are sick of their husbands’ routine lovemaking. Men need to brighten up their act or they will lose their greatest asset. After many years of marriage, men do not realize how much their daily comfort depends on their wives. And wives rarely appreciate how important the marriage bed is to the men (even men who are making a poor showing).

            This is also the time when many realize their good looks are slipping away and they have the funds to do something about it. Unfortunately many go too far and not just women. Breast enhancements, face-lifts, excessive dieting, hair replacement, excessive exercising, become necessary for some. A new suit or a new hairdo just won’t do it! Men start looking for a younger mate. If women have been through a divorce, they are less likely to be looking for a replacement. Most realize they can make it on their own with less baggage (men being viewed as baggage at this stage!). Some try a new career or move to another town.

             Sixth decade: Most people in their fifties are enjoying the fruits of their hard work. Some take on other tasks as their careers become less demanding. Travel, or other forms of adventure take their fancy. Voluntary work is often taken up and some of it can be hazardous, especially overseas. Health problems can surface. Some people, who have maintained their fitness through excessive exercise, may find that their fitness will not stop time. They are fit but what they are fit for, escapes them.

            Singles, especially male, scramble to find partners, not caring how temporary they may be. One night is better than nothing! Women who have had breast enhancements suddenly realize that gravity will win. Age is especially unkind to large-breasted women.

             Seventh and subsequent decades: Once people reach their sixties, they become invisible. They have been used to having their counsel sought. Incensed at being ignored, some become grumpy and unpleasant. This is the December of their lives and some do not take it well.

             Others revel in the ability to get away with things a younger person could not. They become more outspoken, less conciliatory. Senior Citizen clubs have card parties and dance lessons; flirting at such venues is practically de rigueur! Why does the younger generation assume older people are ‘past all that’?

            Many travel. Cruises, coach trips and other organized travel groups have a large percentage of over-sixties. So-called ‘grey nomads’ dominate the caravan parks and outback roads. If health is not an issue, these twilight years can be fun. Most are intent on spending their children’s inheritance. The attitude is ‘I earned it. I’m spending it!’

            Death no longer seems to be the enemy. When disease starts to take its toll, many wish they were treated as well as their pets. No one would allow a dog to suffer unnecessarily, but a suffering human is a different matter. I hope by the time I am ready to go, euthanasia will be legal in my country. Apart from reducing the suffering of individuals, the excessive and unnecessary cost of keeping the terminally ill officiously alive is clogging the health system. To replace body organs in non-productive people over seventy is a waste of precious resources.

            There! That should stir the pot!

             The other night we were treated on television to the reality of attractive young women having fun, drinking the night away, falling down, vomiting and having to be helped home. Is this what “women’s lib” has brought about? Is this what was intended? I don’t think so.

            In the sixties and seventies of the last century, women battled to be considered the equal of men, principally in the workplace. The aim should have been equal pay for equal work, but the aim wobbled and the targets moved. We should not have wanted to be given anything. We should have worked to earn it. Most of us did, but there are radicals in any group that take things too far. In selected areas, equality worked. In other areas it has never worked effectively. In some areas it should not have been attempted at all, and so those areas remain demonstrably ineffective because of legislation. No one seems to have got the message that you can’t legislate for or against a state of mind.

            My career that I battled for and loved, does not blind me to the fact that we women have made mistakes that have had serious and lasting consequences. In our zeal to get rid of bullying schoolteachers who indiscriminately whacked children with rulers and made their school lives miserable, we tied teachers down so that they could no longer command the respect of their pupils nor their attention in class.

           Policemen who in times past would have given a wayward teenager a kick in the backside and sent him home to be further dealt with by his (or her) father, are now obliged to keep their hands and boots to themselves. They are required to render pompously an official verbal caution which does nothing to stem a delinquent’s hooliganism, but goes on permanent record. We have turned our policemen into paper tigers.

            We even attempted to alter the language, changing the suffix –man to –person. The clumsiness of words like chairperson and sportsperson, makes me wince. Am I now a hu-person?

            Let’s face it, Ladies, we got it wrong and it’s time we owned up to it. We were so afraid of discrimination that we leaned too far the other way. Pushing for a softer approach has turned our society into a big, fat marshmallow. Don’t get me wrong. I was part of that revolution. I loved my work and did well at it. It was not enough to be as good as a man in the same position. A woman had to be demonstrably better and we revelled in the challenge. For the most part (when we weren’t suffering from foot in mouth disease), we thought it was wonderful that we were acknowledged and quoted in the business magazines. We had made it!

            The smaller chimpanzees, the bonobos are a female-dominated species, where ‘love not war’, is not a slogan but a way of life. They are more gentle and peaceful than their larger relatives. But we are not animals and we are not female dominated. Women strove (or should have striven) for equality between the sexes, not domination. Women are physically weaker, biologically stronger and intellectually equal to men. Two out of three does not make us (males or females) candidates for domination, nor should it. Each individual should be able to determine his or her place in society based on merit.

            When we were a patriarchal society, young people were more respectful of their elders and of each other. There was less crime, and in general the crime that did occur was less violent. Families consisted of a married couple, their children and sometimes an aging parent. No one in the family was in any doubt about who was head of the household. Single parent families were the exception, not the rule.

            Have we so brainwashed our youth that they expect to be given the material things we had to work hard for? What sorts of role models have we provided? Am I saying that it was better in the ‘good old days’? No! What I am pointing out, is that we women went too far in trying to achieve our aims; and they may have been the wrong aims.

            We got it wrong! It’s too late to reverse it. Let’s hope the Fibonacci theory can rule in life, the way it rules in maths. If we went too far one way, can it be that we just have to wait for the natural reversal, to find a reasonable level?

             There was a girl who used to live in a street close to my home when I was a teenager. I didn’t know her. I never met her; never even nodded to her in the street. I didn’t know exactly where she lived but it was in a street close to my home. So what is so important about this girl? She kept turning up in places where she shouldn’t be.

             I lived in South Randwick. One would expect to find local people in Kingsford, Maroubra, Coogee, Kensington and even in Sydney CBD. That would be normal. If one went to say the Gold Coast, and saw a local there, that would be simply a coincidence.

             If you went to Darwin, Perth, Adelaide, and Hobart, it would hardly be a coincidence if you saw the same girl there each time. That is not what happened. I didn’t have the money in those days to travel so far. Hardly anyone did in my social circle. We used to live within our means and our means were fairly mean.

             I did not have the money to travel interstate. I barely had enough to holiday in the Blue Mountains. I have used those cities as examples. We didn’t travel far from home on weekends. We’d go to the beach. We’d go skating, play tennis, or watch cricket or football at the local oval. We even had games of miss and giggle at the local nine-hole golf course. We sometimes travelled to other sporting venues but rarely too far away.

             So when I tell you that this girl kept turning up in places where she should not be, I am not talking about other state capitals. I am talking about other suburbs. Places I would not normally go. A new boyfriend would take me to visit one of his friends. A relative moved into a house in a distant suburb and we went to visit. A friend had an accident and went to a hospital that was not our local one. Yet the girl would be there. Not close to me. I would just get a glimpse of her. I knew it was the same girl. She was quite distinctive.

             I was jealous of her of course. She had a spectacular figure. One night I went to my usual dance at Monash Hut in Rose Bay. As usual there were quite a few men there from the yacht club nearby. As she went by, I heard one bloke comment to his mate, “Too much sail for a small craft.” Never again did I worry about my figure. No one has apparently told the modern crop of breast-enhanced beauties, that age is especially cruel to large bosomed women.

             Then she disappeared or at least I saw her no more. I suppose she moved away. I never saw her after I was married. I moved away then of course, but when I visited my parents, she was not around.

             It does happen occasionally. Either people appear where they should not, or don’t appear where they should. If it happens once or twice, it can be written off to coincidence. More often than that, it becomes a little scary. Don’t get me wrong. I like weird things to happen. I like to read weird books. I like weird characters, preferably in books. Weird characters in real life can be a bit hard to take.

             How about the opposite? How about a man that simply disappears? His wife has died in strange circumstances and he disappears. Is it all done with ‘smoke and mirrors’? I made a big mistake naming my first book ‘Smoke and Mirrors’. I did not realize that there were more than a dozen books so named. I was more careful with my second book and commissioned a search for the title ‘In the Cold Light of Tomorrow’. No problem. There is only mine. But ‘Smoke and Mirrors’ is a different kettle of fish.

             My website www.ixlbook.com will take you to my ‘Smoke and Mirrors’ if you are interested in something weird. There is a link to my page on Amazon for international and eBook readers. Or simply click on the Amazon link to the right of this blog.

            The sorts of books I prefer fit into a number of genres. I love murder mysteries, but don’t want to read the gory details; science fiction, particularly with non-human aliens; historical romances (esp. Georgette Heyer); fantasies with werewolves (esp. Lydia Dare) demons and vampires, even though I can’t write about them myself. I even like the heavy historical ‘fiction’ of Colleen McCullough’s Masters of Rome series. Reginald Hill wrote the Dalziel and Pascoe series, but I most enjoy two that do not include his celebrated detectives, “The Stranger House” and “The Woodcutter”. These I highly recommend. **

            Thrillers I have never liked. I call them ‘bloke books’. When John Locke published his “How I Sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months!” of course I bought it. I am not greedy, one tenth of that would do me. His system worked for him. It’s not working for me. After I had read his ‘How to..’, I tried reading one of his fiction books (the ones that sold a million in five months). I didn’t even make it through the first chapter. I sort my Kindle purchases into Collections. One of my collections is labelled ‘Duds’. That’s where John Locke’s fictional book now resides. Thrillers? Not for me! But I did take notice of Locke’s advice. I created a weblog and joined Twitter.

            I love reading other people’s blogs. To create my own, I needed to work out how it should look, so I researched by reading lots of blogs. People who could write interesting blogs and tweets would surely write entertaining books. Via their weblogs I bought many new authors’ eBooks. Most were a good, easy read. Some were well ahead of the pack. Inevitably I found some duds too, but for those prices it didn’t matter. Only if I could give them at least four stars, did I review them on Amazon. It would be hardly fair to give a book only a couple of stars, just because I did not fancy it. Everyone’s tastes are different. I stuck with my preferred genres and found a paranormal fantasy with a difference, “After Eden” by Katherine Pine. For the first time I gave a fictional book five stars in my Amazon review. http://katherinepine.com

        Then along comes Russell Blake with his irreverent, humorous and deliberately offensive tweets as well as a highly entertaining weblog. I bought his “Fatal Exchange”. Eeek! A bloke book! It started out with a lovingly detailed torture scene. That is as far as I got.

        Blake next published a hilarious take-off of John Locke’s “How to..” book. Russell Blake’s is entitled “How to Sell a Gazillion eBooks in No Time (even if drunk, high, or incarcerated)”. It began with gentle humour making me smile, and progressed until I found myself bursting into spontaneous laughter. It was not something you could read on a train, unless you didn’t care that people would think you were nuts. What was even more surprising was that the spelling and grammar were perfect. I’m pedantic when it comes to grammar. I appreciate some words are spelt differently in the United States, but invented tenses make me wince; e.g., snuck and dove. To come across an American author with good grammar and spelling, was a bonus I did not expect.

        With some reluctance, I went back to “Fatal Exchange”. Skimming over the torture scenes, I found a fast-moving mystery thriller (!) with a strong female lead character. To my utter amazement, I enjoyed it. When I reviewed it on Amazon, I gave it four stars. http://russellblake.com

        As Blake promised that his next book “The Geronimo Breach” contained no torture scenes, I bought it. What is it with Russell Blake, that he has to make the first chapter of his books so disgusting? This time there was no torture, just a drunk’s nightmares and a graphic throwing up scene! With masochistic determination, I continued reading.

        Oh my! This one is a real gem! There’s not much I can say about the story without becoming a spoiler. It’s a thriller all right, but not with any of the usual components. What on earth is he going to do for an encore?

        Take a useless drunk, who really doesn’t improve much in the course of the book, a kleptomaniac cook, an accommodating cop, an equally accommodating brothel owner, an indigenous guide and a couple of horrendous CIA agents, mix them with an international scandal in the making, drop them in the middle of a jungle and there’s your story. When I finished, I sat back and thought, “I wonder if this really happened?” Not the story of course, but the background scandal. Blake makes it sound all so possible. I rarely give fiction five stars. I did for “The Geronimo Breach”, and it’s not even my preferred genre!

        Will I read something else Russell Blake produces? Oh yeah!

       Having handed out bouquets and brickbats for other people’s work, I must ask you please, not to leave this site before checking out my books.

** All the books named in the first paragraph are available in eBook format from Amazon except the Colleen McCullough series.

            Ah! The freedom of the road! Hitch up a van and go wherever you want and stop when you feel like it. What a perfect retirement! Three years ago, I hooked the smallest in the A’van fleet onto my 2-litre Ford Focus and took off into the outback.

            A few statistics will give you a better feeling for the outback. Australia is only slightly smaller than the United States, with 21million people. Of those 17million live in the larger cities. That leaves only 4million people of all ages living in the remainder, mostly in regional towns of 20 to 50 thousand. The rest are pretty widely scattered.

            My first ‘shake down’ cruise was around familiar parts of western New South Wales, some of which are featured in “In the Cold Light of Tomorrow” http://www.ixlbook.com/coldlightoftomorrow.html. My car still bears the scars of backing into and overrunning the hitch, but for the most part, things went smoothly.

            My next adventure was spending five months wandering around Queensland as far north as Cairns and as far west as Mt.Isa. The coast is beautiful, but not really my scene. Too touristy and I’m not a beach bunny – wrong complexion; the sun in Australia is spectacularly unkind to redheads.

          The numerous adventures a woman with a trailer will encounter could fill a book. My philosophy is that if everything on a trip goes according to plan, then you didn’t really have an adventure, did you? One potentially disastrous incident was when police were coming on my side of the road, directing traffic to pull over – the only problem being the shoulder was narrow with a steep drop-off. I got over as far as I could, and then nearly fainted when I saw what was coming. A gargantuan machine from the Mt.Isa mines was barreling towards me, filling both sides of the road. I ducked and winced in anticipation, but fortunately the monster’s overhang just cleared me. I got on the UHF and said, “That was scary!” The truck driver answered, “Lady, you should smell what it’s like in this cab.”

            Another adventure that will stick in my memory is my visit to the famous Birdsville Races. Birdsville is in the SW corner of Queensland and once a year attracts thousands to its races. I parked the Focus and van at the back of the pub at Mitchell and caught a coach, full of  rowdy race-goers.

            The Birdsville races and the coach trip were experiences to be treasured, but only once. It’s a bloke thing. After travelling all day, in the early evening we arrived at Quilpie where we enjoyed yabbie races. Thousands of dollars were being wagered on bloody yabbies. They put them in the centre and then raised the circular barrier. The one that reached the outside ring first collected big bucks for its punters. One small problem. It was raining. Pouring actually! This tiny community was suddenly host to hundreds of tourists, all crowding the pub and trying to find a dry spot between yabbie races. Although the local copper threatened to lock up anyone that took booze outside the pub and the roped off area of the yabbie races, the people in our group were all present and correct when they called us back onto the coach at midnight.

            The next morning we arrived at the border of South Australia before dawn. The idea was to watch the dawn from that vantage point. For either a sunset or a dawn to be spectacular, there have to be clouds. One would have thought some could have drifted across from Quilpie, but it was not to be. So seeing dawn over the Simpson Desert was a bit of a fizzer.

            Birdsville has a usual population of around 150, which swells to over 6,000 for race week. Across the road from the pub is the aerodrome. Small aircraft were lined up in rows with the owners pitching tents under the wings. We were not there for the arrivals or the departures, but with little in the way of air traffic control, it must have been a bit hairy, landing and taking off. A mid-air collision in the morning could ruin your whole day!

            For the first and last time in my life, I slept in a tent. Inevitably there were long queues for showers. Toilets were not a problem. Other towns could have statues down the middle of their main streets. Birdsville decorated theirs with portable toilets.

            Food franchises filled every available space with every type of cuisine. Entertainment was non-stop; music and singers, bush poets and of course all the silly nonsense that men on the loose can get up to. Trying to ride or rope calves, boxing, drinking competitions (resulting in technicolour yawn competitions), yodelling and/or singing (off-key) were enjoyed by participants and spectators alike. In spite of all this, there were only ten arrests in the year I was there (2008).

            It was a challenge to climb Big Red, a huge sand dune at the start of the Simpson Desert. I managed to do it and took a picture for proof. Some 4-wheel-drive vehicles got all the way up, but many failed spectacularly. In the other direction there are a series of caves called ‘Dingo Caves’. A local indigenous guide joined us for that excursion. He was asked why they were called Dingo Caves and could we expect to see dingoes? The guide, bless ‘im, replied; “Only when they’re laying eggs”. Going up the narrow track with a sheer drop on one side and hairpin bends to negotiate, the coach driver advised that if we were worried about it, to do what he does “Shut your eyes.”

            For the two days of the races you never had to wait for a bus, they rolled in every couple of minutes. The races themselves were not typical country picnic races. The track was dirt, not turf and the seating was minimal. People dressed up in all sorts of silly costumes. Monster-type Halloween costumes were popular (in September!). A young couple from our coach swapped genders, which was hilariously unsuccessful.

            In the evenings we would gather around a campfire and tell yarns. One evening I tripped over a guy rope, grabbed it to prevent a fall and tore the skin off my hand. Not a disaster but painful.

            Back at Mitchell, I needed to stay for a week to allow my hand to heal. All together now – one, two, three “Aaww!” Mitchell has divine artesian hot water baths! At the end of the week, I hitched up and travelled from Mitchell, home to Penrith in three jumps (about 2000kms), not something I would normally do. When travelling in the outback it’s better to plan to be on the road only between 9am and 3pm, to avoid hitting kangaroos. 

            I did another trip last year towards the south-west of New South Wales, dipping into Victoria and South Australia, but outback Queensland definitely spoiled me for other locations! I’ve decided that I am now officially ‘over it’. Organized trips with groups of people will be my preferred holiday in future.

*A metre is a bit more than a yard. 39inches.

             Early in my married life, I lived in western New South Wales on fairly isolated country properties. Principally they were sheep grazing properties. Fresh air polluted by fermenting silage, fly blown sheep and rotting carcasses.

            There are three kinds of farmers’ weather. Too wet, too dry, and too good to last. While we lived in the west, we experienced all three. When living out of a tiny village called Carroll, it rained so much up river, that we had a flood. A machinery mound had been constructed in anticipation of such events. We had to get our tractors and cars up there pretty quickly, as the neighbours were taking advantage of our mound and if we were not to miss out on getting a spot, we needed to be quick.

            About 10pm we remembered that we had hurricane lamps in the boot of the car, so we had to go to the mound to retrieve them. It was a lovely starry night. We strolled along enjoying the evening, after all the hustle and bustle of the day, when hubby had to move stock to higher ground, and I had to put everything out of the cupboards up on the benches in the hope that the waters would not reach so far. We were only back home to our three children a short time, when we heard a rushing sound. Opening the front door, we saw the water rushing down a depression between our house and the mound.

            Strange things happen in floods. Debris was building up on our front doorstep. In the debris a little field mouse was busy making a nest. A log floated by, carrying five hens and a fox. The fox was running up and down the log. The hens were politely moving aside to let him pass. A heavy engine was carried a hundred metres away, but an empty 44-gallon drum was just overturned.

            I was worried about one of our cats (please note this, Russell Blake). The others were on the verandah, but Soxy was missing. Two days later, Soxy came strolling in, shaking water from her paws as she trod in a puddle. The water had been down for some time before Soxy came home. No way was she going to get her feet wet!

            When the weather was too dry, we had to feed stock or take them on the ‘long paddock’; i.e., the travelling stock route. In the drought that wiped us out, we fed cotton seed to the stock. The cotton seed was stored in a shed easily accessible by my middle daughter (two years old at the time), who would often take a handful and feed it to the Hereford bull. The bull adored her and followed her around like a puppy dog, although she could walk beneath him without bending. As she was a great wanderer we would often lose sight of her, so it was fortunate he had taken to following her about. I just had to look for the bull and there I would find her.

            When the weather was too good to last, we would have an influx of city ‘friends’, who wanted a cheap holiday in the bush. Sometimes we had friends we didn’t even know existed until they turned up, often unannounced. When hubby’s best sheep dog got shot by one of these ‘friends’, we finally put a halt to it.

        It is not a good idea to take city people shooting, especially if they are not familiar with firearms. We did not have expensive, flashy rifles. We had a .303 Lee Enfield, an ancient .310 with a Martini-Henry action, and several handguns. The handguns were illegal even then. The local police knew we had them, but turned a blind eye. It was easier to carry a pistol or revolver on a horse than a rifle. When stock had to be put down, a firearm was an essential tool.

        A friend had the idea of starting a pistol-shooting club and invited the local police sergeant along. In the course of the evening, pistols were shown around, pulled apart and put together. At one point, someone was peering through the tiny barrel of a late 19^th century Iver Johnson, marvelling at the straight lans, when the sergeant said, ‘Don’t you point that bloody thing at me!’ Everyone collapsed in laughter. That broke up the party.

        I got my car licence by backing between the goal posts on the football field beside the cop shop at Lake Cargelligo (yes, The Lake from ‘In the Cold Light of Tomorrow’). My motorbike licence was another matter. I rolled up to the cop shop and went in to see the sergeant, who was writing at his desk. He went on writing and I went on standing there. Eventually he looked up and growled, “Yeah? What do you want?”

        “I want a licence for my bike.” I answered. The bugger went on writing. Then he seemed to remember I was there.

        He looked up and asked, “Can you ride it?”

        “Yes, I can ride it.” Blowed if he didn’t go on writing. Finally he heaved his bulk out of the chair and said, “I suppose I’d better watch you.”

        “Ride around the block.” That was all the direction I had from him. I rode around the block. When I returned, he was talking to someone. I dithered for a bit, but he didn’t take any notice of me, so I rode around the block again. When I returned, he had gone.

         I parked the bike and went into the cop shop. He was writing (why was I surprised?).

        “What do you want?” We went through the whole scenario again.

        “I want a licence for my bike.”

        “Can you ride it?”

        “Yes, I can ride it.” In between these bits of conversation, he continued writing.

        “I suppose I’d better come and watch you.”

         “You just did!” I said.

        He paused. “Did I?” He then motioned for me to give him my learner’s permit, and wrote out my licence. No eye test. No questions.

        Ah! The country life!

             Fer when yeh’ve come to weigh the good an’ bad –

            The gladness wiv the sadness you ‘ave ‘ad –

            Then ‘im ‘oo’s faith in ’uman goodness fails

            Fergits to put ‘is liver in the scales.

 C.J.Dennis  excerpt from ‘The Mooch o’ Life’

             To appreciate his verse, it must be read aloud. Otherwise the rhythm is lost in the effort of trying to decipher the meaning. When read aloud the meaning becomes perfectly clear.

             I love the cadence and disregard for the usual rules of poetry that characterize the work of C.J.Dennis. His tales of ‘The Sentimental Bloke’ aka Bill, his sweetheart Doreen and his mate, Ginger Mick delighted us until it became ‘uncool’ to read poetry of any sort, let alone poetry written in the Australian colloquial vernacular of the early 1900s.

            Clarence Dennis was born in 1876 in South Australia and was brought up in semi-rural villages. In his early twenties, having tried being a barman in his father’s hotel, a law clerk and a journalist, he even turned swagman and ventured into New South Wales by way of Broken Hill. Apparently he was not too successful at any of these occupations.

       Den (he hated his first name and would not use it), did not see any success until he was nearly forty, except for winning a special prize in a competition for a National Song in 1908. His irreverent ‘A real Australian Austra-bloody-aise’ hardly gets an airing these days. I absolutely love it. It was printed with great big dashes where the swear words (mostly ‘bloody’ but occasionally ‘bastards’) were omitted. Sung to the tune of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, it had a martial flavour and became popular during WWI.

             His most famous work ‘The Sentimental Bloke’ was published in 1915. In eighteen months it sold over sixty-six thousand copies in Australia and New Zealand. Further editions were published in Britain, Canada and the United States. Later it was made into a film, but its stage presentations remained popular for many decades.

             When Bill (The Sentimental Bloke) and his sweetheart Doreen went to see Romeo and Juliet, the hilarious commentary in verse is still quoted around the pubs. The young Capulets and Montagues get into a fight, but somehow I don’t think Shakespeare would have appreciated Bill’s descriptive version.

             A tug named Tyball (cousin to the skirt)

            Sprags ‘em an’ makes a start to sling off dirt.

            Nex’ minnit there’s a reel ole ding-dong go –

            ‘Arf round or so.

            Mick Curio, ‘e gets it in the neck,

            “Ar, rats!” ‘e sez, an’ passes in ‘is check.

            Quite natchril, Romeo gits wet as ‘ell.

            “It’s me or you!” ‘e ‘owls, an’ wiv a yell,

            Plunks Tyball through the gizzard wiv ‘is sword,

            ‘Ow I ongcored!

            “Put in the boot!” I sez. “Put in the boot!”

            “Ush!” sez Doreen…”Shame!” sez some silly coot

            The final two paragraphs in the section on the lovers’ visit to the theatre always has me howling with laughter, no matter how often I read it.

             Then things gits mixed a treat an’ starts to whirl.

            ‘Ere’s Romeo comes back an’ finds ‘is girl

            Tucked in ‘er little coffing, cold an’ stiff

            An’ in a jiff

            ‘E swallers Lysol, throws a fancy fit,

            ‘Ead over turkey, an’ ‘is soul ‘as flit.

            Then Juli-et wakes up an’ sees ‘im there,

            Turns on the water-works an’ tears ‘er ‘air,

            “Dear love,” she sez, “I cannot live alone!”

            An’, wif a moan,

            She grabs ‘is pockit knife, an’ ends ‘er cares…

            “Peanuts or lollies” sez a boy upstairs.

             C.J.Dennis died in 1938 aged sixty-two. It used to annoy my father considerably, that the Education Department allowed Scotland’s Robert Burns’ mostly incomprehensible work to be taught in schools, but ignored the much more relevant work of C.J.Dennis. The schools’ indifference to local talent is illuminated by a verse from Den’s The Mooch o’ Life.              

            Life’s wot yeh make it; an’ the bloke ‘oo tries

            To grab the shinin’ stars frum out the skies

            Goes crook on life, an’ calls the world a cheat,

            An’ tramples on the daisies at ‘is feet.

             I’m not greedy. I don’t expect to sell a million eBooks like John Locke, but I would love to sell sixty-six thousand copies like our revered C.J.Dennis. In Den’s day 99c would have been 9/9; i.e., nine shilling and ninepence, an extraordinarily expensive price to pay for a book. How things change! My books are currently all available in Kindle format for 99c each, but ‘In the Cold Light of Tomorrow’ will soon move back to $2.99. Paperback formats are also available both from my website http://www.ixlbook.com and from Amazon. A link to my Amazon page is available from the website.