We don’t want this to be us.

This evening my daughter asked me something she’s never asked before. Well, two things: ‘Why would someone shoot all those people?’; and, ‘Are we safe here Mummy?’. I’m glad she can’t comprehend the why. I’m not sure I can either. I know that fear, pain, ignorance, and sadness breed anger and hopelessness and hate. I…

But

There is enough warmth in the sun to warrant bare legs and cups of tea sitting on the back deck.  The peach and cherry trees are laden with the promise of a plentiful summer harvest; the freesias at their feet—my favourite, my only hair adornment on my wedding day—share their scent unashamedly with the rest…

Lists

I have an inkling from somewhere in the depths of my memory of a game where you get a list of items and have to come up with something that connects them all together. If there’s not one, there should be. One person would select a list from the pack and the rest of the…

Let there be light….

There is such strength in kindness, in reaching out to people when they need it, whether we know them or not, whether we’re sure about how to help or not.

Petty

I have discovered through some intense and serious research (participation in a hilarious ranty thread in my favourite online group that keeps getting longer despite being started quite some time ago) everyone has certain things that make them grit their teeth just the slightest bit.  You know, the petty things that irritate, bemuse, or make…

‘Twas the Week Before Christmas

’Twas the week before Christmas, and Violet (aged four) Had more questions re Santa than ever before; Why squeeze down the chimney? Our front door is fine. Does he like fake trees, or should we have pine? We don’t have snow, so what’s with the sleigh? And what does ‘Ho Ho Ho’ even mean, anyway?…

When silence is not golden: On Weinstein and all the rest of them

We are silenced by fear. We are silenced by shame.  We are silenced by guilt.  By the myths and legends and stories and films and comments and images that tell us our voices are not as important, that we may be a victim but we are also at fault, that we just have to shut up and take what comes because this is the reality of life as a woman.

If there’s one thing for certain it’s that more silence is not going to change anything.

Channelling Pollyanna

There was a fair bit of denial over the course of last evening.  Denial and swears.  And chocolate.  With some wine to take the sting off.  I blame the polls for getting my hopes up.  And my own stupid self for not floating outside my leftie, social consciencey, feminist, anti-phobe, social-media bubble and having a look around at what the other folk were talking about.

Puppy Love?

A puppy turned up at our place on Saturday.  A pudgy, floppy-earred, jumpy-licky, short-wheel-based pup with no sense of boundaries or outliving its welcome.

“Why can’t hedgehogs talk?” and other serious questions about Peppa Pig.

But because my brain is undeniably a right prick at times, I can’t get her question out of my head.  Why can’t that poor little hedgehog talk?  Seriously, what is the criteria for making it into the talking animal stakes in Peppa Pig?

Stigma, Shame, and Suffering.

A 15 year old made me cry recently. She knew it too; saw me well up and turn my head to blot a couple of escapees with the heel of my hand.  She didn’t say anything, just looked at me with large eyes and a guilty half-smile. Students have brought me to tears before, although…

Teacher with a capital T.

This time two years ago I was marking a clutch of Year Twelve essays; sitting on the couch, red pen firmly clasped, a stack of film analysis on either side (Marked and Yet To Be), the television keeping itself company in the background.  A commonplace scene in our lounge of an evening, especially as prelim…