Happy Mother’s Day

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I am emerging momentarily from my sabbatical because today is a very important occasion, even though the original founder of Mother’s Day (American woman Anna Jarvis started it in honour of her mother) tried to have it rescinded when it got hijacked by capitalism and retail started abusing it for cheap gains (no one wants an evil landfilling silver balloon and some fake gerberas).

Anyway, I do think that mothers need a pat on the back and another hand made card and I do want to say HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY because you mums all deserve happiness after all the shoes you’ve had to find and the car seats you’ve had to wrangle and the nappy turmoil (turdmoil) you have to deal with.

I particularly want to pay tribute to everyone out there who has lost their mum. And to the women who have lost their babies or their children and to mothers in detention and mothers whose teenagers are having a cockhead stage and women who are having trouble having a baby and to anyone who might be finding today a bit of a fucking bastard. I’m thinking of you. Please know that I’m folding washing and my children are arguing over who gets to eat MY mothers day chocolates (oh the irony) and I’m wishing they were in detention for the day so I can have some blessed space.

Before I get really inappropriately mean spirited, I should go and get on with said day. Love to all you mums (and go you supportive Dads). xxx

And I’m wheeling out this old mother’s day anthem…


There’s a high probability that Megoracle is having a bit of an identity crisis. Perhaps this co-incides with me having a bit of a nearly-forty-not-knowing-what-I’m-doing-with-my-life crisis myself.

I’m a bit lost to be honest. I’m not grizzling about that though, nor am I sad. It’s not entirely comfortable but I have to feel lucky that I am in a position to have such a crisis and not forced by circumstance to crush my soul into an identity I don’t want. And maybe a discomfort zone is where good things happen. I’m lost in a good place, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be found.

But Megoracle is not really providing news with context or much of a brain reboot for anyone anymore. I fear it is fast turning into what I never wanted it to be – a navel gazing whinge portal. Everyone needs a bit of a grumble now and then but I would prefer it interspersed with something useful. Lately my grumbles and self-examination have been a bit dominant. I’m sick of my navel. Navel is a silly word. I prefer tummy button.

So I’m going to take some time to stop looking at my tummy button and have a good old look at the world and how I fit into it. Myself and my beloved megoracle a bit of a reinvention. A bit of new life. I’m making this sound all dramatic. It’s not. It just means that megoracle will go a bit quiet for a shortish time and sometime in the next little while will disappear from the interwebs altogether as the background refurbishments take place.

I am hopeful this won’t take too long; I will still annoy you on Facebook with updates on progress or other silly comments and I promise to return with an exciting new, true-to-self approach as soon as possible (i.e. when I’ve sorted out what all that might look like).

Here’s something that rings kind of true, perhaps it’s a good place to start:

It is a far, far better thing to have a firm anchor in nonsense than to put out on the troubled seas of thought.

-John Kenneth Galbraith

I’m not trying to be cryptic, just on the look out for signs (jeepers, at this rate Megoracle might return as a spiritual journal.)

Can I take this opportunity to thank all my beloved followers and supporters. I truly think you’re all brilliant and I will see you very soon. Please don’t leave me.

In the meantime, here’s a brand new song for you all, which is all about staying true to yourself even if yourself is a bit weary. It doesn’t have any rude words like fuck in it, in case they offend you. It does, however and of course, mention wees.

Love you all, see you soon. xxxxxx



I had a complete mind altering experience a few days ago, when I was nearing the end of One Of Those Days, and my very taut tether.

School holidays, children bickering, jobs to do, no dinner ideas or food, washing washing washing, children bickering again. And it’s when things are overflowing on the domestic front that my brain decides to come up with the very best creative ideas that MUST be acted upon immediately to the point that my heart pounds a bit and my hands want to flutter.

“Is this anxiety?” Thinks my overwrought brain amidst the noise, “I think my brain needs to slow down but only if those children would stop that god-awful racket I might be able to work out the rubbish from the important bits. I don’t have time for anxiety, not with all that washing and not when I’m safe here with small irritants while there are murders happening and plane crashes and oh dear I forgot to pay the car transfer thingy and I wonder if that dear little baby fish is still ok, is that dog poo on the pavers and is that a scratch on the wall what the bejesus are White Lady Funerals thinking with those outfits oh please shut up children just give me a break I’m itchy why am I itchy was it those biscuits maybe they had milk in them god I’d love some ice cream I haven’t done any proper exercise in so long must do some sit ups or something I wonder whether it will rain should I get the washing in maybe we can have soup for dinner or maybe weetbix I wish I was a spy I wish I had a reason to wear decent clothes I wish…”

And so it went until some little bogan came flying out the door to my post at the clothesline to screech about someone pushing someone or farting on someone’s teddy or some such bullshit. And without really thinking about it I announced to the family that I was going for a walk and I’d be back soon. Ish.

And I whistled for the dog, slipped under the electric fence and stomped up the hill, mind now full of “I’m over the hills and far away fuckers see you in a while might find a circus to run away with while I’m at it don’t you dare follow me”. It was blowing a gale and threatening rain but I stomped on, welcoming extra misery like a very grouchy martyr.

I was quite a way up when I stopped feeling like the world was against me just long enough to have a look about at the moment I was in. It was nice. I was hot and welcomed the cold wind. It blew into my South facing ear and brought a lot of coddled thoughts out the other and into the northern skies. I noticed the birds and the distant shades of blue and the sound of the wind in the trees. And I climbed further still.

I found a beautiful blackwood tree, a hawthorn and the remnants of old drystone walls. I startled two kangaroos and their sudden bounding startled me. My heart pounded for proper, functioning body, fight-flight reasons.

At the top it was pounding mostly because of that lack of recent exercise and the last part being a bit of a hands-on-rocks climb. And because the view from up there was breathtaking and very heart poundy. I stood under a big old Eucalypt we call The Lonely Tree because it stands on it’s own against the horizon far above our house and I thought of nothing but the immediate wonder of weather and seascape and beautiful old Mother Nature who is sometimes my very best friend.

Then when the wind gusted enough for me to fear falling limbs and bring the ol’ brain back, I ran-skipped-stumbled back down the hill all the way to our door and burst in all rosy-cheeked to announce how wonderful the world was. A couple of hours earlier I might have announced a breakdown and brought a wooden spoon down smartly onto a few bottoms.

They all looked at me like I was mental and went on with the telly. I skipped about and efficiently completed dinner and washing chores with a mind as clear as a crystal bell.

The next day the threatening clouds were gone and I took my girls back up to the lonely tree, this time with no wind and sunshine and my camera-phone. They loved it. We all skipped about like crazy Laura Ingles-Wilders and hugged the lonely tree so it mightn’t feel so lonesome. Under there I got a text from a friend asking me if I’d like to see Antony and the Johnsons at Dark Mofo. Uncool as I am I had to consult google before responding and found a youtube link which I opened.


There under the lonely tree on the Ragged Tier with my girls (the boys being somewhere in the tractor being useful as opposed to whimsical), I sat at the top of our world and listened as Antony Hegarty’s beautiful voice swept out over the hills. And I had to hold my chest with my hands to stop my heart from bursting out.



That sort of feeling stays a while. Remnants of it float back at certain times, like tonight when I sat in a hot bath with the window open and the night air on my face. Our dairy heard was close enough for me to hear their chewing. My mind cleared again, more easily than normal.

That’s why I have to go to the lonely tree often, and to other beautiful places, like the top of Mount Maria or the hopfields of Bushy Park or the riverbanks of my childhood. That’s why we all should. Next time, maybe tomorrow, I will take my boys.

“On the hill beneath the tree and a huge blue sky, my mind was laundered by the wind and a sweet sweet song”.

The Lonely Tree

The Lonely Tree



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Since my children started at a Catholic school, they have – I am delighted to report – discovered that Easter isn’t all about chocolate.  Today is Maundy Thursday. (Isn’t Maundy a funny word. It refers to the Maundy, which was when Jesus washed the feet of the disciples during the Last Supper.) Anyway, today there was a very sombre assembly at school in which the children re-enacted the crucifixion of Jesus and we all had to think a lot about it.

I am not very good at thinking about Jesus. I wish I were better at it. It would be so very comforting to have faith in the Almighty and his son and all that lies ahead after death if you are decent and kind. And some of the best people I know have Jesus in their lives, they are kind and giving and glowing with health. And every time I see a charming parish on a British telly series I wish I could have found God so I could live in the gorgeous rectory and know everyone’s business. Lots of cool stuff is likely to happen in those vestries, and when I’m rushing about all over the place with children and duties and my silly pursuits, I yearn for a quiet cloister. Plus I would like to say prayers before bed, put trust in them and sleep the deep sleep of the faithful.

I did pray once. When my twins were born far too early and I thought they might die from their smallness. I prayed because I wasn’t skilled in neonatal intensive care and I didn’t know what else to do. And because I was exhausted from having just done all that pushing the neonates out. Then I felt guilty for praying to someone who didn’t know me from Adam. Which is weird because according to Him, we’re all from Adam. Anyway, they were fine. And I did a little bit of a thank you to Him, got on with being their Mum and really didn’t give Him another moment of my time.

It worries me sometimes but not very often because mostly I can’t get my brain to make me a believer. Mine is a big bang brain. Well mostly. I do believe in an afterlife but that’s another story.

Anyway, Jesus has now entered our house via the children and their new school which may or may not be on account of me praying for them to be protected. And this week, being Holy Week, has been a big Jesus week. I am supportive of it because it’s an important part of education and I love a bit of tradition and history. Not to mention all the forgiveness and tolerance and kindness that comes with the religion heralded in their school. I love that at their school they are viewed as a gift from God. Fine with me; I think they’re pretty special too.

I love their earnest and easy acceptance of it all. Envy it and curse my stubborn brain.

Here’s a recent car conversation regarding Jesus:

Lucie: Mum we saw Jesus in the graveyard.

Bess: No we didn’t actually see him, we just saw him on the stick.

Ed: The cross. Not the stick.

Bess: Why was he on the cross?

Me: They killed him and then hung him up on a cross.

Ed: Why?

Me: (eeek) They were bad men.

Lucie: He was born in a staple and then he died in a cave with a rock but the rock moved and he was rosen again halleluiah. (Sings a few hosannas)

Bess: He was born in a staple?

Ed: How did the rock move mum?

Me: I’m not sure that they know. A miracle maybe? 

Lucie: He couldn’t have moved the rock because he was dead. Where did the cross go though?

Ed: Mum do you believe in Jesus?

Me: Gulp (silence) 

Lucie: I do. I really do. (Hosanna, hosanna)

Ed: It’d be cool to be related to Jesus.

Bess: No one’s related to Jesus.

Me: Except maybe God.

Lucie: How much dollars did Jesus have?

Me: Not much at all I don’t think. Did you have music today?

Lucie: Yes. (Hosanna, hosanna)

Bess: I’m thirsty.

Me: Me too.

(Car swings into bottle shop)

But what I really came here to say was HAPPY EASTER, HAPPY HOLIDAYS, DRIVE CAREFULLY, KEEP SAFE and don’t overdo the chocolate.

And when you bite into your first chocolate egg on Sunday, give a little thought to Jesus who, died for us and was rosen again.

If you’re camping in Tasmania, or anywhere for that matter, I’ll pray for you.



Sometimes I feel inspired by pretty much everything. This sounds like good news but actually I am so filled with ideas that I can’t focus on any one thing for long enough to achieve anything at all. It’s like when you go to the supermarket on an empty stomach and leave with a bag of rice crackers and an onion. Or like when your youngest child starts full time school and you feel spoiled for time but wonder what to do with it all until it’s gone and it’s pickup time again.

I write furiously in a notebook in case things get lost. But by tomorrow the sketchy scribblings often seem silly. If I suffered from bipolar disorder I imagine these inspirited rushes of motivation would be my mania.

Here’s what I got a bit manic about yesterday:

Home Readers

Boring little tomes they are. But today, I felt illuminated by my children’s home readers. Did you know that:

  1. Bees are especially attracted to blue and purple flowers. I am wondering whether I was a bee in a former life as blue is my absolute favourite colour. And because I hum a lot.
  2. Stinging nettle stingy thingies are as sharp as glass fragments. No wonder those bastards hurt.
  3. Children retain information more readily if there’s poo involved – my kids are telling everyone that birds eat seed and poo them out all over the place causing the spread of plants.
  4. A praying mantis can’t have sex unless his head’s been removed by the female. This was not in a home reader but just a weird, slightly funny-tragic, slightly girl power fact. And it’s nice to know some women don’t care about looks.

NB: The ‘wh’ words are a pain in the arse. Who decided to put the letter ‘H’ in who? And what for? When? Where? Why? Why is there no ‘h’ in was, went, were and willy but there is in whisper, whirl, whale and white? It serves only to confuse poor little growing brains. There is enough to learn without ‘wh’ words and spellings like ‘enough’. Enough already.

The people who made Weeties have the right idea.

Drystone walls

I’m always banging on about drystone walls and how I’d like my own. The other day I went to the gym and paid to punch a few bags for an hour or so. Then it dawned on me that I could get fit and build a wall at the same time. A more productive, less expensive workout is right at my fingertips and it will see me through at least the autumn and winter months and end with my very own wall. And maybe a bikini bod (if it isn’t crippled by then). And there’s the added bonus of me carting rocks out of the farm paddocks, where cows and machinery are likely to do themselves an injury. Brilliant!

My husband listened to my enthusiastic plans, said, “that’s a helluva contract” and then watched me pound away with a spade at clay soil infested with rocks. I tried hard to flex my muscles in his direction only I think he was too far away to see the weenie little things and he was possibly distracted by me slipping over quite a bit.

I blame Mrs Tiggy Winkle and those stone stiles, but there’s no going back now.

Indigenous Heritage

I am always pretty inwardly manic about indigenous culture. I have had moments of being vocal about it but never felt very comfortable writing about it or talking too loudly because I had no authority, no proper backing, no Aboriginality or real knowledge. I could re-hash stuff I have read or make up stuff from how I feel, but never had the courage to talk properly to anyone who knows – i.e. an indigenous person. Actually I did once phone up a central authority but was given pretty short shrift. I felt that maybe it’s just not my domain.

Then I heard two men on the radio talking about vaginas and suddenly understood how it must feel for Aborigines to witness a conversation about them between white people. I shut up. But I have wondered about the Aboriginal heritage of our country – particularly the bit of country on which I have built a house – ever since.

And today, I sat down with two indigenous Tasmanians and told them how I feel – that I have a sense of responsibility and a deep fascination for their heritage but am not brave enough to ask for fear or being disrespectful, condescending or just downright dumb. They told me that it doesn’t matter what I ask, that the asking is to them a display of effort to unearth their stories, and that telling their stories and honouring their ancestors is essentially their mission. So ask I did. The time we had wasn’t enough for all my questions but they have invited me to find out more. I am very grateful to have that permission, and more than excited.

See, manic.

Courtney Barnett

I heard this young woman interviewed on local radio and thought, what a cool chick. Then I heard her sing and I just thought, wow. I love her honesty and her simplicity. She might not be everyone’s cup of tea but she’s definitely mine. Cammomile and peppermint and all those ones that are really good for you.

Have a listen. 

This Little Piggie

La la laaaaaa!

Her name is Polly and she was a guest of the Bream Creek Show last Saturday. I like her very much.

That’s it. By now I’m only feeling motivated by my fatigue, and it’s pushing me toward bedfordshire. Tomorrow I have to decide what to focus my energies on and hope that I’m not struck by some new wayward bolt of inspiration.

PS to tired to edit, sorry for smelling mistakes.









This morning I overheard a conversation that has been troubling me all day. It went something like this (with made up names):

Jill: Will you do the MS Mud Dash with me?

Wendy: Nope

Jill: Why not?

Wendy: Do you really want me to tell you? (doesn’t wait for an answer to this question) Because Susan Smith has MS and I wouldn’t bloody support her.

Jill: But what about all the other people with MS?

Wendy: Nope, not doing it, neither’s Robert, he can’t stand her either.

Sure I was eavesdropping (as I’ve been known to do) and sure I don’t know the full story (Susan Smith with MS might be some sort of psychopath; maybe she made off with Wendy’s husband) but as nice-normal Jill pointed out, do we deprive the world of a cure for MS because God forbid that nasty Susan Smith might get her hands on it and get better?

I felt a bit sick. And completely repulsed by this woman. I wanted to be a long way away from her and as I said, this conversation has been bothering me ever since. I can’t really put my finger on why I couldn’t just write Wendy off as a silly old mole and forget about it. But I can’t.

I was about to do a boxing class and was able to take out my crossness on a punching bag which helped clear my mind somewhat.

I’m pretty sure Wendy doesn’t have a vendetta against everyone with MS, just that her narrow minded, reactionary attitude has potential negative effects against them all.

Narrow mindedness really shits me. I remember when the brilliant Falls Festival first talked about starting up it’s Tasmanian event in my district, half the community were up in arms about potential traffic issues and noise pollution. They didn’t stop to think that the festival had (and has since proven to achieve) potential economic, social and cultural benefits to our whole state, that it was bigger than Marion Bay, and that it’s worth sacrificing a bit of sleep and convenience. Incidentally, the ‘noise pollution’ I have experienced is listening to London Grammar live from my kitchen sink, and Paul Kelly live from my bath. Pretty hard to take but I managed.

I know there’d be countless examples of narrow minded selfishness negatively impacting our world. It can spawn all sorts of nastiness including racism, sexism and other forms or prejudice.

I think we should all monitor ourselves for selfish and narrow minded thoughts or behaviour. The world would be a much better place.

Who’s doing the Mud Dash? It’s a heap of fun and MS research is such a brilliant cause. Multiple Sclerosis affects over 23,000 people in Australia, with Tasmania having a higher prevalence than any other state.

Multiple sclerosis (MS) is a disease of the central nervous system, interfering with nerve impulses within the brain, spinal chord and optic nerves. It is characterised by sclerosis a Greek word meaning scars. These scars occur within the central nervous system and depending on where they develop, manifest into various symptoms. – See more at: http://www.msaustralia.org.au

No one really knows what causes MS, and there is currently no cure. But there is lots of hope, particularly if people keep paying attention and helping (and knobs like Wendy pull their dickbrain heads in).

If you can’t get to the Mud Dash, which is on the 27th March at Redbanks, Nugent, then you can donate to MS research here.

Rant over. Be nice, think of others, nigh-night.



WHAT AM I? (Brush up on: Subcultures)

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I recently had 5 days in Byron Bay with 13 school friends. I loved Byron Bay, it’s beautiful and happy and sort of drowsy despite all the active-probiotic protein balls. But 5 days is probably my limit before I start morphing into some sort of ageing hippy. On the morning of day 5 – having fought off the anklet urge on day 2 – I was contemplating buying a kimono and an ear cuff. Time for home to my conservative farmer, my shirts and some normal.

But what’s normal? Does everyone reckon they’re normal even if they have wildlife in their dreadlocks and no shoes? Even if they have a Porsche collection?

On our last night (by then I’d ditched kimono idea in favour of a leopard print dress because I don’t know, somehow the Gold Coast had infiltrated my Byron brain – she’s a bossy old brass that Goldie) we chatted about the variety of subcultures represented in Byron Bay, and about subcultures in general. I had no idea, for instance, that there is a difference between hippies and hipsters. Everyone else at my table knew though, which makes me a dope. No one really knew whether we belong to a subculture though. ‘Housewives’ was suggested, which is probably partly true but pretty bloody boring. I want me a better subculture than that dammit. But which one?..


I’m told that hippies are less common in Byron Bay than they were a decade ago but I’m pretty sure I spotted some by the beach in the depths of a combie van. There were bongo drums involved. And some sort of smell. I fleetingly wished I was the sort of person who didn’t feel the need to brush my teeth twice a day, own lots of stuff and rip my pubes out with wax. But am I jumping too quickly into snobby stereotypes? What really is a hippie?

Evidently hippies are more a counter-culture than a subculture (because they reject mainstream mores and values as opposed to being a bit weirdo within the mainstream). They originated in the 60s as a part of a peace movement. They believed in free love (bonking whomever wherever whenever) and rejected the accumulation of wealth and material possessions. They quite like travelling about and altering their brain states with certain weeds and other substances. Sounds lovely if you’re wired up that way. I like my routine too much. And my shampoo. And my only encounter with marijuana saw me hide behind a chair because “OMG everyone thinks I’m a complete knob”.


Hipsters (also known as beardos) are apparently not hippies at all (durrr me). There are endless definitions of what one is but none of them involve dreadlocks. They include, “Young old people”, “Someone who is smart enough to talk about philosophy, music, politics, art, etc with you all day long, but not smart enough to see how big of a tool s/he is” and “hipsters are usually less than 5% body fat, drink copious amounts of coffee and eat children’s cereal”.

They are often affluent or middle class, left wing Gen Y’s who generally avoid mainstream trends and beliefs. They prefer artisan foods, witty banter and skinny jeans. That rules me out. I’m Gen X, I dig Taylor Swift and I quite like a food court.

Hipsters by Katie Brioux

Hipsters by Katie Brioux

And here’s another thing I didn’t know: you don’t ask a hipster if they’re a hipster because you might as well be asking if they are a pretentious prat. I cheerily asked the waiter if he identified as a hipster and my friends looked uncomfortable and apologetic (sorry about the Tasmanian farmer, she doesn’t get out much). He denied being a hipster, claiming he belonged to another subset called “Vagabond Backpackers”, whatever that is. (Google says squat which means he made it up to divert attention from his hipsterism. Save it dude, you have a frigging man bun and you’re wearing a scarf, jeez.)

(A thought: hipsters don’t know they are hipsters much like bogans don’t know they are bogans. What do I not know I am?)


My research shows me that there appear to be two sorts of feral and a bit of resultant confusion…

The counter-culture version that has it’s roots in extreme, radical environmentalism. I am dubiously proud to read that this Feral movement of the mid nineties originated in Australia, quite possibly Tasmania. These particular ferals can evidently be found living itinerant lifestyles, sleeping communally in squats or on acquaintances’ floors (“crash pads”) and occasionally living up trees as a form of protest. They tend to get about in politically-charged t-shirts or butt-arsed naked.

The sub-culture feral is actually an extreme bogan – welfare grabbing types who spend their time abusing people, breaking council trees and other random stuff, leaving burn out marks all over the roads and swearing a lot (ooh there’s a connection).


I have lived in the country for most of my life, I like animals, can change a tyre and have pulled out a lamb. I am married to a farmer. But that’s where my connection to the Rural Subculture ends. I do not wear belts with large buckles or ten gallon hats and pink shirts with RM William’s boots and pearls. I do drive a 4WD and I even have a ute, but I don’t sleep in them or use them to do circle work and they don’t have a horse float attached or enormous phallic like aerials. I really dislike Bundaberg Rum, I’ve never been to a B&S ball, I don’t have a sheep dog and I’ve never held a gun.

I wish I were a proper Rural. They are so much tougher than me. I feel sorry for sheep, cry a lot and am a bit scared of any horse bigger than my childhood pony. I would be so much more useful to my husband if I could take a calf from its mother, shoot a possum and eat chops every night. Real rurals are proper Australian stock and they don’t worry about trifles like pronunciation and fingernails.

I’m not a Rural, but I’d quite like to be one when I grow up. I have a thing for Keith Urban.


The stereotypical Emo is wearing bright coloured skinny jeans and has dyed black hair with pink streaks and a fringe over one eye. They listen to “emotional hardcore” (hence ‘Emo’) music and are angst-ridden and introverted. The subculture is a spin off of the music, which originated in the mid 80s and is characterised by confessional, heart-on-sleeve, air-your-dirty-smalls lyrics.

Emo I am not.


Goths are a bit of a mid 80s punk spin off. Like Emos, the subculture was born of the music genre, created by bands with names like “Dead Can Dance”, ‘Play Dead” and “Virgin Prunes”. They wear all black including black lipstick and nail polish. Ubergoths use white powder to add pallor to their faces. I’ve seen quite a few of them haunting about in the mall. I’d be a failure as a goth – I don’t like the mall, I avoid wearing too much black and I have a prune phobia. I also like smiling.


These are Young Urban Professionals. Stop right there, I’m almost 40, I live in the country and I have no ‘profession’.

Interestingly though, hipsters have been described as the new Yuppie. Yuppies are also aligned with preppies, Sloane Rangers, Valley Girls, suits and WASPs (White Anglo Saxon Protestants). Alex Keaton (Michael J Fox) in “Family Ties” was a wannabe yuppie with hippie parents.

They have money, qualifications and suits. I didn’t see any yuppies in Byron Bay. Not one. I think they go to Noooosa.


There were plenty of these in Byron Bay and foof! some of them were hot enough to melt my popsicle and my heart. Go and have breakky in a cafe called Top Shop and you’ll see what I mean – we were in the surf scene waaaay over our heads there.  We all know what surfies are. I know I am not one because my house overlooks a pretty famous surf break and I never feel the urge to jump aboard its waves.

Surfies fascinate me though because their sport seems to be deeply spiritual, like a religion. And because they will ditch their girlfriend and steal a car to get to the sea if the waves are pumping. They will follow weather patterns like a veritable meteorologist and have their own music, lingo and fashion. They are inclined to tow the hippie line when it comes to marijuana.

They are also a pretty attractive subculture, perhaps on account of their high skill levels, their muscles and that bleached hair-tanned skin look. Perhaps because they are kind of unattainable – they will never love anything as much as they love the surf. Don’t fall in love with a surfer unless you’re one too; you will never win.

I’d like to be a surfie, they are so cool. But I’m scared of sharks (two people were attacked while we were in Byron, one fatally) and well, seaweed.



There are HEAPS and HEAPS of subcultures or which these are just a mere sniff (I wouldn’t sniff too hard at some of them). They are variously defined by music, political stance, beliefs, tastes, hobbies, occupation, fashion, geography or other factors. And I don’t seem to belong to any of them.

Oh my God, DO I NOT FIT IN ANYWHERE? Do I need to see someone about this?

I’m not a naturist (except in my own house), a swinger or a punk. I’m not a skater or a jock or a witch. I’m not into fetish or freaks or survivalism or grunge. I’m not queer or a body builder or an academic.

I am a little bit bogan and an uncommitted thespian. I am occasionally sporty (when I can’t think what to wear for the school run) and sometimes a (small brained) nerd. I have no set style (a little bit Byron, a little bit Gold Coast, a lot whatevs) and I don’t seem to be able to focus on one thing.

Oh gosh, am I defined by motherhood? I think I am. I am a MUM. Quick, find me a subculture, nothing too out there but something romantic and cool. I mean most people want to be normal but no one wants to be ordinary.

Here’s one I could fit in to with a bit of extra effort:


Bohemianism is “a person with artistic or intellectual tendencies, who lives and acts with no regard for conventional rules of behavior.” The trouble is though, bohos are supposed to have “few permanent ties” and are meant to be wanderers, adventurers or vagabonds.

Well, I have a vagabond mind I reckon, I can wander and have adventures in my head can’t I? And there are bits of my days where I have no ties. Just as long as I remember to collect the kids and don’t get too boho with the dinners.

I like the idea that I can surround myself with like minded people and immerse myself in art and literature. The fashion is pretty good too. Comfy looking, ethereal and colourful.

I could do Boho. There’s even a wikihow on how to be a Bohemian. I just need to create stuff, watch films, read books, challenge beliefs, become informed, express yourself, question authority, live for the moment, wear patterned cotton or gauze or silk, preferably with embroidery, get a tattoo (tick) and wear some noisy jewelry. TOO EASY.

I’m excited. I’m going to be the best Boho ever. Starting now. In this moment, which I am living for.

See you soon (you’ll know it’s me because you’ll hear my jangly bangles).



A special thank you to my dear friends who shared my Byron trip and who gave me such a lovely, laughter filled, few days. Thank you for fitting me in with you. Love yous all (oops, is there such a thing as a boho bogan? A bogo?)


I finished the above post late last night and before breezing off to bed (and to live in the moment), I went online and bought myself a BACKLESS CROCHET DRESS. It seemed like such a lovely, in-the-moment, spur-of-the-moment bohemian idea at the time. In the cold light of morning clarity-reality I am groaning, “Did I really buy a crochet dress?” Yes I did – I have the email confirmations to prove it. Have I learnt nothing from my previous attempts at reinvention? Now I have to wear it. Yes, if you see me in a crochet dress it’s because I am punishing myself. It is my hair shirt, doily style. No doubt I will catch it on something and it will unravel and I’ll be left standing nude and attached to the school gate. Or something equally me.


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