Shopping Day

Yesterday Peter and I were in town doing our fortnightly shop. It was a beautiful  spring day, one of the few this spring so far, as we are surrounded by floodwaters. What was to be a bumper crop of canola this year has been inundated by  water in much of the cropping farmland hereabouts.

A happy circumstance was chatting with a lady who was visiting Australia from Chicago. We were in our local shoe shop and she asked me if I knew what a size 37 shoe size would be here and I said I thought it would be a 6 but the shopkeeper would know for sure. I was correct as it turned out, but it was a bit of a guess. I asked her how she felt about the Presidential election back home, and since, politically, Australians are interested in the outcome, how she felt about Donald Trump. She said she would vote for him because she thought he would ‘shake things up a bit’, and really,  it’s Congress that have the final say on things. She said they would be moving on to Surfers Paradise to visit with family, so I said she would probably like it there. I told her that my son had been in the US recently and that my grand-daughter and her partner were married in Las Vegas. She asked me if it was an ‘Elvis’ wedding, and I laughed and said no!

I had been looking at these fantastic leather boots from Portugal. They come in four colours and are $200 a pair, which is way out of my price range. I have searched the internet looking for a cheaper brand that looks something like them, but so far, no luck.

We were a bit rushed this time with the shopping , as we had to drive 40kms back home, feed our other animals, and take my pet ferret back to the vet. She has a nasty cold that she caught from me, and I caught it from Peter. On our second trip, we stopped to look at a box trailer for the car that was advertised in a local trading magazine. It was what we were looking for, and I arranged to pick it up on Friday morning next.

It has been too cold these past weeks for me to do a lot of writing. Our lounge room is the only place warm enough to sit and we have two ferrets on the sick list in cages  and our 10- year- old staffy sharing the space. I do my best writing in my head lying awake in bed during the night, but it’s too cold to get out and write it down, and by the morning I have lost the thread.,

I’m off to make myself a nice ham, cheese, and tomato toasted sandwich now, so  long, happy writing.



A last goodbye

Damn, she whispers in muffled voice as her torch drops to the floor with a louder than necessary bang. She doesn’t want to wake the man snoring noisily on the other side of the bed. The last fight only ended two hours and twenty minutes ago. Her heart is still thumping crazily against her chest wall. This is domestic violence. You see it all the time on the television and then suddenly the realisation hits! It’s here!

Reaching down to where the torch is lying, she grasps the handle tightly in her shaking hand. In her mind’s eye, she imagines how easy it would be to bring it down heavily on his unsuspecting temple. He wouldn’t know what hit him. She would say it was self -defence, God knows there were bruises enough to convince a jury.

What then if he should awake to catch her in the act? Once realisation set in the tables would be turned and he would retaliate. Could she really carry out this crime against the man she once swore undying love for?.Why she couldn’t even remember how the fight had started in the first place.

She knows she has to leave before such thoughts become actions.

Placing the torch back onto the nightstand, she softly slides out from beneath the covers. In the spare bedroom of their apartment, there is a suitcase as yet unpacked from her last business trip interstate. Quietly changing into clothes suitable for a trip, she closes the lid and zips the case shut. The case is heavy but she dares not drag it along the floor fearing it will make a scraping noise, so she must carry it down a flight of stairs to the car park.

It’s 4am by the clock on the Mercedes dashboard when she opens the driver’s side door. Returning to the rear of the vehicle, she opens the boot and lifts the heavy case in, shoving it all the way to the back.  With trembling heart she leans back exhausted against the body of the car.

As she turns to climb into the driver’s seat, she hears a faint sound, a’click’. Just one ‘click’. At first,  she feels nothing, then a dull burning under her right shoulder blade. She draws a sudden breath then drops heavily onto the cement floor. Her last sensory awareness is the smell of his after shave. As he leans over her body, he is crying.



A Wakeup Call

There was a time when I told myself I was a pretty good writer. My first poem was printed in a school paper when I was in 6th grade, but it was a long time after that, when I started writing lyrics for songs. I was living in a commune at that time with a lot of very talented people, many of whom wrote poetry. There’s nothing like a bit of inspirational competition to put a person in the mood to create. Anyway, it worked for me.

Things change, life moves on, and over time I have written a few short stories, quite a few poems, some I self-published on ebook, and some 16 songs. The songs I recorded myself on tape and sent to a music producer to no avail. They didn’t even bother to tell me if they thought my stuff was crap, at least that would have saved me waiting around for an answer.

Then came my introduction to the internet and there, to my surprise, are a multitude of ads telling me that I can make money writing. Why would I be taken in by these claims you may well ask, since, as far as I know, not one single copy of my ebook has been sold. Well, no doubt many of you will have also read those ads, and have found a lot of them are scams, others want you to work for peanuts, and you need a much better knowledge of the internet than I have, to succeed.

My next awakening was to discover and there I find hundreds, no, thousands of people contributing material far better than I could ever dream of. This was a huge blow to my self-confidence and showed me how naive I was in a worldwide environment filled with artists who have already honed their craft.

OK. So now, at the wrong end of a long life, I must admit that I have done nothing worth reporting except a lot of bad choices, I’m stuck in another bad marriage, and I’m broke. However, I will still add my penny’s worth of words to my blog while I still have breath and a functioning brain, it may not be anything world shattering, but it will be real.


You stood in front of the Mercedes,

It was holding up the traffic,

The driver behind leaned on his car’s horn


I waited ’til you moved to the driver’s

side window,

Jamming hard on the accelerator

I sped passed you,

I saw you reflected in the rear view mirror.

I’m sorry.



Beyond the Black Stump

“Stump” the remainder of a tree,etc when the main part has been cut away.

Beyond the black stump is a phrase we use in Aus to describe a place that is a long way off, black refers to one burned out in a bushfire. When I envisage the ‘black stump’ I think of places like the Northern Territory, parts of Western Australia and South Australia, even the Central Western New South Wales.We also have a lizard called a ‘stumpytail’, that’s the common name for a blue tongue lizard.

Websters Dictionary also mentions a ‘stump’-orator, a travelling speaker (as using tree-stumps for platforms).

A Needle in a Haystack

Right now I’m feeling frustrated, having spent the best part of the day trying to find a blogspot where I can chat to older bisexual women. I’m not looking to date someone, I would just like to compare life experiences.

Although there are plenty of sites on the subject of lesbianism and bisexuality, I know enough not to have to go into the basics, like, ‘you’re just someone who never found the right man you could be in a straight relationship with!’ I have been married to five, yes five, different men in my long lifetime, and you can throw in a couple of defacto relationships as well. There must have been at least one worth his salt!

I didn’t know much about homosexuality at all when I was growing up. As a teenager I remember my girlfriend kissing me on the mouth once, and I was so shocked that the moment passed as if I had dreamt it. I became sexually active with a boy at 13 years old and I never liked it, sex was just a way of keeping him coming back. I wanted love desperately as a child, this obsession  has lasted my whole life. I don’t remember being loved by anyone in those formative years

Once, my first husband had a female friend who used to come around and help him when he was working on our car. I didn’t think much of it at the time, because I used to do the same before we had children, but I did feel a pang of jealousy, thinking that she had designs on my husband. He thought that was very amusing, saying that she was more attracted to me than him, so you see I was pretty naive at that point in my life.

It wasn’t until many years later, after my first husband and I divorced, that I became involved with an organisation centered around the gay community, answering the phone on a help-line for suicide prevention. As luck would have it, at first I was unaware that this was an exclusively gay service. I became friends with many of the people who helped man the phones twenty- four hours a day, so much so, that I took up residence in a gay commune with six gay young men.

During this time I became aware of the difficulties involved with living as a gay person, and the discrimination they suffered on a daily basis. I also started to question my own sexuality.

Without writing a whole book on the subject, I can say that this was the happiest I have ever been in my life, and cherish the memories of people and places  as they were then. Unfortunately, nothing remains the same.

I have loved two women, one intensely. Sadly, for reasons too complicated to explain further , although she was a lesbian and responded to me for a while, our relationship didn’t last.

Today, I am married to a man. It’s a marraige of convenience really, for company and financial sharing. We have very little in common, except getting old. It would be wonderful to have a woman to be friends with, who has also known the love of another woman, so far I haven’t been able to find anyone.