London Still: The day after 7 July 2005

July 7, 2015 at 5:13 pm (Uncategorized)

LondonI decided I’d see how I felt when I walked onto the platform. I was torn about going—although worried about putting my tourist itinerary before the traumatised locals’ feelings, I sensed that the city saw a return to normality as a matter of honour. I smiled when I got to the station. Only London could have polite signs up within 24 hours of being bombed, informing commuters about the alternate timetable ‘following yesterday’s attacks’. My decision was made.

Ticket and newspaper in hand, I caught the tube into Charing Cross. Sitting in the unusually quiet carriage, I was struck by the fact that we were all absorbed in our papers, which, in true British tabloid style, all but shouted lurid headlines about the previous day’s terrorism on the very transport system we were using. The carriage was quiet, the atmosphere slightly tense and the tunnels seemed that little bit more claustrophobic than usual. But the public tears of yesterday had dried. I think I literally saw people stiffening their upper lips.

I disembarked, a little relieved, and found a coffee-shop overlooking Trafalgar Square. Here only two days prior, confetti had swirled amongst the ubiquitous (and never has the word been more appropriate) pigeons, after the 2012 Olympics decision. The city’s hard-bitten exterior had softened to joyful camaraderie after the announcement, but the following day’s events did far more to crack London’s too-busy-to-be-friendly veneer and reveal the city’s occasionally forgotten humanity.

My numerous visits to London had somewhat blinded me to her quiet dignity, as I became jaded with the surface annoyances of bustle and grime. But when a crotchety loved one is suddenly under threat, minor irritations fade into insignificance. I remembered watching the clouds wheel above the breathtaking dome of St Paul’s, relived the mad colour and retail high of Camden’s markets and thought about the city’s infectious energy on those summer days when everyone descends on the parks to greedily absorb the rays, as if they will never appear again.

London turned it on for the tourists that day. It was still, mild and just overcast enough to not seem disrespectful. The galleries were serene and welcoming as I visited Stubbs’ equine masterpieces and an exhibition of the world’s most photographed people. The café in St Martin’s crypt was cosy and staffed with suddenly solicitous waiters. After a perfect day of coffee, culture and cafes, I had the distinct impression that London would soon be snapping and scowling again, like a grumpy aunt who sneaks lollies to the children when no one is looking. And that’s exactly the London we love.

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Songwriters’ block

August 12, 2010 at 11:47 am (Music)

I love music…admittedly, not creating or performing it myself, but talking about it, listening to it, criticising it and philosophising about it. I obsess over reading lyrics (the digital revolution, while so good in so many ways is not helping my liner notes addiction!), hearing the stories behind the songs and picking up the cultural references.

I think that like most first loves, a love of music originates in adolescence, when identification, understanding, belonging and, well, let’s face it, other desires are so pressing and important. Professing fandom of a particular band or song is one of the quickest ways to identify yourself as part of a certain group…whether it be the cheerful pop princesses, the shoegazing indie crowd, the outrageous metal fans or even the intellectual classical collective. Sure, given most of our first CD purchases or first concerts, our tastes take some refining before we finally find the genre or the scene that truly ‘gets’ us, but I’d bet that most of us will always have a soft spot for that first embarrassing LP, tape, CD or download (age dependent) that made us leap around our bedrooms like a crazy thing.

The thing about music is, there are so many good songs out there, so many things that make you listen and hear the passion that went into writing it. But what is it that elevates a song into an obsession, into something that makes you hit repeat as soon as the closing chords die down? I think when it comes down to it, it has to have a certain frisson, something that hits a nerve, evokes a memory or desire. This can come from a particular chord change, a certain gasp or breath in between the words, a set of lyrics that put things just so…anything that causes a physical reaction in the listener. A lurch of recognition in the stomach, a thrill of pleasure in your chest, a pang of sadness in your eyes.

The glorious joy of it all too is that you can’t necessarily break it down and separate the elements that make it great. It has to have that magic combination of lyrics, melody, and that old indefinable cliché ‘soul’ as well as hit that personal spot in your heart, or come along at a particularly memorable point in your life to work…no wonder songwriting is such a difficult business. I’ve long admired anyone who can cobble a song together, words and music, who can orchestrate something original, yet familiar, something you can anticipate yet still be surprised by.

I must confess, as a writer, I’ve been tempted to try and bottle words into a song structure, but for me it’s like trying to trap a firefly in a jar. Bad teenage poetry was the only inevitable result. I may have once compared my broken heart to a flaccid beach ball…and then Tim Rogers steals my idea and puts it poignantly, perfectly into his simple, naked folk song. I love that I have learned words and concepts like leit motif and epiphany from songs, just the same way that books have taught me things or changed the course of my referencing and reading.

My CD collection is almost a barometric chart of my life. Like Rob in High Fidelity, I can sort it biographically and tell you that I was going out with a sweetly sensitive soul at the time I got into Weezer, with an apparently 12 year old skater boy who bought me Limp Bizkit’s disc for some reason (is it surprising that relationship didn’t last?:)) and that I was dedicated to RRR while driving to university when I found The Posies, Manic Street Preachers and even Soul Asylum. I can always predict writers block or a bout of depression when I find that I have not thrilled to any new songs or bought an album for a while, or made a mix tape for someone who I am eager to share my discoveries with.

And I love hearing about other people’s song stories, no matter the genre, age or sort of song. You can’t criticise someone’s musical taste when it’s something they love, something they are passionate about and something that means something to them (well, I know people do, but they are the oft-bemoaned music snobs and I have no time for musical snobbery…I know too well that you can’t help what you like sometimes, even if you suddenly realise you’ve been caught lip-synching to Justin Timberlake*)

So with that…my top 5 songs for lyrics, stories or educational value :)…a little mixed tape to get you started…will try to resist the urge to add and edit this madly after hitting submit. Mixed tape regret is a music lover’s constant companion!

Rolling Stones: Wild Horses

Placebo: Nancy Boy

Brand New: Play Crack the Sky

Manic Street Preachers: From Despair to Where

Maximo Park: Graffiti

*Note,  example only 🙂

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Daisy, meet Daisy

June 25, 2010 at 12:37 pm (Family)

In a lovely, and not entirely unexpected turn of events (we did have a few months to prepare), I recently became an Aunty to a beautiful baby girl. My brother and his wife had informed us at their baby shower of the baby’s gender, which was a great way to generate excitement (and gender-specific presents) and a feeling of ‘knowing’ our new relative before she had even arrived.

So the big surprise on the day was always going to be the name (I know, I know, the weight is always a big deal too, but probably not as big a deal as it is to the mother…) and when it was announced, I felt a strange lurch of recognition, delight and also an unexpected stab of possessiveness. There is already a Daisy Taylor! It was so strange to hear the name said aloud after such a long time.

Daisy Isobel Mullens Taylor is named after our (my brother, myself and our four cousins) grandmother, Daisy Bradford Taylor. She died some years ago of cancer at the age of 79 and would be absolutely besotted with her tiny namesake, her first great-grand-daughter.

I was going to put up the eulogy I gave at her funeral but that was a piece written under duress and delivered under a cloud of grief and I don’t think that it gives baby Daisy a balanced view of Daisy Bradford…her life was about so much more than the last few traumatic months of hospital stays and deathbed vigils.

Daisy Bradford was probably made to be a grandmother. A widow longer than she was a wife, her own children’s children gave her the chance to variously fuss, indulge, coddle and teach.  We learned to play Snakes and Ladders and Monopoly, how to knit (ok, none of us really did learn this very well), and how to do jigsaw puzzles, all in the sunny front room at Asling St.

Family occasions centred around her house, where the kettle was permanently on, a meal was permanently in the oven with a plate over the top (there was certainly no microwave in the house) and the table was always set for breakfast by half past eight the night before.

Daisy never met a cat she couldn’t bath. Tiger, Maverick, Cougar and Merlin (there may have been a Top Gun theme there for a while) all felt the wrath of her ministrations at regular intervals, although they frequently had their revenge at around sundown when they were supposed to come inside for their dinner. These well-fed felines would dance frustratingly along the boundaries, just out of reach, until a misstep meant she could peel them off the fence like reluctant velcro.

She basically resembled a perpetual motion machine…constantly ‘doing’. She was not a woman who suffered idleness. I think her couch was still ‘as new’ five years after she bought it, it so rarely was it sat upon (except maybe when Sale of the Century was on). If she had no-one to knit for at the time (as we were all fully clothed in jumpers, vests and scarves), she’d knit for the Brotherhood bin. It’s amazing to think of the number of people who might be walking around in Daisy Taylor originals.

She never had her licence, so cycled around the beautiful streets of Brighton to run all of her errands. Still working, well into her 70s (cleaning houses for people younger than her), it was a difficult admission to make that perhaps she should ‘retire’. A broken hip forced the decision upon her and was probably the only thing that could have done so (family suggestions being easier to ignore than broken bones). It didn’t really slow her down that much…at Lucas’ beach baptism, she steamed determinedly into the waves, with her walking frame, up to her knees.

When I lived with her, I have never been so cossetted. I remember calling her from work one day at around 11am, having just arranged after-work drinks with my new colleagues. ‘Gran, I won’t be home for dinner, so you don’t need to worry about me.’ ‘Oh…’ she said in a tone that I knew well. Dinner was already well underway. ‘It’s ok…leave it in the oven, I won’t be too late.’

She was the lightest sleeper known to man. So even if she was in bed by 8.30, I knew she knew exactly what time I slunk up the passage, even if I had rolled the car silently up the narrow driveway.

When she fell ill, she tried to soldier on, admitting nothing, playing things down. I left for work one morning, when she had brightly denied feeling poorly, despite the fact I had heard her get up during the night (haha, I’d inherited those radar ears!). I got halfway to the station and suddenly decided to turn back and force her to go to the doctor…I expected a fight that I didn’t get. I have never felt so grownup and childlike at the same time, sitting with her in the doctor’s office, being told some fairly hard truths and not knowing whether to collapse in tears, take notes for the rest of the family or stay strong and positive and not upset her. I’m forever glad that I decided to choose the latter. We drove home and ate toast and honey, and talked of things of no consequence… I guess I’d inherited more than I thought.

I think Daisy is the last person to have ever written me a letter. Remember those? Her neat, cursive writing fills many sheets of paper that I still treasure, particularly one she wrote to me when I was overseas, slightly homesick and desperate for mail. The letter was written literally minutes after I had called her, having gotten up at 5am to use the public phone (remember those?) and she wrote about how pleased she was that I had called and what a lovely surprise it was… possibly the only thankyou letter I have ever received for a phonecall! She also wrote the Lord’s Prayer out for me, on a little card, to help me learn it (and I have to confess that I did and still consider that the ‘proper’ version…none of your fancy New International Versions for me!)

Little baby Daisy Taylor has some shoes to fill, but I am certain that Daisy Mark One will be watching to ensure that she turns into a practical, capable, loving, funny and determined young woman. She is certainly already a light enough sleeper 🙂

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A Caroline Rose by any other name

May 10, 2010 at 12:27 pm (New marriage)

It’s a strange sensation having people you’ve known for a long time say ‘So, what’s your name?’. But it’s a conversation I’ve been having a lot lately. Every wedding, email, letter, invitation. ‘What name do I use?’ ‘Have you changed your name?’ ‘What’s your new surname?’

Um. I haven’t changed it. People’s reactions are interesting. Confusion seems to be the immediate response… a kind of ‘Well how is that going to work?’ expression crossing their faces.

Humans are predictable creatures. We like conversational crutches, shortcuts and easy small talk. At least I hope this is the case, otherwise it seems that people like being slightly intrusive, mildly judgemental and making grand assumptions. Surely not!

For anyone who is single, the easy topic is your lovelife (or lack thereof); for those who are dating, it’s when you are getting married; then when you are engaged, the whole world goes wedding crazy for a little while…then, then in that brief window before conversation turns inevitably to when you’re going to conceive a child (why thankyou, yes, we are having intercourse), people want to know if you’re going to change your name. Well. If you are a girl (which I am, thanks for noticing).

When I was single, my name wasn’t something that I was particularly preoccupied with. I liked it, it served me well, it featured on my drivers licence, on my degrees, and on my nameplate at work. That said, I never thought I would have any other one (let’s face it, I was single for a long time).

Then, I had a conversation with a friend about a married couple I knew who were having problems. I used their names in the conversation, which, coincidentally, alerted my friend to the fact that they had different surnames. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘That’s part of the problem. If she hasn’t changed her name, she hasn’t given herself over to the marriage. It’s symbolic of her commitment if she changes it, but she’s holding back, she’s not identifying herself as his wife!’  This theory took me by surprise…although it wasn’t just the theory, but the way my hackles rose in defense of my friend and her choice. I was sure that whatever was wrong with their marriage was not because of some simple paperwork.

Around the same time (so before she became the Twitterer-to-hate), Catherine Deveney wrote this article, and I was actually challenged to think about my reactions to the whole name change decision. I almost switched allegiances upon reading this, because I didn’t feel like the women who had changed their names (many of whom I know, respect and love) deserved such vehemence and scorn. But I appreciated Deveney’s point about thinking about what you’re doing with such a large part of your life and identity.

This probably is where I’m sitting at the minute…in the thinking phase. The leadup to the wedding was so crazily busy (nothing new there) and to be honest, the first few months of marriage have been the same. I have not been afforded that much thinking time.  So for the minute, nothing’s changing, apart from the entire lifechanging, soul affirming, scary, exciting thing that was actually getting married. Yeah, ok, apart from that little thing, I’m in a holding pattern.

Administration is not my strong point (ok, I’ll be honest, some of my letters are STILL going to my parents’ place as I haven’t finished changing my address…as if I’m going to be organised enough to change my name!) and it does seem like a lot of work to do for something I’m a bit ambivalent about. I’m not ambivalent about my betrothed’s name, it’s perfectly serviceable; or its origin (in fact I’m quite into the European mystique it conveys :)); or even his family, who seem quite patient with my substandard Czech.

So while I would not put my commitment to my name above my commitment to my husband, it’s not something to be divorced from lightly. It was an easy decision to say yes to ‘Will you marry me?’, but strangely enough, not such an easy one to say goodbye to the name and signature (and email address).

Rest assured though, if or when I do change it…I will let you know. My admin may be poor, but my communication skills are slightly better.

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Good better best Friday

April 6, 2007 at 6:50 pm (Spirituality/Church/Theology)

Good Friday seems like such an anomaly in today’s society…it’s like the only day of enforced rest left in the calendar. It was really nice driving to church this morning and seeing all the empty shopping centre carparks, and the quiet streets.

No doubt it will eventually be eroded in favour of football and shopping (heaven forbid that we be without retail opportunities for 24 hours, especially on day that doesn’t have a particular marketing handle attached to it…no snappy rabbits, or Santa) but for now it is a welcome oasis of reflection and stillness.

Church this morning focussed on Jesus’ words on the cross and what we could take from them…about Paradise (and it was not too late even for the dying criminals), about thirsting, about loss of his Father, about handing your spirit over…

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Judgey wudgey was a bear

March 22, 2007 at 11:02 pm (Fitness, Horses, Spirituality/Church/Theology)

Not to get all philomasophical or anything, but I had something of a realisation today, at the gym of all places. Mildly embarrassing situation occurred…here’s me, getting dressed in the changeroom, and my trainer walked in and said hi. No worries, she showed me my record card and told me where to find it so I could chart my progress. She suggested I don’t do any weights today after yesterday’s session, but I said I was doing the Pump class (hey, it’s the only one at a good time, so I’m doing it!). All good, off she went to file my card away. I go to the toilet, hear her come back into the changerooms looking for me, but don’t answer for obvious reasons. But she realises where I am (agh, she is stalking me!!! These gym bunnies are intense!) and sings out over the cubicle ‘Don’t do heavy weights in that pump class, you won’t do yourself any good!’ I reply in a non-committal fashion and go wash my hands. To my embarrassment, my pump instructor had been in the next cubicle and heard the whole exchange! I say nothing, and hope she doesn’t realise it was me who was being told to slack off in her class.

Of course, during the class, she makes mention of it…she says ‘Now I heard someone in the toilets being told to back off in their weights…who was it??? Own up!’ She didn’t look my way, so I didn’t, but then she went into a bit of a spiel about how people who don’t teach Pump don’t know anything about it and it’s the best thing ever, blah blah, basically put as much weight on as you like.

All this was a long winded way of explaining how I came to the realisation (wait for it, it’s a goodie) that people are all the same. Told you it was deep. Basically, take a group of people, everyone wants to do things their way and bring everyone along for the ride because hell knows, their way is the only way.

Every group I am involved in at the moment (and there are a few!) has little factions, little conflicts, little defenses and bandwagons.

The horse community is a classic example of course, LOADS of ‘holier than thous’, like natural horsemanship vs every other breaking/handling method; showing vs dressage; TBs vs Arabs (ok, Arabs vs everyone 🙂 ) when really, if the horse is happy and healthy and you’re not terrified to go near the creature and can have fun with it…who the hell cares? (simplistic I know, but there are some vicious leathery old horsey women, and plenty of sly elegant showies and other shameless stereotypes going around to really make people unhappy).

Church is another example at the moment. I am so sick of the ’emerging church’ vs ‘traditional church’ debate. Just get on with things people! If you’re not into it (the emerging church movement, for want of a better handle), try finding a way to ensure your church is performing the way you need it to. Very poor summation (by ‘performing’, I simply mean it is functioning in feeding and supporting a group of Christians who are active and accountable to God…and this will surely mean they are reaching out and serving the Kingdom). If you’re into it, awesome, you’ve found a niche to support your faith and mission that wasn’t around a while ago, so it’s an excellent feeling to find something that clicks.

My homechurch ran the evening service at a local large baptist church on Sunday. Basically we ran a few activities, in an attempt to generate discussion and get people to engage their minds about their church, their worship and their community.

No songs! Lots of discussion! Lots of listening! (I don’t know, are these really radical concepts for a group of supposedly spiritually minded people?) Generally the response was really positive and it was obvious that a lot of thoughts were provoked and possibly some challenges heard. Some of the discussions were puzzling though and I really feel like they were responding to stuff from the past that had little to do with what was happening in front of them. For instance, at our little square table discussion, the talk turned to something of a ‘big church’ vs ‘little church’ argument, and the big church was defended vigorously and people said they didn’t want to feel like a lesser Christian for liking traditional worship services/sermon based church gatherings. Personally, I think if this is indeed the feeling that the emerging church movement is generating, then it needs to take a look at its tactics (now, I do realise that that response probably says as much about the speaker as it does about the actual movement, but the point is still important)…because let’s face it, if we are getting people to change their entire faith-community-church structure out of guilt and judgement, well we are no better than the Catholics! (oh gosh, did I just indulge in some religious stereotyping?!)

What I am trying to say, in a very inarticulate fashion, is that while challenging and revolutionising is all good and exciting, for some people (those who don’t like conflict, like, for instance…ME), it can be incredibly offputting to see people left behind or struggling and not getting any support. When I know that the way to motivate and inspire is to find the key to that person and get them excited about the connections and relations it has for them. Tricky and certainly not ‘one size fits all’, but ensuring that everyone has a chance to get on the ride and not necessarily abandon everything they love or are comfortable with (I am trying to be careful not to condone complacency here), has the potential to be truly truly awe inspiring. I want to write more about this, but midnight is looming and that commute in the morning doesn’t get any shorter. I have the skeletons of my thought process here at least, now it can be ripped to shreds. Oh gosh, mixing metaphors…it’s time to go…

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Musings on music

March 3, 2007 at 12:40 am (Music)

I’ve had something of a UK music fix over the past couple of weeks.

First up in the last week of January, Lucas and I went to see Muse at Festy Hall in Melbourne. Every time I go to that venue, I appreciate its size. It’s mid size, but on the floor you really are never too far away, even if you’re cowering at the back of the crush, like all self-respecting elderly concert-goers do. (Even if they do bring their Doc Martens out of retirement for such occasions). The stage is on the long side of the rectangle too, which seems a bit wrong, especially for the people in the wings who would have a fairly extreme angle to view the band, but all up, it’s a cool venue. I like to think about the thousands of stomping feet the to which the floor has reverberated before encores. Ah if only the walls could speak!

Muse seemed to attract a bit of an older muso crowd (no rhyming pun intended there). I wondered a bit if Muse are the new Floyd, or maybe Queen? Or do they have to be a new something? I was curious to see if they could replicate their huge album sound live, but just looking at the stage setup gave me thrills. The plain, unstained piano, the huge screens, behind giant plastic tubes and the massive light setup (along with these oversize balls lurking behind the crowd in the wings) all indicated this was going to be large. And indeed it was. The sound was simply AMAZING. For Muse anyway…for Ground Components, who were supporting, the sound was painful. I couldn’t figure out if it was because they weren’t any good, or if it was because their mix was so treble-y that it felt like my ears were bleeding.

Muse opened with the opening track from Black Holes and Revelations (I love it when bands do that, you get the same sense of anticipation from when you put the disc on the first time) and the crowd just went into a trance. It’s incredible to think that three people make that symphonic noise. Matt in particular has a hard working guitar tech, rushing over and changing guitars and retuning and moving things. Don’t envy his job. Highlight for me had to be Time is Running Out and Plug It Baby (the first Muse tune I got into, which I have to confess to Napstering back in the halcyon days of such things…I have since bought the disc though!). Matt left his guitar moaning against the speakers after the first break, and the stomping feet and lack of house lights made it pretty clear an encore was forthcoming. They teased us with some piano balladry, before finally finishing with a monstrous version of Knights of Cydonia. The giant balls descended on the crowd (and were burst pretty quickly, showering confetti everywhere), and huge neon signs spelled out the falsetto refrain…’You will never take me alive…’ etc etc. Basically, you couldn’t top that, the crowd were exhausted and slack from the intensity.

Snow Patrol’s show was a contrast in a few ways. For their show I decided I hated Festy Hall, for its heat, for its age and its uncomfortable seats. We took the seating option (well, ok, it was the only option left when we decided to get tickets) and felt like parents to the insanely young Greys Anatomy crowd. Compared to the serious Muse crowd, this group of fashion victims and concert virgins were total lightweights…I mean, who wears stilettos, or even wedges to a gig? Anyway, we were there for the band, right?! Kim, Briedy and I were sitting to the left of the building and towards the back, but like I said, Festy Hall is small enough for these not to be unreasonable seats.

Again, the sound for the support bands (Red Riders, Howling Bells) was noticeably poor, which just made Snow Patrol sound amazing when they came on. They also just looked bigger than the support bands, when they strode on, all in black, strapping Irish (are they Irish? the accent was devilishly beguiling, to be sure 😉 ) lads, with booming deep voices. I know comparatively few Snow Patrol songs, so this probably contributed to me being less engaged in this show than the Muse one, but it was a good, competent show. Chasing Cars is a gorgeous song, and I love Hands Open and they both sounded fantastic live. The singer is right into between song banter, which I am a fan of (otherwise, just get the live DVD and be done with it!) and the general stage set up was really effective. The ceiling was dripping with condensation though, and the occasional asthmatic wheeze from the vents only served to make us feel hotter in between gusts.

Add these two bands to seeing Placebo (same venue!!!) in September, and I think that gives me the UK trifecta. I think for that I win a warm beer and a Union Jack dress.

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The second post

February 6, 2007 at 10:59 pm (Uncategorized)

It’s fitting that I am inspired to start my second post, sitting in front of the television, screening the lavish BBC version of Brideshead Revisited. Bad puns for my blog title aside, it really is my favourite book, and the series looks good…all dark glances (Jeremy Irons is good at them) and overcast skies. Plus of course the gorgeous Howard Castle in Yorkshire as the eponymous house.

Ah the glorious melancholy of it all, an unrequited love story (in so many directions!), leavened with the driest humour.

Funny day today. Work was the usual blinding rush, so I took the opportunity to go to an offsite meeting (mildly legitimate) in the afternoon and never return. I was somewhat foiled in my early absconding by the traffic, which was really frustratingly slow. I watched a couple of motorcyclists weave in and out and take off through the gridlock and actually winced as one of them seemed to get the speed wobbles for a moment. Didn’t think any more of it, more absorbed in my own exacting science of lane selection for optimum travel. Just when the traffic seemed to start flowing again, at around Cranbourne, it again ground to a halt. It was out the front of an agistment centre, and I saw people in riding clothes running onto the road. I thought, with a start, that maybe a horse was loose or had been hit, particularly when a truck pulled out from the queue of traffic and blocked the road. It just reminded me of those screens they put up at the racetrack. People were pulling up onto the verge, some were getting out and running forward. I considered my skills…I had no halter in the boot (what sort of a horsewoman am I?!) and no medical/veterinary skills, plus a great squeamishness. So after waiting a little while, and catching a disturbing glance of something on the ground behind the truck, I decided to make a u-turn and try another way home. The ambulance flew towards and past me as I fled the scene.

Of course, on the news, it was a motorcyclist killed, one of a pair travelling south. He rear-ended a ute, waiting behind someone turning right. (allegedly)

I don’t want this to turn into a diary, but I’m just getting my typing fingers back. Plus I’m very distracted by the sheer Englishness of Lord Marchmain, Julia and Charles. Certainly not going to start this with a meditation on the fickleness of life or the meaning of it all…I have possibly been pretentious enough already.

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One-month-into-NY-resolutions

February 1, 2007 at 10:51 pm (introduction, new years)

It is somewhat indicative that today is the 1st of Feb and I am only just getting a new year’s resolution off the ground. No matter that it is last year’s resolution either. Details, details!

So, finally I have succumbed to the heights (can you indeed even do that?!) of navel gazing (no, you definitely can count that as a mixed metaphor), something that has always threatened, given my haphazard journal keeping.

Next to my bed sit my tattered hand written diaries. Will they become the sealed section of my internal monologue, I wonder? Because, after all, I am anticipating (perhaps wishfully) that someone may in fact read this.

But for the minute I am off to play with the features of this thing, and pat myself relentlessly on the back for even getting this far into the process.

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