Postcard from the South Pacific


Dear Everyone, I write to you from the Fiji Islands. I know. I’m a lucky bugger. I would say, “wish you were here” except that pretty much everyone appears to be here already. Which is great of course because we all want to holiday where the rest of Australia is holidaying, don’t we? Australians, in general, are such becoming and personable travel companions after all. Especially when there are buffets […]

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So there are a few reasons why Megoracle has been a bit void of intelligent material of late. A couple of them I can’t disclose (I know, mysterious hey; I love a bit of enigma) but one of them I will, even though I thought I should keep it well hidden under the guise of erudition and perspicacity (see I’m already breaking out the big words as I preempt your shrinking […]

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I know I’ve banged on about hormones before but I need to again in the hopes the very act of banging on again might get me through this month’s barrage of harrumph. Here’s my first thought when I woke to the rising run today: “Oh for God sake day, fuck OFF”. That’s when you know things are going to be a little grumpy. And then you realise it’s Tuesday which […]

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My life is generally out of (varying degrees of) control. Mostly that’s ok because the bits that are out of control are the bits that don’t concern me too much. Like the state of my car. Living on dirt roads with three farm children renders car cleaning pretty pointless. I clean it thoroughly when circumstances render de-dirting absolutely necessary, like luncheon with the Governor or something. The family photo situation […]

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A Catalogue of Horrendous and Terrifying Events

Dear Bogans Children, I’m writing this because I think we need a record of the horrendous things you had to endure in your childhood, the things that sent you reeling through the house in flails and wails of grief; the horrific events that had you bearing your teeth in retribution and declaring war on all and sundry; the terrible acts of violence inflicted on you that saw you collapse and […]

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This is the other story that didn’t win the Country Style Short Story Competition. Most of it was written here in the schoolhouse, with some input from Kel. I started writing it just after 37 year old Olga Neubert was fatally shot by her ex-husband in Hobart in May this year. White Ribbon Day is on Nov 25th, pop it in your diaries. Violence against women is NEVER OK. MRS […]

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Fucked Up Friday


There are some truly fucking fucked up people in the world aren’t there. And if you feel offended by my language then stop reading now probably because I might get more fucking colourful on account of those fuckers who do stuff like shoot lions and other fucking fucked up stuff way more offensive than saying fuck a bit lot. I’m grumpy and may or may not be a few days […]

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The Story That Didn’t Win

So I finally worked through my bitterness as not getting a mention in the Country Style short story competition for the fifth year running. I even entered two stories this year god dammit (okay maybe some of the bitter taste remains). But I hate a sore loser and I made myself buy the magazine with the winning story in it. I wanted the story to be silly or boring or […]

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I’m not in the schoolhouse. I’m pretending to be because I wish I was. I’m in the Hobart library instead. Because it’s Monday and not Tuesday and the schoolhouse is unavailable and I’m really meant to be home washing windows or some such – which is what I usually do on chorey old Mondays (I tried to wash the windows yesterday and they looked fabulous until the sun came up the morning and revealed hideous smeary swashes which could – thinks I as I scrabble for an excuse not to do the god damn job again – be mistaken for wonderful window art using the media of light, water and grime. Bream Creek grime is especially hard to come by. My windows may well be gone by the time I get home, snatched up by a passing MONA curator).

Anyway, I have spent the two weeks of holidays mostly doing chores so today, having dropped the children off at school (insert fist pump emoji), and gone to an early appointment in town, I’m having a DAY OFF. I have already been for a walk around Hobart (looking drop dead eye-wateringly gorgeous today with her crystal-ice sheen), eaten an apple, had a coffee and had a quick look in a book shop (I think Anna Funder’s new novella, The Girl with the Dogs, may well change my life, it’s not in store yet though so I had to have a sneak around the literature bits in case there’s something there I’ve read which will make me feel literary and brainy).

Now I’m in the library because I needed an inspiring place to write a list and maybe a novel but of course I’ve had to have a bit of a look at Mick Fanning escape that shark (Holy God – the suspense of that wave that blocks our view) and a skulk in the stacks (there is something so scholarly about skulking in the stacks) and a bit of a ramble here. I am very parenthesis heavy today, perhaps it’s due to all the alone time and trying to get too many thoughts in order in the short time before I have to go back to school and start work again (could also be the coffee). I’ll try to relax.

There is an elderly tweedy man nearby who is whispering intensely into a dictaphone and feverishly writing (drawing?) on a scrap book. I have seen him before and was hoping to see him again because last time I regretted not asking him what he is working on. It appears as though he’s hurrying to record some incredible, world-saving theorem before his mind goes. Although there’s a chance his mind has already gone and he’s recording nonsense. He pauses every now and then to perform some sort of loud vocal exercise, which is clearly aggravating the small woman across the table from him. Soon there may well be a small woman V tweedy man confrontation.The library is an exciting and dramatic place, never mind sharks.

Speaking of animals, there are mice in my car. WTF? We have successfully banished them from our house and they have taken up residence in my car. I know because the milk bottles I have been hiding in the glove box have suddenly vanished and been replaced by tiny mouse poos. It’s scandalous. There is one milk bottle left, which has tiny teeth marks in it. Even I wouldn’t eat that (I was tempted). I know that queasy, can’t-eat-last-sweetie feeling and sucked in mice (‘sucked in’ is a truly awful expression, but so are mice). This morning on account of it being BLOODY FREEZING I pumped up the car heater so that by the time I’d reached Hobart there was a distinct hot-mouse smell. I turned it up more. That’s for the milk bottles you mousy bastards.

Anyway, I have to stop spouting nonsense and go and write that novel. I should be inspired by the tweedy man’s drive. He’s probably devised a plan to halt global warming while I’ve been thinking about mice. The small woman is leaving, grumpily. How to leave grumpily: thrust back chair, thump books, sigh and look around for someone to roll eyes at (not me, I don’t want to conspire on the being aggravated by tweedy man front, he’s not bothering me and I find his throat noises interesting). She’s gone. The tweedy man hasn’t appeared to notice. He is wearing a three piece suit and a deerstalker hat. I’m looking forward to my twilight years, must start putting eccentric clothing items away in preparation.

God Meg, shut UP. I’ve only got two hours for the novel and I haven’t even started yet.

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Help Exit Man, help! Take me with you.

So it’s the last official day of the school holidays and, with properly nasty weather driving icy salt into my holiday wounds, I am thoroughly, absolutely and entirely defeated. De.Feat.Ed. Today, in a last ditch effort to brighten our sickness-ridden, no-holiday holidays, I drove the children out of the bad weather of home into the bad weather of the city. There was a lot of whinging and arguing about what […]

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