Most Women Are Like That – Furious!

Last Sunday two things I wanted to do overlapped. The Forum 6 cinema complex was screening the Met Opera’s production of Cosi Fan Tutte and local entrepreneur and activist Vicki Burkinshaw was launching the exhibition Furious? at her gallery The Curious Curation. Furious?  is described ‘as bringing together contemporary and historical artworks exploring the injustices, contradictions and anxieties shaping our world and our communities’.

I managed to get to both, just! As the Met Opera screening went for 4 hours, I only got a cursory look at the works at Vickie’s Art on Docker Gallery.  Guide sheets had run out so identifying artists and themes was left to me. Family and domestic violence, war, sexual assault, the climate crisis, consumerism and corruption were referenced in works, according to the event description, designed to ‘provoke anger, despair, disbelief’ and perhaps fuel ‘the determination to make things change’.

Artists included Arthur Wicks, Michael Azarian, Scott Howie, Aria Amore, Joel Markham, Karen Walsh, Mary Coughlan, Matilda Hillam and Raeleen Pfeiffer. I recognised Wicks’ bold designs, Markham’s striking photography and Coughlan’s ironic harnessing of embroidery techniques. I’ll need to go again to really appreciate the range of work on display. So this blog post isn’t a review, either of Cosi or of the exhibition, but my thoughts on their juxtaposition in one afternoon.

Cosi Fan Tutte is, to put it mildly, problematic! The title translates as ‘All Women Are Like That’ and the plot involves two soldiers, Ferrando and Guglielmo, being goaded by an older male friend, Don Alfonso, into betting on their fiancées’ fidelity and likely proving women’s universal inconstancy.  The women in question are sisters, Fiordiligi and Dorabella, desolate when their intended husbands stage a phony departure to war and then given a quick lesson in the harsh realities of the game of love courtesy of Despina their worldly maid and their duplicitous fiancés disguised as new suitors.

There are countless articles online about whether this blatantly sexist premise can survive 21stC interpretation and, without an in-depth analysis of the extremely clever and stylish Met Opera production I saw, I can attest that it can. One reason is the wide ranging moods Mozart’s music conjures. We experience everything from devoted first love, cynicism, societal convention around male gallantry/bastardry and matrimony, pragmatism, genuine emotional lability/confusion and how context, not to say blatant manipulation, can sway any of us.

I saw threat to the environment depicted in some of the works in Furious? but overwhelmingly the theme was the vulnerability of women under patriarchy. Several works dealt with sexual assault and the prevalence of femicide and given that Wagga has recently seen the death at the hands of her intimate partner (allegedly) of 23 year old Danielle Madgwick, violence toward women is at the forefront of the consciousness of many of us.

Art can comment on, commemorate, warn of and protest violence towards women in myriad ways and a closer exploration of Furious? will no doubt demonstrate that. In the mean time I am pondering the complicity of dead white male art in the current resurgence of misogyny via the ‘manosphere’. I take comfort that pathetic bullying thugs/influencers such as the Tate brothers are unlikely to track their contempt for women back to Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte or Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew but how do rap lyrics and contemporary pornography feed into the creation of toxic masculinity and how do we dissect culture to identify what is nuanced and complex and what is hateful and prescriptive? 

I am no fan of cancel culture and believe we can enjoy Jake Blues’ anarchic rampage in The Blues Brothers while applauding Carrie Fisher’s unrelenting pursuit of vengeance.   These contradictions are what give art its frisson and power.

Art is not documentary. It plays with and explores paradox, ironies, injustices… Cosi Fan Tutte appears to end with the time honoured trope of lovers reconciled and wed, but the celebrant is a play acting ladies’ maid and only moments before the couples were differently aligned.  Randomness, resignation to the path of least resistance and reversion to societal expectations are all invoked. We’re invited to celebrate a pretty dodgy conclusion to the plot but luckily we’re sufficiently sympathetic to the flawed, opportunistic, gullible and passionate protagonists to accept this resolution.

In the real world, the global rate of intentional female killings is 6.5 per 100,000 women (source: https://worldmetrics.org/femicide-statistics/). In 2024 around 50,000 women and girls were killed by someone in their own family, an average of 137 women and girls every day (source: UN Women Global Database 2024)

So far in  2026 Australia’s statistics for  women and children killed  as a result of domestic and family violence is 39 women and  19 children (source: https://australianfemicidewatch.org/). There is cause for fury!

Last Sunday afternoon I was exposed to sexual politics infuriatingly and playfully in Cosi and starkly and viscerally in Furious? The Curious Curation urges us to leave the exhibition questioning. Good advice for confronting most of life.

Matilda Hillam's work in Furious?

 

Spooky, Mulder

Visiting The Rocks in Sydney last month I chose Café Danieli in Harrington Street for brunch based on online reviews like ‘high quality food and friendly service’ and ‘inexpensive in comparison to places located in the main street’. Described as being in the ‘Clock Tower Centre’, I imagined the café had a heritage location. In fact it is in a 1989 office/retail complex with no particular architectural merit. In 2023 Singapore-based developer Far East Orchard proposed demolishing it for a hotel but it has survived so far. The café has outdoor seating but the main part is in an arcade. When I arrived at the counter the proprietor was talking to a young couple about landlines and black and white television.  From their incredulous reaction, he could have been discussing dinosaurs and hot air ballooning. He appealed to me to verify that these things had in fact existed in living memory. Possibly still unconvinced they left soon afterwards. Coincidence rather than causation I think. 

I took a seat at the one of the outdoor tables and soon a couple nearer my and the proprietor’s age arrived with their wheelie suitcases. We exchanged pleasantries, then, a few moments into the conversation, the man asked me how things were in Wagga Wagga. Knowing I’d been quite chatty I asked him if I’d mentioned that was here I lived. He said ‘no, I saw you at the Civic Centre a couple of years ago when we were visiting’. There was no time to establish the context as the couple took an inside table and our conversation ended. I wish I’d enquired further. What the occasion was. What his connection with Wagga was. Doing so seemed obsessive and a bit of an intrusion and as my friend had arrived by then my focus changed. Our meals were nice – the online reviews I read were correct.

The Clocktower Centre, Harrington Street, The Rocks, Sydney, New South Wales. Cafe Danieli is on the ground floor, seating visible (Source: The Daily Telegraph).

The phenomenon of coincidences and unexpected connections has been playing on my mind. Many years ago a friend lent me Colin Wilson’s The Outsider; all I remember of it is his remarks on coincidence. He saw no hidden significance in them but found following their trail rewarding. I suppose it’s the same impulse that sends us down ‘rabbit holes’ online. It has been my habit to pursue coincidence, to make links, to uncover stories (the research strand) or to craft connections (the creative strand). Three examples that relate to connections with Wagga:

No. 1 – I met a woman in Sydney with the same first name as me who was born in Wagga Wagga but moved away in her teens. One of the jobs I held after moving here was located in Harvey House, the same building her mother had lived in as a nurse in the 1940s!

No. 2 –  Researching my husband’s family I discovered that his great great grandfather, John Semple  who emigrated from England to Australia in 1849 and  lived in Melbourne with his wife and had 6 children,  after his timber importation business went bankrupt in 1859, came to Wagga. He worked as a gang leader for a team of timber cutters for the telegraph line. He had a horrible accident in Tarcutta on or around November 23, 1860 when a tree fell unexpectedly and crushed his spine.  He was taken by cart to the Hope Inn (now the Riverina Hotel) in Fitzmaurice Street where he languished for ten days before dying and becoming the a very early Anglican burial in the local monumental cemetery. When in 2017 we had our reconnoiter visit to Wagga to decide whether we wanted to move here,  we had dinner at the Riverina Hotel, in the dining area in the older portion of the building where John Semple stayed/died.

The Bridge Hotel formerly Thomas Turvey's Hope Inn now the Riverina Hotel,
Fitzmaurice Street, Wagga Wagga

No. 3 Researching my first cousin twice removed Armandine Garnay I found out that she and her husband and daughter moved from Rockdale to Wagga Wagga in 1924. Her husband Laurie was head accountant at the Union Bank here. She was Treasurer of the Shakespeare Club, the oldest continually operating Shakespeare club in the world. They moved to nearby Henty in 1927.  I have toured the Union Bank building, one of Wagga’s most elegant structures, visited their Henty residence and am now a member of the Shakespeare Club. If that wasn’t all enough coincidence, our son lived in the same Rockdale street as Armie and her family for a brief period.

Perhaps the six degrees of separation thing means that these are not so extraordinary. However there is a sort of spooky thrill you get when they occur. Related, or perhaps obverse, are the unexplained and weird things you see. I am sure I have experienced multiple instances but just now all I can recount is the time the train I was travelling in stopped and I saw a young couple exercising a kitten on an untended garden bed on Sydenham railway station platform. I mentioned it to a friend who dubbed it a ‘raelian moment’ but I just googled ‘raelian’ and it relates to encounters that suggest contact with an extra-terrestrial highly feminized race called the Elohim. Unless Bohemian inner westies and the Elohim are interchangeable that seems unlikely.

Three sharp looking Elvis impersonators ready to board the Blue Suede Express to Parkes, New South Wales (Photo: Belinda Pittard)

The most recent coincidences I had planned to pursue relate to a writing workshop I missed at the weekend where the exercise was to describe the qualities one would seek in a lion tamer and an Elvis impersonator. My sister was related by marriage to a Czech Elvis impersonator (not that surprising given their proliferation) and I thought I wrote a poem about a lion tamer in 2025 but it turns out it was about  a performing bear attacking its keeper, or maybe an Elohim circus act. 

Anyway, by way of non sequitir, here it is:

Poem after Andrew Sibley’s Stage Fright (1984) 

The book you bought me to cut up for my art

falls open at the page with the ‘dancing’ bears

muzzled and tethered

held upright by two staff-wielding

Turkish street entertainers

abducted as cubs

they were taught to ‘dance’ on hot metal or coals while music played

learning to associate music with pain,

lifting their paws in rhythm

as their keepers drummed and piped

 

In China, Myanmar and Korea

they still cage bears and drain their bile for specious medicine

Ursodeoxycholic acid has some anti-inflammatory qualities

says Wikipedia

How did anyone discover that?

 

In Andrew Sibley’s circus ring

the bear act departs from form

Clara, in her shiny emerald leotard proffers a single rose

red as her lipsticked mouth to Bruin

He rests his paw upon her hand as if to accept the token

but then rejects this human courtship

and casually sinks two razor rows of teeth

into Clara’s face

dislodging an eyeball

her peers will

doubtless rush in

shots will pierce Bruin’s shaggy hide

his gore will pool with hers on drenched sawdust

but he has made his point

it is over between them!

Andrew Sibley's Stage Fright, 1984, oil & enamel on linen

Giving a damn

World Environment Day last week made me reflect on my green credentials. We should all be minimizing our carbon footprint - that’s a given. But somehow COVID and the house renovations gave me an excuse to become cavalier. We are guilty of buying over packaged meat and veg from the supermarket. We recycle what we can, but cling film and those moisture absorbing thingies end up in land fill. Teabags can no longer go in the green waste as they apparently contain micro plastics so into the red bin (landfill) they go too. I save lids from juice and milk but I don’t know where to send them now. I’ve previously given them to the Council for craft activities and to the Lids For Kids charity which seems to have folded. Sometimes I take an extra bag on dog walks and pick up the rubbish I find. Mostly I forget. Is green fatigue a thing, like compassion fatigue? Both seem to be a reaction to the enormity of the issues the planet faces.

Recently a smooth/fast talking Pommy guy came to our door representing the Cancer Council of NSW. He ingratiated himself by admiring our dog and shaking hands (with us not the dog) before launching into more bonding gestures and patter.  He made much of the fact that he has the same name, Reuben, as one of our cats. We got chatting about the fact that he was born in Bristol, where my sister was also born, actually  in the Forest of Dean where the TV series Pennies from Heaven is partially set. Inevitably we talked about people I’d lost to cancer – my mother and my dear friend Mon. Before I knew it he was taking my details and signing me up for what I believed was a one off $50 donation. It quickly became apparent that it was in fact a monthly donation which we can ill afford. He suggested that, if after three months, I found (now what was the phrase he used?) I had a change of heart, or my heart was no longer in it, I could revoke the commitment. I know he used the word ‘heart’ about five times…

After he’d gone, I got a confirmation call from the Cancer Council. I was able to instantly cancel my pledge. The caller asked for feedback.  I was too flustered and upset to go into detail. I just stated that we were not in a position to make monthly donations and I had felt manipulated by the encounter. She cancelled the arrangement immediately and suggested I visit their website if I still wanted to donate. Now while I had previously been persuaded that contributing to the cost of cancer care was something that mattered to me, I now felt resistant. In the next 24 hours I gave $50 to WIRES and pledged $25 to the vet costs for a stray cat.

WIRES protect native animals. Cats are introduced predators whose population is growing because people either don’t care to or can’t afford to get their pets desexed. What strikes me is that (a) I’ve chosen to support services to animals over those for humans and (b) that I’m funding both ‘deserving’ and ‘undeserving’ species.  Where is the consistency? What are my priorities?

Reuben from the Forest of Dean triggered some reactive behaviour and existential questioning…  His door knock came amidst the general deluge of demands I, and I’m sure most people, get on social media, via email and regular mail. In the past fortnight these have included  Labor against One Nation, Amnesty International, Avaaz, Assange,  Change.org, The Guardian, The Conversation and  Ovarian Cancer research, to say nothing of the plethora of direct Go Fund Me and sponsorship approaches I’ve had.  It is dizzying and however worthy each cause is I can’t support them all. So Wires and cat rescue won out, oh, and the Salvation Army when a neighbour came to our door collecting for them yesterday.

Reading about the psychology of donating*, mainly in articles used to train people like Reuben from the Cancer Council, a few factors stand out:

·     Appeal to  potential  donor’s  values base and sense of empathy – the ‘heart’ stuff
·     Reduce the scale of the issue by using specific individual examples of who will be helped
·     Set goals /targets e.g. we aim to raise $70K by end July
·      Reward the donor, foster the ‘warm glow’ of giving by telling them what their $s will achieve
·       Leverage their sense of wanting to be as generous as their peer group – what do you think is an average commitment across this neighbourhood?

These are basically sales ploys. Significantly WIRES doesn’t really use them – they tempted me with a ‘we’ll double your donation’ campaign. The animal shelter excels at individuation, using photographs and bios for the adoption candidates. It’s shamelessly anthropomorphic and only works because I am soppy about animals, and, as the above apparent contradiction suggests, that emotional connection with animals transcends their context. That doesn’t mean I don’t support reduction of feral animal populations. I do. 

Donating blood/plasma is a whole other topic area that I won’t expand on here… It uses some of the above techniques to sustain commitment but has no cost apart from an investment of time which for me is amply rewarded by being able to read uninterrupted and getting a Byron Bay cookie at the end of the donation. It is a low effort way of doing something beneficial and, unlike supporting Palestinian and First Nations causes, which from time to time I do, isn’t likely to get me into heated debate with ‘cookers’ on Facebook.

So marsupials, moggies and the Salvos’ clients are the recipients of my meagre donations this week. My motivation may be muddy but does anyone’s bear scrutiny? Should it have to?

 *Sources:

https://neurolaunch.com/psychology-of-giving/

https://nonprofitpoint.com/donor-psychology-motivations-charitable-giving/

Avoiding Hard Banjo Tunes

We saw Tim Maddren perform The Man From Snowy River at the Wagga Civic Theatre’s season launch late last year. The vigour and conviction of his interpretation, his magnetism and rich tenor voice totally engaged us. He could not have been a better advertisement for Banjo. His performance at the launch and a strong recommendation from a thespian friend clinched it and we booked. We saw the show this week. Their flyer describes Banjo as ‘a sweeping theatrical journey through ambition, legacy, mateship and identity (that) explores the tension between the bush and city, romance and reality…’

Our thespian friend did warn us that the dance segments could have been trimmed and a goodly proportion of the world’s popular music audience deems Coldplay whose music was interwoven with Paterson’s writings in this Got Ya Back production ‘inoffensive or overly earnest’. Prior to this I only knew Viva la Vida which is catchy nonsense. Whether that describes their entire repertoire I couldn’t say, but blending it with Paterson’s 19thC romanticisation of the bush is what Humphries from Yes Minister would consider ‘brave’.

Dear reader, you are probably sensing by now that I was not enthralled with Banjo. While purporting to both celebrate and critique Paterson, this production settles for sit com renderings of Henry Lawson’s (and others’) accusations of hypocrisy and inauthenticity and completely sidesteps any examination of the context in which he wrote i.e. rampant colonialism, indifference to Indigenous culture and history, the comforts of a middle class profession and  Gladesville home . The most cursory look at AB Paterson’s biog proves his stint as a pastoralist was brief. For the bulk of his career he worked as a lawyer and writer. So to dwell for as long as this production does on his father’s ill fortune farming in Illalong and its impact on Paterson’s psyche is something of an indulgence. His father’s words:

I toiled and toiled while lived the light

And dreamed of overdrafts at night 

are quoted in the program and used twice in the 90 minute performance.

Banjo is a highly selective presentation of this revered poet’s life. Lead, Maddren and guitarist Mat Brooker never falter in their energy and enthusiasm. Musical styles are eclectic and pacey with what (questionably) seemed to be Indigenous rhythms invoked as well as Oklahoma-style barn dance tunes, folk music and of course Coldplay tunes all in the mix. Foot stomping is employed to a degree that made me fret for the potential impact on Tim and Mat’s podiatry and lumbar health. Bush balladeering is a male dominated genre but two works that gave dancer/choreographer Steph Maddren a chance to shine The Road to Gundagai and As Long As Your Eyes Are Blue were included.  Slight but droll describes the first, its geographical references went over very well with the Wagga audience; nauseatingly sentimental describes the second. Ensemble equity is the only explanation for these interludes. In fact the percentage of stage time given to uninspired dance sequences especially pas de deux between Steph and lean Bejae Ingate who seemed to be representing both the youthful Banjo and any fill-in character required was excessive. The choreography was clichéd, channeling the Graham/Graemes, Martha and Murphy, with the addition of cringeworthy hip hop ‘moves’ a la Raygun. It didn’t help that there was little chemistry/synergy between Steph and Bejae.

Tim Maddren and Mat Brooker - Got Ya Back promotional poster for Banjo 

If the rendition of The Man From Snowy River was the standout, and Clancy of the Overflow was delivered with genuine warmth and affection, the performance of Waltzing Matilda was disappointingly muddled and filled with mugging and ‘business’ that robbed it of its melancholy power.  

Enough, I fear I have already offended an audience that seemed to be lapping Banjo up with a misplaced nostalgia for a pastoral Australia based on confiscation of First Nations’ lands and an idealisation of the squatter’s tenacity and not altogether uncomplaining stoicism in the face of the hardships of making a living on the land. I don’t mean to trivialize the courage and endurance it took and still takes to run a property or to downplay Riverina residents’ love for this part of the world. However exploring the ironies and complexities that informed the work of Australia’s bush poets and those inherent in AB Paterson’s writing would have produced a far richer theatrical experience. 

Musicals To My Ears

In his show The Road I Took, which he is currently touring around Australia, Phillip Quast recalls his father playing songs from Rogers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma on the record player when he was a boy growing up in Tamworth in northern New South Wales. His father’s taste in musical theatre and the proximity to Australia’s premiere annual country music festival shaped his early taste in music. Since then, via an impressive television, film and theatre career, Quast’s taste has continued to grow. Throughout the years he’s turned his hand and vocal chords to Stephen Sondheim, Marsha Norman, Frank Loesser and The Wiggles among others - numbers by all of whom are featured in The Road I Took. And apart from his assumption that we would all know the lyrics to and willingly collude in a performance of Wiggly Woo, Quast provided a very pleasurable evening for this audience member.

Screen shot of poster for the Albury show 27 November 2025 (source: https://allevents.in/albury)

Musical theatre did not feature prominently in my English childhood and country music not at all.  As I’ve mentioned before, my parents had LPs of Sammy Davis Jr and Frank Sinatra. Dad would sometimes emulate the latter – the image of him crooning in the kitchen comes to mind. Mum also had the Rex Harrison - Julie Andrews recording of My Fair Lady with a wonderful cover design featuring GB Shaw and those two performers in a cascading string puppet design.  She would wistfully join in with The Street Where You Live often while ironing I recall. I don’t remember them having any other records.   Our main listening was the pirate radio station Radio Luxembourg, on a worn blue vinyl covered transistor radio that Dad would carry from workshop to house with him.

The LP with the clever cover that Mum had

My exposure to musical theatre was negligible as if ever a musical came on television our father would deride the male cast members as ‘dancing poons’ and point out that in real life people did not burst into song at the drop of a hat. A little more tolerant, Mum nevertheless favoured naturalism in her musicals so anything featuring Ethel Merman or Eddie Cantor would have been right out. Our grandmother took  us to see Mary Poppins which I enjoyed despite its major departure from the P L Travers books (see Saving Mr Banks). I was particularly moved by Feed the Birds not realising until much later on a visit to London that the romanticized pigeons roosting around St Paul’s were deemed public nuisances. A sign we saw instructing the public not to feed them had been modified thus:

Feeding the  birds/Tories discouraged despite Disney's urging

The first musical I fully embraced was Lerner and Loewe's Camelot, the Joshua Logan 1967 film version. I saw it with my mother and her delight was contagious. We were both genuinely swept away by the charisma of the leads: Richard Harris, Vanessa Redgrave and Franco Nero - all photographed most aesthetically in a movie that has been criticized for the anachronistic beauty if of its settings. I have seen it several times over the years and admit to excusing all its exaggerations and cosmetic flourishes. My companion at Quast’s show was talented Wagga actor, Diana Lovett who was joining him for a workshop on the following two days  and for which she had had to prepare two songs. We are of an age and she chuckled mischievously when telling me that one of the songs she’d selected was The Simple Joys of Maidenhood from Camelot. When I mentioned my affection for the film she poo-pooed it comparing it unfavorably to Broadway and West End productions she’d seen with Richard Harris but with other Guineveres and Lancelots. Divergent as our views were on Ms Redgrave’s casting we were united in our non-compliance with the Wiggly Woo gambit.

Movie poster for Camelot (1967) - full lush art nouveau revival style

My tastes differs too from those of my much missed dear friend Monica. Not knowing she couldn’t stand Sondheim I once included her in group booking to see Sweeney Todd.  Her good manners prevented her from declining. On the other side of the ledger I have her to thank for seeing Man of La Mancha and Les Mis because her twin nephews were in productions. That is genuine appreciation. I don’t know that I would have seen and enjoyed them otherwise.

I escaped from the childhood restrictions on my movie musical enjoyment when I moved in with my boyfriend and his actor friend in the 1970s. It was an era when Hollywood classics were screened into the small hours and we enjoyed countless black and white Busby Berkeley and Astaire and Rogers movies as well as less revered films like the 1952 vehicle for Virginia Mayo and Ronald Reagan She’s Working Her Way Through College  - a simple tale of a burlesque dancer who enrolls in tertiary study. The lyrics of the title song have entered the family canon:

She’s working her way through college

To get a lot of knowledge

That she’ll probably never ever use again…

Just a sample of the useful gender theories the film airs.

Films like this are undoubtedly the reason why some people abhor musicals

While I can’t say I’ve  become a die-hard devotee of the genre I’ve seen a few musicals  over the years and even feel that my father tolerated me watching The Pyjama Game while I was staying with him, but that might be a false memory spawned by wishful thinking. Initially sharing my mother’s preference for more naturalistic forms, (Cabaret was an early and enduring favourite) I now embrace most styles. I recently saw and was entranced by  The Umbrellas of Cherbourg - no wonder it is considered a landmark film. I do draw the line at Andrew Lloyd Webber and specifically will not forgive what he did to TS Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. I wasn’t overwhelmed with joy at Tim Minchin’s Matilda when I saw it on stage at Sydney’s Lyric Theatre but do like the movie version.  Locally And Juliet left me bored and annoyed but Mama Mia and Wicked I liked very much. As those who know me will attest, I am picky, picky, picky.

Cuddly bear era - Philip Quast in Play School (source: The Quast Quality blog https://gebo-tqq.blogspot.com/)

Anyway back to Phillip Quast. He is certainly versatile and I suppose I forgive him for peppering his show with nursery favourites as for many he is as identified with Play School as he is with stage musicals. His Javert of course was definitive and oh, that he’d been cast in the film, but then the casting of the movie version of Les Miserables is just that, miserable! Monica’s nephews’ version was infinitely preferable. See, picky, picky, picky…

 

To Sydney to see Betsy

My sister Belinda and I went to Sydney for three days recently. Her main, if not only, objective was to see her daughter who lives in supported accommodation in the Sutherland Shire. Mine was to keep her company, and to catch up with a bereaved friend and my son. Born with hydrocephalus, Belinda’s daughter, Betsy confounded predictions by surviving her first few hours and adjusting to the surgical insertion of a shunt in her head in the following months. In her early years she suffered meningitis and other illnesses that could have killed her but now, at 33 years of age, is doing really well. She has scoliosis, cannot walk and is paralysed on one side. She has limited verbal communication and frighteningly strong upper body strength on her good side. This she flaunts by steering her wheelchair with great vigour to wherever she wants to go and delighting in opening and then slamming shut doors. She also administers powerful pinches and scratches to mostly her mum but occasionally anyone else she interacts with. I have a bruised finger from her attentions as I write this. Belinda has lacerations and bruises up both her arms. Betsy loves music and Belinda brought her a new sound system so she could enjoy some of her favourite songs on USB sticks. Betsy is popular with staff at the house as she is cheerful and expressive rewarding their attention and care.

Belinda and Besty

We were booked into an Air B&B property in Marrickville, another poor choice of mine to add to a growing list. The description on the  website: ‘Stylish Studio + Sunny Patio in Great Location’ is largely true but fails to mention the two steep sets of tiled stairs we had to navigate with our luggage, Belinda’s Jack Russell Terrier and his bedding to reach it. After our 5.5 hour journey we arrived in sweltering heat and had to park illegally, half on the footpath, in the garbage strewn lane behind the building. A roller shuttered locked car port taunted us as we struggled to get through the small security door with our baggage.

So many steps were hard for two sixty something women with hip and knee issues to negotiate and several trips up and down were required before we could move the car and settle in. The apartment itself was clean and comfortable and the adjacent kitchen well supplied with appliances, crockery etc. The vaunted patio was a concrete box behind the building’s Victorian parapet and much too hot to brave until the weather cooled on our last day. However then a brisk breeze caused its unsecured rectangular carpeting to flail about disconcertingly.

The celebrated Marrickville banh mi shop

Marrickville has the advantage of being familiar (we lived in Petersham and then in adjoining Canterbury for over two decades) and offering abundant delicious food options. One highlight for us was feasting on banh mi from the suburb’s original pork roll kiosk where Albo was pictured queueing last election campaign. The value and quality are amazing and put Wagga’s recently opened business purporting to sell the same for almost double the price to shame.

Untested with road trips before, Ryk, Belinda’s dog, acquitted himself beautifully on the journey up and as a guest at the Air B&B. He was similarly calm and well behaved on our drive out to Gymea to see Betsy. Betsy grew up with dogs and delighted in offering them crusts and other morsels from her plate. She hadn’t met Ryk before and didn’t show much interest in him and her now solely liquefied diet precludes offering sneaky treats. Ryk was a hit with support worker Tabitha; she got him a dish of water and let us out into the grassy courtyard where he sniffed the perimeters thoroughly and watered a failing gardenia bush. He and I sat on a vinyl settee and almost dozed off until the strains of John Hamlin and Bonita Collings roused us to join Belinda and Betsy back in her room. As Belinda fed Betsy her pureed chicken teriyaki, we watched her obvious delight at hearing the Playschool hits. It was apt after having seen Phillip Quast’s The Road I Took show just a week and a half earlier to hear his suave baritone adjusted to render ‘Where Did You Get That Hat?’ 

Betsy can be quite dismissive of visitors saying ‘Bye’ when she’s had enough of their company. She did try that on when we first arrived but relented and I think genuinely enjoyed time with her mum and, to a lesser extent, her aunt. When it was time to go, Tabitha asked us to take the ‘boom box’ packaging with us as they are overwhelmed with garbage and recycling. Belinda asked if there was anything Betsy needed - bibs and shorts apparently.

Betsy with Ryk and me

The friend I planned to see lives just around the corner from Betsy’s group home and I had hoped to call over but was unsuccessful reaching her by calls and texts. In a streak of gruelling tragedy she has lost her partner and both her parents in the past three years. Already suffering chronic fatigue syndrome these losses and some associated legal battles have left her severely depleted. It never occurred to me that she would be out and about giving the Sunday reading at mass and going to an 80 year old’s birthday lunch which I later discovered was what was occupying her time that day. Unsurprisingly ferocious migraines ensued.

I did manage to spend time with my son, measuring, cutting and installing perforated heat resistant foil panelling to the north facing bedroom windows of his flat and then grabbing refreshments at the Ryde Eastwood Leagues Club. I only took one wrong turn on the return trip to Marrickville and coped with the Sydney traffic better than I usually do.  My son had just returned from Japan and had bought me some beautiful cards and prints well as a copy of the graphic novel Les Chats du Louvre which I had heard about in the wake of the recent jewellery theft from that prestigious art museum.

Lunch stop

On Monday morning we carted our luggage down the steep stairs, this time in pleasant cool temperatures, to our (again illegally) parked car in the laneway and went in search of a decent coffee to fortify us for the journey home.  A pet shop nearby the café had three fawn coloured Cavoodle puppies in the window identical to one of the dogs Betsy grew up with. This reminder of a lost loved dog heightened Belinda’s already emotionally raw mood in the aftermath of visiting Betsy and it was good to put some miles behind us and speed on to Goulburn for lunch. Trappers Bakery had tables where we could sit with Ryk. He and some sparrows shared the remains of Belinda’s sausage roll. We made good time on our return to Wagga stopping for a pee and to share a bakery-purchased vanilla slice at Bookham.

We judged our trip an imperfect success but in the hours that followed the return to her house it became apparent that Belinda’s beloved cat (whom my husband had been feeding but hadn’t actually clapped eyes on) was missing. She’s done the flyers and Facebook posts to no avail so far.  As I have thought a few times in response to my sister’s travails, she didn’t need this.

It's an ill storm...

At our Word Play group we were recently given the writing prompt: ‘a time when the weather really affected an occasion’ – I recalled this event.

Our pommy friends the Budds were dotty about going to Doyles when they visited us in Sydney. They always included a meal at the beachfront seafood restaurant in their plans when they stayed with us. They faced no protests. Watson’s Bay is one of Sydney’s most picturesque spots and overseas visitors are blithely unaware of the nearby Gap and its grim associations.  Doyle’s faux newspaper menus (a nod to more affordable fish and chip meals) are iconic and its food fantastic. It was a balmy summer evening when six of us gathered at a table overlooking calm harbour waters. Me, my husband Bob, mother Brenda and sister Belinda, our English guests, the elfin Tricia and her partner Chris, somewhat lobster hued from his sun exposure the previous day.

A shamelessly manipulated and anachronistic image of Chris Budd (sorry)

As the sun set the Harbour Bridge was silhouetted against tangerine and violet striated skies. We walked on the sands and dipped our toes in the water waiting for our meals to arrive. White wine was consumed, chatter and jokes were shared. The evening promised to be another memorable one.

Sunset with Harbour Bridge (searched 'royalty free' but forgot to note source - tch, tch)

Sydney is known for its sudden wild winds, ‘southerly busters’, which arrive dramatically as respite from long humid summer days. However this day had been warm and mild. We were unprepared when a gust caught the edges of one of the large umbrellas covering the tables. Within seconds the umbrellas were rolling and tossing and threatening to become airborne. The now dark skies were rent with lightning and thunder growled drowning conversation. Rain fell in swirling torrents. We and our table contents were drenched. Diners scattered jostling one another as they sought shelter. Chaos reigned. We weren’t distressed but laughed at our predicament as we huddled soaked through under an awning surveying the devastation.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the rain subsided and the wind dropped. Most patrons had settled their bills during the disruption and headed out the door. We hadn’t asked for our check yet so lingered soggily. Chris and Bob helped the staff re-erect the umbrellas and straighten the tables and chairs.

Welcome Douglas!

Something on the shining courtyard floor beneath one of the tables caught my eye.  A glistening grey rectangle imprinted with the balaclava-clad image of an Australian more used to severe weather than us, Douglas Mawson. When the heavens opened they had soaked us but had also brought a gift. This was the 1980s and a one hundred dollar note made a significant contribution to the cost of our meal.