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HELLLLLLLLOOOOOO! Just popping in briefly to say that I’m neck deep in the new Megoracle and that soon this very page you are looking at will be pulled down altogether for a few days and then re-erected wearing a brand new get-up with all sorts of happy changes.

In the meantime I have been working on a few other fun projects including rehearsing for THIS SHOW at which I will be singing a few ditties. I can’t say anymore about it because frankly I almost do wees in knickers on account of nervous excitement (mostly nerves because I don’t want to let anyone down and because somehow I’ve bluffed my way onto a stage with lots of amazing people and it is possible things will come horribly unstitched). Some days I want to say come along and watch and other less confident days I want to say nothing about it at all. Thankfully they spelled my name wrong in the program (a sure sign I am not highly sought after and revered) so if it goes pear shaped, it wasn’t me, it was someone called Meg Bignall.

In other news, I am very excited to have finally found a little headquarters from which to work after school drop off so I don’t have to hightail it all the way home every day and widen my already generous carbon footprint. In order to secure it, my fellow writer friend and I had decided to approach the local Catholic priest this afternoon after gathering the children. We peeked our heads into the church, both of us feeling slightly inadequate and decidedly lacking in faith in light of our appeal to the church for writing space. It was empty. We poked in a little further and I was just considering calling out “Father?” or “Vicar, are you in the vestry?” or some such charming village expression when a male voice suddenly boomed at us from the rafters. Both of us jumped and looked to the heavens before realising that it was actually the school headmaster loudspeakering instructions to his staff. I gasped and mouthed, “Oh my God! I thought it was GOD!” and my friend said, “So did I!” Then we spluttered a bit until we were outside again, where we laughed. A lot.

We found Father T, we phoned him, which is far less romantic than meeting him in the cloisters. And he said yes! He was very interested to hear what sort of writing we do, which means we will have to do some. As opposed to talking a lot about writing and not doing any, which is what we are best at.

So anyway, that’s where I’m at. I miss you all. I really do. I lost my voice a little while ago and I felt very low, realising that I had no voice and a megoracle in hiatus. Incommunicado and a bit depressioso. I had to mime getting cross with the children, which would in hindsight have been pretty funny but at the time was NO LAUGHING MATTER.

So what I’m trying to say is, I’ll most definitely be back. Soon.

M xxxx

PS I have been reading poetry, which I HIGHLY recommend for souls slightly lost, or for anysoul really.

Here’s a bit of one I ADORE, Wishes and Stars by Ben Okri:

Everyone seems so certain
Everyone knows who they are
Everyone’s got a mother and a father
They all seem so sure they’re going far
They all got more friends than they can use

Except me cause I’m a fool
I’m as simple as a bee
As a melody in C
But it don’t matter
There are more wishes than stars

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.




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