On the train from the airport to the city, there seemed to be a lot of young children in formal school uniforms, for a Sunday.  Whole families were decked out: children in blazers, hats and ties, adults in what we would wear to a wedding up here on the Queensland Coast.  I guess you would call it semi-formal.  With lots of black.  More black than you ever see in my town.  I thought it a little unusual, but then I’m from UpNorth, and you never know what those crazy Southerners will get up to.

We all got off at the same station, landing us in the middle of the city.  The mood was solemn, but then, it was the city, and we don’t really expect country kindness this far south of our border.  We stepped out of the station, and into a horde of people.  At first I thought it was the crush of the usual Sunday crowd, and bewildered with the motion that swept us along, it took me a moment to realise we had waded into some kind of rally.

The assembled were orderly, and the pace as slow as a funeral march.  Almost as I formed that thought, I heard someone ringing a bell.  Not a festive tinkling.  A knell.  Followed by some kind of chanting.  And it was then that I realised we were in some kind of cortege.  Which explained all the formal black.

Hurriedly we jumped out of the procession, concerned that we were intruding on someone’s grief.

That was when we saw two girls with placards.  Standing silently as the men and women, teenagers and tiny, tiny children streamed by.

The chanting wasn’t for a dead person.  It was for un-persons.  And they weren’t dead.  Not unless you can count a collection of cells that was never born: living, and then when they are no longer supported by a host: dead.

For this requiem was by Bishop Julian Porteous, lamenting, then lamenting and lamenting some more, in this, the March of the Unborn Child.

I was taken aback at how moved I was by this display, but perhaps not in the way that Porteous and his flock intended.  I could feel tears pricking at the backs of my eyeballs, but not in sympathy for the so called unborn “children”, but in mourning for all of the women who have died in Australia due to abortions performed inexpertly and in an unsafe manner.  In regret, for all of the “unwed mothers” in the 1960s and 70s who felt they had no option but to give birth to unwanted children and then adopt them out.  In sadness, that we live in a country where a woman’s body is deemed by some, to be the concern of a third party.  In fear, that a Woman’s right to choose when and if she wants to have a baby, could be taken away.

Should some interloper deem it their business, to decide what a woman can do with her very own body.

I sank to the curb, the strength that I usually possess evaporating from my legs, and watched with the disgusting fascination that some people have for car accidents, as the parade of the self absorbed and the righteous trudged by.  They had their eyes forward, fixed on some point in the distance, like zombies approaching a feed.  At least the adults did.  The children, children from parents who wanted them, tried to lark and play but they had their hands gripped, and restrained to somber, as they approached the cathedral.  For this was not a day of exuberance, or of joy, or of freedom.  This was a day of repression and stifling and silent suffering.

From my curb-side position I watched those gorgeous two with their little signs: NEVER AGAIN and MY BODY, MY CHOICE adorned with pictures of coat-hangers, and I admired their energy and enthusiasm and their virile youth.  I adored them for choosing to be here, in this place of frowning, filling the space with light and love and acceptance.  I admired their cheeky freedom.  My heart smiled and sighed with their bounding potential.

Lightened my heavy heart

And as a woman who is on the other side of the fertility spectrum, I sent them sparkling golden wishes that they would always be so full of life and promise, and that they would always, always have the right to choose.

….From The Ashers xxx

I’ve had a week of watching and listening to people do their “things”.  You know, that thing that they love love love to do, so much that they will do it without pay, or at least without much pay.  The thing that makes them wake up early in the morning or stay up late at night.

Funnily enough, the “things” that many of them were doing were stuff I hate: exercising, inspiring others to exercise, cooking, dancing, public speaking, completing tax returns*.  So even though I think they are idiots, because those things are clearly annoying, and should be put off at all costs, I’ve been getting a kick out of listening to what they like about their “thing”.  Seeing what happens to their faces when they tell me about their thing.

If you read my blog from yesterday, you’ll know that I had less sleep than usual last night, and I can feel that my shoulders have crept up a little bit, as I plan and wait and limp through this next week or so, with an impending sense or doom, until Coco gets her transfusion.  Today is my day off, my Maintenance Monday (stealing your term here BabyMac), where I get some dinners cooked for the week, maybe do some lunch-box baking, clean the house, make those phone-calls, pay some bills.  All the things it’s just easier to do flying solo.

Today by 11am I had sat in on school assembly, been to the shops, done two loads of washing, put away the dishes, got dinner prepped, and vacuumed upstairs, when I realised: none of this crap is my thing.  Not a one.  (Unless you count crossing things off lists, because that is definitely my thing.)

Sorry Maintenance Monday, but you suck.

Instead, I am going to do my thing for a while.  Which of course is: move out to here:

My “office”. Catches the breeze, it does.

Drink one of these:

A little pod of goodness, right there

And write this.

Because, this is my thing.  And I love it.  Thanks for coming on over, and reading along on my thing.

What’s your thing?  When did you last do it?

*I shit you not.  My accountant actually likes doing that.. And I know another weird accountant who reads this blog (and shall remain nameless at present until she reveals herself in the comments section below), who does it on the weekends.  Shocking ‘eh?

…From The Ashers xx

Dinner One

When Hayley was scared and about to start the serious chemotherapy, but was acting tough, I went down to Newcastle for a visit.  It was winter, and as Nath would say, “As cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss.”  But Nathan wasn’t with us.  He was back with the kids in the humid faux-winter that is Noosa.  John was working his skinny-whippet arse to the bone in the calm of before, so it was just us.

We mostly stayed inside; by then Hayls was bald and probably feeling the cold more than she would ever let on, and at home we had heat packs that Kay had sewn, either for Hayley, or for Ricki before her.  At home we had thick socks, and cups of tea, and heaters, and the oven.  Always the oven.  We were cooking a slow roasted bit of cow, and when I say we, I mean Hayls, because we all know I don’t give a shit about cooking, and I definitely wouldn’t dare offer to cook a meal for my mate, cancer or not.  Every time she told me to go and check on dinner, or DO things, I quietly shat myself, but I did it anyway because I can be tough when I need to, and I know she hated having to tell me in detail what she wanted done.  Decribing how she wanted the sourdough soaked and squished into dumplings, telling me the amounts of wine and herbs and things to add to the meat, watching from her spot on the couch as I cut up the veggies.  She would have given most anything to be the one doing the work.

Whilst we waited for dinner to cook, we talked about things, old and new.  We laughed at all we had done together so far, and of things yet to hatch.  Swimming through pregnancies, eating at organic cafes, jump dancing, drinking beer, family holidays in tents with leaches and open fires, and others with sticky tropical beaches.  We looked at PET scans on the computer and decided that the white hot cancer was definitely receding, definitely.

Olive and I danced together in the lounge room.  We spun around and jumped to test my pelvic floor to Michael Franti.  “Aunty Ricki loved Michael Franti” we were told, and I wondered if we should turn him off lest he was a bad omen.  And then to Rhys Muldoon and the Poo Song.  We danced and whirled, not because I wanted to- I don’t even like dancing- but because Hayley was puffy and achy-sore, and our dancing made her eyes shine.  I can be tough when I need to.

Eventually we sat down to dinner and the meat fell from the bone and the sauce was like nothing I’ve ever tasted and the dumplings were perfect, and I knew this was a good meal.  A meal of friendship and fear and hope and love.  We drank our cherry beers and I wondered if I would ever have a meal as good as this.  Because it was the meal of before.

Dinner Two

When Hayley had been gone six longshort months we were invited to a dinner in Sydney with a man she had worked for back in those days of endless adrenalin and boundless fun in London, back in the days before the grey shadow of cancer attached itself to her soles.

We were all in the dining room, waiting for Jamie Oliver to arrive, and the energy in the room was strange and it was nervous.  For some of us, the last time we had set eyes on each other was at Hayley’s funeral, and for all of us, the last time we were together was that long long day.  We were a gang, a group of people tied at the hearts by the light of our friend, united in our sadness and with each of us stuck in our memories of the one who would have put us all at ease with a twinkling tease.  What are a group of mourners called?  A sorrow?  We were trying to be bright and smart and funny, but we were, in the end, a sorrow.

He stepped into the room, this man who had made this night happen, but was somehow an outsider, he had a sadness, but he was not in our sorrow.  At least not yet.  I wanted to like him, and I thought I would, but he was an interloper in this party of his own design.

He stepped into the room, this man who had barely met any of us, and walked over to Little Olive.  He bent down to her level, and gently introduced himself, and befriended her with his eyes and his lisp, and in that moment I loved him in a way that made my heart almost rupture, because I knew that this man, on this night, had made a memory for Olive that she would carry with her forever.  A night when so many of the people who loved her Mum hard, and her Mum loved right back, were gathered together, in laughter and fun, the tears buried deep this time.

Eventually we sat down for our meal and it was delicious and plentiful and cooked to perfection.  We sipped our flowing beer and although I knew that this was supposed to be a good meal, a meal of friendships and love and commemoration, every single part that I liked just reminded me of something I didn’t.  Every delicious bite reminded me of a bite that Hayls wouldn’t have.  Every laugh was one not shared with her.  Every bit of light, reminded me of the shadow.

I know this was supposed to be a good meal, but it wasn’t, not really, because it was the meal of after.

A little thing to make it all worthwhile…Bless you J.O.

…From The Ashers xxx

Something bittersweet is happening this weekend.

Sweet:

We are catching up with John and Olive as well as all of Hayley’s nearest and dearest.

We are having dinner with a famous chef at a renowned restaurant.

We are having two nights without children.

We are staying at a fancy hotel, in Sydney.

We will frock up a little for the occasion, and feel special.

We will laugh, cry and then hopefully laugh some more.  Hopefully a lot more.

We will strengthen the ties of friendship that our gorgeous, glowing Hayley looped around us.  We will tell stories about her.  How she made us laugh, filled us up, listened to us, teased us, taught us.

Bitter:

We will wonder and regret why we didn’t do this when she was alive to lead the laughter.

We will cry that it’s not fair, that it was too soon, that the space she left behind is sometimes too big to negotiate ourselves around.  That some days, most days, we want to forget this ever happened.

We will realise with a shock that it has already been six months, to the day, that she died, and still it feels like yesterday and forever since we saw that big goofy grin.

We will feel all of the feels, and will be fearful that they may overcome us.

We won’t understand. Still.

Bittersweet:

We won’t want it to, but eventually the weekend will come to an end, and we will step off the plane, blinking in the sunlight, gulping in the sugary-thick air of our hometown, and be grateful that we had a chance to share our lives with Hayls.  That we got to be part of her gang, and that we were able to see our best selves reflected back through her eyes.

I really will try to remind myself to be grateful for what was, but fucking hell, I’m still completely ungrateful for what wasn’t.

Miss Ya Hayls.  As the song says…

….From The Ashers xx

I have lived up here in the sun for close on thirteen years now, but I still think of myself as a Southerner.  Footy is still Aussie Rules.  Carlton Draught is still the best tap beer of the modern age.  Black is still the best colour for all of your clothes.  You should still keep your shoes on when you go to someone’s house (lest your outfit be ruined by not having the right footwear).  Sundried tomatoes should only be made on someone’s Nonna’s tin roof.  The best place to go for a run is still a lap around the Tan.

Some days I have to pinch myself when I realise that I really do live here.  Until the end, if I like.  And I pinch the hardest when I go to Hastings Street (which is every week, so that’s quite a few pinches).

Perhaps I’m feeling particularly nostalgic, because I’m going to Sydney this weekend, and although I still think of myself as a Southerner, I know I don’t look like one anymore.  I own more fluro than any self-respecting 43 year old should, and I have blonde streaks and a tan.  (Please don’t say the word ‘Mutton’ within earshot- I’m quite sensitive you know.)  So when I venture south of Byron, I start feeling a bit out of water.

So with the trip looming, Hastings Street was beckoned with her pretty fairy-lit trees, and wide footpaths: a local shopping jaunt to Sydneyfy this spiky little pineapple.

These are the things that were amazing about my shopping experience:

• I got a “Member’s Park” directly out the front of the shop that was my first stop.  I came over all George Costanza, and almost took a photo of it.
• My first shop Parallel Culture was the best.  They have recently changed their name from Youth Culture, and although the clothing hasn’t really changed, the attitude of the staff has.  The twentysomething who served me was perfect.  She listened to what I said, chose pieces, and helped me get the whole outfit together, even suggesting another shop for the ‘right’ shoes.  What a happy, pretty, little thing.  And when I asked “Does my bum look big in this?”  She gave me a careful and considered answer, not just the usual “Oh no, you’re tiny, BS” that is so often on offer.  Let’s face it, if we’re asking, we want to be heard and scrutinised.  A platitude won’t cut it.  This lovely spoke to me like one of my true friends would (even though she did say yes to a jumpsuit and boyfriend jeans.  Sorry Nic- I defied your advice).  So I got this… It looks better on than off, I promise. (I’m cringing slightly- remember I’m old…)

What’s in the bag?

A Jumpsuit..
What am I? Four?

• My second stop was Kookai, and again, the PYTs listened well, and got me trying on things befitting my age and stature. They wanted me to get a skin-tight number that apparently looked “hot” and that Layne Beachley bought last week.  Problem is, Layne and I are probably a bit of a different body type, and, I felt like I was wearing a wetsuit.  So yeah, I was hot. A hot seal.  Or whale.  Despite that, I loved the way they attended to me, and I appreciated their efforts.
• My last stop was Witchery, the old faithful, old ladies’ fall-back.  The store in Hastings Street really is well done.  It’s tiny, and of course doesn’t have all of the stock you can get in Briso, but it goes all right.  And again, the staff were just great.  They knew their stock and they could tell your size just by looking.  I like that, because as good as my Olympic-standard park was, it was only a two hour-ey.

The Witchery shopping haul

Let’s just take a minute to review these shoes shall we?

So now I’m game ready.  Look out Sydney.  The adult Ashers are on their way, and they’re bringing their A-Game.

What do you love about Hastings Street (or Hazos as like to call it)?

Any Sydney hints for me?

…. From The Ashers xx

***This is not a sponsored post (worse luck) but of course, I’m always up for it if you want to send me free stuff.. I’m looking at you Witchery and Parallel Culture…***

PS I just found out I was helped in Witchery by Bev from Iris May Style.. Small world!