A decision has been made: the world awaits


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Some months back, I wrote of our deliberations of whether we should buy a campervan. Be free spirits, belated hippies. Join the grey army. It’s something we’d been considering for some time, much to the surprise of some of our family and friends. Like, most of them actually.

And we considered, and researched, and imagined, and then we got close. Then we agonised.

Finally, a decision has been made. As there were some interested parties who queried our progress re the campervan, here’s the decision – and the reasons for it.

First up, yep, we backed out. All that promise. All that talk. And it went nowhere in the end.

Eventually, after finding an amazing second-hand van that was in beautiful condition and clean and sparkly with ALL the things, and which was exactly what we thought we wanted, we decided no, we’re not going to do that after all. Cue sound of gnashing of teeth. Actually, Mr T eventually made the call by himself, largely to put me out of my misery because I’m incapable of making decisions sometimes. (I blame it on being Libran.)

And for those with the slightest of interest, here’s our reasons for the decision.

  1. Money. Let’s be honest – if money is never a consideration, you could just do whatever you wanted, anytime, without even an ounce of consideration, just as the Hollywood celebs do. But most of us mere mortals have to be at least a bit pragmatic. This little beauty we found was fantastic, but bloody expensive, because our aspirations kept growing. While buying a campervan isn’t just a financial decision, we kept doing the sums – purchase cost, running costs, additional camping costs, interest lost or paid on that money, blah blah. And even the cost of renos to the garage door to accommodate the beast, because of course it wouldn’t fit in and you couldn’t leave it out. Take all that money you’ve invested, and you could do just about any holiday in the world, or spend quite a number of nights in fancy-schmancy apartments up the coast, in the hinterland, across the country, in fact, anywhere you wanted. To make a camper purchase worthwhile, you have to use these beasts a lot – some say several months a year. We didn’t think we’d get anywhere near that.
  2. We wouldn’t have slept in it every night (because, you know, ….Princess). We’d probably stop every so often to stay somewhere nice in a hotel to have a breather and stretch our legs a bit, have a good tub, so you’re doubling up on cost.
  3. We didn’t really want to go too far off road (Wolf Creek has a lot to answer for), so it didn’t make sense to have a vehicle all souped up for that – just in case.
  4. There’s a world of discovery to be had in NT and WA, but it’s such a loooooong way to drive over from our neck of the woods. We’d be more likely to fly to the far-away places to then spend more time exploring when we got there. Means it’s a bit silly having that spanky campervan sitting idle at home while we’re forking out for airfares.
  5. There’s still way too much of the world we want to see – which simply can’t be reached with a camper. Those countries still flashing brightly on the bucket list become a bit more unlikely with the beast burning dollars in the garage.
  6. While we jaunt in other regions, perhaps a straggly line of friends and family wanting to borrow Mr Campervan would grow. I mean, it’s just sitting there idle otherwise, crying out for companionship? Friendships could be marred. Or maybe we could rent it to strangers to recoup some cost, but what if they scratched and damaged the shiny lady, or left it yucky inside. Ah, the stress…
  7. I’m not known for being tidy (I’m more of a spread things out everywhere over every horizontal surface kind of girl) so no doubt I would replace what’s impeccably neat at the outset with mayhem within a very short space of time, and drive us both crazy. And where would I put those shopping purchases picked up on route, surely the foundation of any holiday??

So, we decided perhaps we’re not the best fit for this caper after all.

There it is. Decision made, logic and rationality applied. Sigh.

I have no doubt it’s a fantastic life and decision for others, but it’s the end of the camper dream for us. It was a lovely dream and I did want to try that ‘getting away’ and forced sitting around with a book or, in my case a computer, with not much else to get in the way.

But in the meantime, we have some new adventures planned to compensate – and I’m very excited!

The world’s our oyster…

Watch this space.



The bells, the bells: 5 things you didn’t know about Canberra’s Carillon


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If you’ve seen many tourist snaps of Canberra, you’ll have no doubt seen the distinctive tower of the Carillon featured prominently, shooting majestically from Lake Burley Griffin – a Canberra landscape icon. It’s there in sunrise shots, sunset shots, night time shots. It features quite a lot. Check it out on Instagram if you need convincing.

For those unfamiliar with the term, a carillon is a set of stationary bells hung in a tower and sounded by hammers or some other mechanical action, controlled through a keyboard.


Here’s a few things you mightn’t have known before about Canberra’s carillon. And new knowledge is such a good thing.

  1. Canberra’s carillon has 55 bronze bells. To actually rate as a carillon, you have to have at least 23 bells, so it makes the grade easily. They’re heavy things, weighing in at between 7 kilos and 6 tonnes each.
  2. The Carillon was gifted to Canberra by the British Government to celebrate our 50th anniversary.
  3. You can get married at the Carillion, or have a party there. Contact the National Capital Authority for details. But don’t expect to be allowed to drive your horse and carriage onto the island – no vehicular access allowed.
  4. The Carillon sits on its own little man-made island – Aspen Island – which you can access by a little (also photogenic) footbridge, named after the man who played the first recital in the tower.
  5. It’s more than just a pretty face/landmark – this is a working tower. It chimes every 15 minutes, plays a tune on the hour, and there are regular recitals on Wednesdays and Saturdays from 12.30 to 1.20pm so you can hear all those bells in action. Christmas carols also get a gig each Christmas Eve, and you usually get a chance to do a free guided tour for an hour beforehand.

Must be about time for me to actually walk out on to the island rather than just take photos of it.

Anyone know if the British Government got us anything for our 100th anniversary??

Addendum – Confession: I can’t stand it any more – I have to fess up. The sixth thing you mightn’t have known about the Carillon, which I didn’t know, is that it’s spelt Carillon – not Carill – ION as I have always thought. Because that’s how we say it, and it apparently comes from a French word and that’s how the French spell words like that, and it looks right. I had to look it up and checked about 10 different sources because I couldn’t believe I had it wrong all these years. So there you go – CARILLON!!@@***  Clearly we’re all saying it wrong though. emoji-facepalm-shrug[1]



Moving on – and hanging on


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img_9721I’m in a quiet, empty house in Newcastle – my Mum’s place. Mum’s in hospital, again, and Dad’s been gone for years, so the house is mine alone for the moment, for days at a stretch, to sit and reflect. It’s quiet, but it’s comforting, and it’s giving me the space to breathe it in and think about the changes taking place.

The furniture, and so many of the ornaments and bits and piece, are exactly the same as they were when Mum and Dad was first purchased them nearly 60 years ago. Most of it was assembled when Mum went out and purchased a whole household of furniture and decor in virtually one fell swoop, dividing her attention and cash between David Jones and ‘Goulds’; lounges, buffets, tables, lamps and even ornaments. Who does that? Some of the small stuff and the multitude of paintings have been added over the years. Some of it is heavy with dust, some is tucked away, but almost all is still in remarkably good nick. And those red marble grapes and the trio of black vases still nestle together just as they did half a century ago on the buffet.

I’m sitting at the dining table. It’s the one from my childhood, and teenage years, and all the years after, because it’s the only one they/we ever had, the one from the ‘good room’. Although it wasn’t for daily use (the six of us squeezed around a small round one, also still here, for that), it was the table we sat around for many occasions and big events. That’s when the buffet would be cracked open and the Wedgewood and the heavy Stuart crystal glasses would be allowed to come out to grace the equally heavy lace cloth, and the laughs and red wine would flow. It’s also the table I studied fervently on for my HSC while Billy Joel played My Life in the background somewhere, in the days when few of us had studies or desks in their rooms – they were too small for that, and often were shared by more than one person. But I must have been considered trustworthy with a pen by the time I was 17, though no doubt I’d have been under strict instructions to put a magazine under what I was writing on. I still say exactly the same thing to my (grown) kids, and now to my granddaughter as well. But it’s a discipline that protects the furniture, as the table’s most excellent condition attests.

Tonight I’ve put on a CD of music, classical of course, because that’s what always filled the house. Beethoven was the CD in the player, Beethoven’s 5th, so Dad would have been pleased.

Sometimes I sit in Dad’s big, black chair, and soak him in through the leather, and sometimes I swap to the yellow one on the other side of the room, the one Nana used to sit in on a Sunday afternoon long, long ago when the chair used to be turquoise, with her ramrod-straight back, and take in the world through her steely blue eyes.


This afternoon I curled up on the feathery heaven of the lounge, just as I did as a teen and later when I’d left home and would come back for the weekend, and took a long, luxurious nap. It’s ridiculously comfortable, and for a vertically-challenged person like myself, still offers plenty of scope for an adequate sleeping pose in the foetal position. If Mum was here, she’d have immediately puffed it up furiously the minute I’d got up and made it perfect again. One of her many, many obsessions is to keep the feathers pumped up just so. I never had the same discipline with the feather lounge we had once, and hence it was usually flat and never felt the same.

I don’t think she’ll come back here. She loves this place, with its original lead-light windows and dark, timber doors and picture railings. I’ve always found it dark and a bit oppressive, but I’ve worked out when I’m here alone, I can open up all the blinds and fling open the doors to let the breeze in, and it’s a house transformed. She’s often told me it’s her favourite house she’s ever lived in, so that’s all that matters, even if it is dark and musty under her watch. It’s a hard choice to make, to stay or go, and an even harder place to leave. It’s her home.

For some months I’ve been wearing a path out between capital cities – visiting Mum in various hospitals and talking to an endless array of doctors and medical staff, trying to peer into the future and investigating options as she battles various ailments and crises, and then goes back home to try it again with a bit more support added in. But it’s looking bleak in terms of staying here. The more I pry into papers and piles and poke into cupboards and potter about, the more obvious it is how tenuously she’s been hanging on – even though she’d say she was doing perfectly well. It’s a fine balance to know when to intervene, and it took a crisis for a catalyst.

Working through some of the paperwork is easy enough – though laborious; what’s rubbish and needs to be discarded is reasonably clear, as is what’s official and needs to be kept. But what about the myriad of stuff in between?

Delving into the cupboards means peeling back the layers of history. Not just her history, but the history of her generation before her, still buried in the bowels of the linen cupboard or revered in the musty aroma of an untouched bookcase. It’s daunting stuff, and it’s huge. Much is trash – bra receipts from a decade ago, for example, or doctors’ appointment cards from before, but there are treasures. Like old photos or the first locks of baby hair. Or your Dad’s boarding pass he kept spirited away in his tall boy from his one and only European trip that that you took him on nearly 20 years ago. Ah, the sights we saw and the toilets we stopped at!


Even though it’s taking hours, and days, and weeks, I’m just chipping away at the edges. There’s hardly a dent inside, even though the bins keep going out full and the pile in the hall for charity is becoming a mountain. And oh, the books, the books! And then there is the abundance of fake flowers, not to mention the piles of recent acquisitions from mail order catalogues. Soon I will have to enlist the support of the broader family, to sort, and discard, and clean, and no doubt horde some for the next generation. The pain of hanging on: I do recall I’ve written about that before.


There’s still so much to dislodge. For a chronic hoarder and a die-hard sentimentalist, it’s a recipe for agony.



Historic Lanyon Homestead: where pastures preceded politics


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It’s hard to remember sometimes, but this adolescent planned city of politics and politicians we now call Canberra actually has a history longer than we might imagine, and like much of our nation, it too is steeped in rural and convict beginnings.

A visit to historic Lanyon Homestead sprawling peacefully in the foothills of Tharwa on the outskirts of Canberra is an entry into a time gone by, and a revelation into what once was.IMG_9300

Inhabited by Indigenous peoples for eons before, the Lanyon property began colonial life with squatters and was purchased as a rural property by James Wright and his mate John Lanyon, for whom the property was named, in 1835. John went back to England leaving James to manage Lanyon, with the help of convict labour. It supported a community of 60 for some time, but financial problems resulted in the bank foreclosing on him, and he moved across the river.

Enter the Cunningham family who purchased the property in 1849. After the very first home there was demolished (the excavation of that remains), the current homestead itself was built by the Cunniningham family in 1859, where they raised a family of eight. 1859 is pretty bloody old by Australian standards, especially in Canberra. The homestead and property underwent a number of changes and ownership over the years, eventually being compulsorily acquired by the ACT government in 1971 as the urban sprawl spread outwards towards Tuggeranong and more land was required for housing. That made the then owners, the Fields, pretty unhappy and a long legal battle ensued, ending in the High Court. The Fields lost the property, scored some money which undoubtedly wasn’t enough, and the ACT government picked up a wonderful historic asset.  Somehow Lanyon escaped suburban development and instead was turned into a national treasure now maintained by the ACT Government through ACT Historic places.


I’ve visited Lanyon decades before, when the large collection of Sidney Nolan paintings he donated in 1974 specifically for the property were still housed there (and before they were moved to their current home at CMAG under another furore). I attended a wedding there and even participated in an enthralling treasure hunt aimed at the kids as we ferreted our way around the property solving clues and seeking out treasure. (I’m not sure there was actually to be found but just the thrill of the chase.)

But it was fun to go back with a local group of instagrammers (read chronic photo-takers) to be guided through the homestead and its various outbuildings, dating from convict days, by a team of dedicated and knowledgeable guides to explain some of its past. The homestead building is original, and charming, while the furniture and fittings inside have been re-imagined with items from the era, allowing you a peek into times gone by. It’s really quite lovely.

Outside the main property is a collection of all those outbuildings any self-respecting homestead should have: a kitchen, cooks’ quarters, stables, cellar, etc. There’s even some wonderfully alliterative hand-hewn hexagonal hardwood to hoo-hah at on the floor of the stable, a whole foot deep.

A little meander away, just on the edge of the Murrumbidgee River, there’s a little white hut that once housed the convicts overseer to make sure the convicts were all in place after the days’ work. The residents there could look out just across the river to the spot where William Farrer, of Australian wheat fame, used to reside and experiment with rust-resistant wheat strains suitable for Australian conditions. History at your backdoor indeed. Thirty years I’ve lived in this city and I’ve never twigged that the suburb Farrer was named for that man.

Once you’ve had your fill of history, you can enjoy a picnic from the gardens with the blue hills of the Brindabella Ranges as your backdrop, or grab a coffee or lunch in the cafe if you prefer. Hell, you can even get married at Lanyon if you want.

Some of the property is still leased as a working farm, and the smattering of black cows and a still working Southern Cross windmill from the 1930s render it as truly authentic.

I missed the famed vegetable garden and I didn’t get time to photograph the cows, but here are some resident ducks and their babies instead.


Too much to take in. Too little time. Perhaps I’ll have to go back again.

With thanks to the IgersCanberra team for organising and the lovely ladies @ACTHistoricplaces, Kate, Sally & Clare, who showed us the sights and explained the history, and even put up that timber sheep ‘hurdle’ (above) as they used to do in days of old. Impressive.

The virtual world meets reality – Insta-happenings


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My dear better half despairs of the time I devote living in my ‘other world’ of social media, lurking for hours in a virtual reality behind a small screen. It is somewhat addictive, but recently I proved to him that it can sometimes be more than cyber-stalking and that there are actually real people involved. And sometimes you get to meet them in person.

Enter stage right: IgersCanberra, a local community of people who like to take photos and share them on Instagram. The Igers mob (there’s a core group of organisers) recently put out a photographic challenge on the theme of Feather, fur and fins, sparking a frenzy of clicking and posting activity across Canberra, and which culminated in an exhibition of a selection of images hosted by the Tuggeranong Arts Centre.

I was chuffed to have one of my images selected: a beautiful peacock taken from a different angle. (This fine fellow turned out to be quite the model, very cooperative and almost stationary while he preened and posed for photos, feathers expanded in full glory. Look at me, look at me. I met him at the marvellous Blackbutt Reserve in Newcastle – more of the peacock glory and the tale of Blackbutt is here. )

Who knew a bottom could be quite so attractive?

tail feathers

How great on the opening night of the exhibition, wine glass in hand, to see all the images displayed on a gallery wall and actually printed in full detail, quite different to seeing them flashing quickly by on a tiny electronic screen. And then, we got to meet some of the faces behind the insta-handles – in full three dimensional person.

If you want to catch the exhibition, it’s on until 28 October, and if you want to read more, the ABC featured the event in a little write up here.

The Canberra Igers group is part of a much wider Igers movement that consists of geographically-based communities around the world, all happily snapping away and sharing their images digitally – and sometimes meeting up!

I’d met a couple of the people before when I attended an ‘instameet’ several months before when a group met up to learn a bit about painting with light in night photography, under the guidance of a few people who knew what they were doing. A bit of shared knowledge goes a long way.


And this weekend I’m off to another one, this time to take a behind-the-scenes peek at rural Lanyon Homestead, one of the oldest buildings we have around these parts, guided by ACT Historic Places. Of course, we’ll have our phones in hand to click madly as we go.

See. It’s really not anti-social at all.

PS Thanks to the Igers team for your work, the excursions, and the cupcakes!


Photo credits for images in top photo: L-R: @millicentrussell; @boomingon; @Daisyduds; @meeklay; @dkolsky

Holiday travel: how to pack like a boss


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packingThere’s a multitude of helpful advice about the smartest and leanest ways of packing for holidays. But it wasn’t until Miss Sunshine (3) came for a sleepover with her carefully packed ‘Trunkie’ that I twigged that’s there’s basically just one rule: pack what’s important to you.

Her packing clearly identify her priorities. Array of soft toys for night time cuddles; choice of foot wear; just-in-case pull ups for night time. I especially loved that she packed food, just in case Marsie and Dude didn’t have any at their place.

There’s a lot to be gleaned from the ‘holiday’ packings of a small one. It’s interesting that after several sleepovers, the packing has reduced somewhat as she’s become more practised and relaxed about the whole process and worked out what’s absolutely key.  (Shoe choices remain a priority, as does toothbrush and toothpaste, I’m pleased to say.) She’s also worked out Marsie and Dude do in fact have food at their house and are likely to share it with her so she won’t starve if she doesn’t bring her own.

That’s what happens. We evolve, and get better with working out what we need and what we don’t. Well, that’s the theory.

So, herewith my suggestions for sensible holiday packing. I wrote it for women, but guys – hell, if the shoe fits…

And lookey look, no long list of affiliate links to each separate suggestion!! Just tips. Just saying.

Think about where you’re going. Hardly rocket science, but think through the days. Somewhere tropical means it’s likely there’ll be lots of rain, so rubber thongs might be handy for the beach and puddles in sudden downpours. Won’t need them in Europe in autumn though. And you won’t need any sort of wool in Asia.

Coordinate, coordinate. Choose one basic colour, maybe black or navy, and make sure everything can go back to that. It means lots of matchy matchy stuff will be happening and it will seem you have heaps of outfits even with limited items. That  helps with the ‘don’t take too much’ thing. The better you plan, the less you need. A colour-consultant-colleague would be screaming in anguish about the lack of colour, but that’s what accessories are for, and feature items, and scarves (see below).

Try on your stuff before you go  It’s amazing how clothes can mysteriously shrink in the wardrobe between seasons (is that just me?). Make sure it all works together and omit items which want to star by themselves. Travel packing is about team play. Keep in mind layering for cooler days or dressing up for evenings.

Plan your travel outfit. Start with what you’ll be wearing on the way and put that aside. Comfy pants are a must, and layers as it gets hotter and colder. No, it’s not just you. Planes can do that too. Wear your heaviest comfy shoes to wear on the plane to lighten your load.

Take a scarf. My absolute must-have item. What a multitude of purposes it serves! Wrapped around your knees or neck, it keeps you warm, or snazzy; around your head or shoulders it keeps you appropriate in mosques; draped in the evening it makes you glam and gorgeous; and during the day it protects you from sunburn (unless you’re British in which case you’re likely to want to maximise your sun exposure and turn bright red and blistered to demonstrate you’ve been on holiday). You can even wrap it around your head as the locals do in Morocco and protect yourself from heatstroke in the Sahara. So versatile! Hell, go crazy – maybe take two! I like cotton longish ones – super versatile and easy to wash – rather than small silk ones that slip off.


Shoe choices. These things can overload your case, but are key to get right. If you’re going to walk a lot, take comfy walking shoes, and ones you’ve worn in.  And do you really need those heels? Last trip I managed to take just flats. I am at peace with my vertically-challenged body, and a pair of pretty flats can look dressy. Just don’t take too many. Daughter Moo once tried to take 13 pairs of shoes to Hamilton Island for a week. With effort, I whittled her down to eight.

Pack clothes that are warm enough. This one’s sooo important. If you’re cold, you’re miserable, and likely everyone else will be too, because you’ll complain all the time, especially at your partner. Or again, is that just me? Personally I’d rather carry a jacket and not wear it rather than be cold. Just got myself a lightweight down one which ticks all the boxes for changing weather. Bliss bliss bliss.

Allow time to sort out your technology – and test it I swear it almost takes longer to pack all the techo things than the clothes things, just so you can stay ‘connected’ to all those things and people you’re trying to have a break from. Phone, laptop, tablet, chargers, spare batteries, camera, lenses, memory cards, USB, blah, blah, blah. Here’s my big hint: if you’re going to buy new gear just before you go (because you get the GST back as you’re leaving, remember?), allow yourself time to transfer your stuff and TEST IT WORKS before you go. Go into your apps and online accounts to check passwords etc from any new devices. Such a pain when you can’t access them from overseas if they require a phone connection for passwords and you’re relying on free wifi. Yep, I still do that.

Remove those gym clothes you packed. Who are you kidding? If you’re really dedicated and you do perchance get to the gym instead of cocktail hour, you can just wear the shorts and t-shirt already packed. The runners are okay – you’ll probably use them.

Store your travel bibs and bobs together. I’ve got a permanent little box of travel stuff ready to pull out and go when needed: travel purse, suitcase locks, adapters, plastic zip lock bags, sewing kit, mini shampoos and so on. Boom.


Do the Chanel thing – When you think you’re done, take something out (instead of off). Maybe that extra jumper, or that other black top that looks pretty much the same as the first one. It’s black. No one will see it’s dirty—#thebeautyofblack.

I’m sure I’m getting better all the time, but hell, it still takes a while.

What are your fave packing tips?


Mark Wilkinson: a man with a guitar and a gift


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Sometimes you go to a concert or music show at a stadium, or at a theatre, or a club. Or sometimes you get to go to one in someone’s house on a farm in Oakdale in a place so random you need Google maps to find your way there.

Such is the flavour of Mark Wilkinson’s current tour, ‘The Road Home’, which has been taking place since May, from North America to across Australia and New Zealand, on farms, in people’s homes and random venues. It’s the epitome of up close and personal. And isn’t it lovely?

We’d come prepared for an outdoor event, on an evening with serious bite, with jackets and beanies, three layers and a rug. We even brought directors chairs. But luckily we didn’t need any of those because instead we were inside in a shed that had been transformed by our enthusiastic hosts, the warm and welcoming Joe and Kim, into a fine venue created just for the evening.

What had been a shell of a building had been fitted out with walls, a roof, then rows of seats, heaters and even a choice of comfy lounges at the back and front (they had to buy new ones for inside to replace them), with a stage lit softly at the front. Our hosts even put on an unexpected and generous dinner spread, enough to feed an army. I think that’s because they’re Italian and the relies were invited. That’s what they do. We brought wine but they offered us more. We felt we were among friends.

The stage was a simple affair—a mic, two speakers and a trio of central bulbs casting soft light upwards, and fine stranfs of fairy lights strung loosely around the perimeter, and a lit M & W set at the back either side of lettering spelling out the name of the tour. It was all that was needed. And then entered a small-framed performer with a guitar and a serious demeanour, with a calm but powerful presence, who stills the rooms and lets you into his world.



It was an intimate affair, only 60 or so people in the room, some new to this grounded artist who seems to fly somewhat under the radar, and some dedicated followers. One’s so dedicated she follows him from venue to venue, even state to state. An evening of beautiful melodies, lyrics that pierce your soul, and a voice that resonates and pulses with emotion, with a morsel of vibrato in all the right places to elevate it to the heavens. It’s a gifted voice and just a snippet of it – whether you heard it in a coffee ad on television years ago (me) or wafting down the streets of the Rocks as Mark performs as a busker (the hosts) – can stop you in your tracks, and cause you to track down its owner.

An acoustic guitar is the only accompaniment, a trusted friend to help tell the stories, with signature and unapologetic squeaks as fingers slide from one fret to the next along the way. This from a singer whose face grimaces from emotion from time to time as he experiences the songs himself, and pulls away from the mic as if in exquisite pain to finish the notes with fervour but never force.

From the front lounge to the side, Joe the host erupts in praise after the third song. ‘That was brilliant. Just brilliant. That was brilliant that song.’ And everyone laughs. The faces of the family dogs appear occasionally at the glass window behind the performer, and even they bark their approval occasionally during the breaks to be part of the event. It seemed apt.

All my favourites are played, and there are many, and then more. It’s beautiful music, laid back, soulful, pretty beyond aesthetics. ‘Love High’ came early —’our song’, the one we dance to when it comes on at home, the one which will farewell us at our funerals, but we can’t dance here. Just listen. It’s an effort not to join in with the vocals through the evening, but when you’re only two metres from the performer you know it just can’t be done.

As if the music itself isn’t emotional enough in its own right, that night just before the show started I learned that Connie Johnson from Love Your Sister cancer charity had died hours before, our Connie, Canberra’s Connie, everyone’s Connie. So when Mark sang ‘All I Ever Wanted’ at the end of the evening, there was a special poignancy about it and the lyrics seemed to be hers: “Something so strong, that never dies.” It’s about being in the here and now, which is pretty much what #nowisawesome is all about.

There’s an encore, another sad song, and then another encore, and another. We finish with ‘Another necklace’, another fave. Too many anothers.

If you don’t know this music, look it up. Listen to it. Seriously.

We stocked up on the newest albums to add to our collection and listened to them on the drive home the next day. Without exception, each track is worthy, and the interspersion of violin and cello add another dimension and depth to the simplicity of the unplugged live versions.

On the night it was just one singer, one guitar, one voice.

It was enough.

Tricky Thai travel tips


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Local tips can add to your holiday joy, even if you’re a seasoned traveller, including little things you knew already but had forgotten. Fresh from the shores of the Andaman Sea in Phuket, here’s a collection of some favourite tips from the last trip.

Getting around

  • Always travel with someone who likes maps, especially when maps are not your friend. Good to get some orientation and idea of distances to plan your days and before you set off in taxis.


  • Taxis and tuk tuks are the choices to get around town. Barter hard with a smile. Do some investigations first to get a ballpark and work from there, for example, prices hotel foyers prices give you a starting point to come down from. You can even hire a driver or a boat for the day and split the cost between friends.
  • Get a metred taxi from the airport (check it’s on when you get in). We paid 700 THB into Phuket, were quoted 1100THB on the way back by the hotel desk service, and agreed 850 TBT on the street ourselves by being insistent, so prices vary.
  • When you agree a price, specify ‘no stops’ or you might find yourself being dragged around their friend’s shop on the way.
  • Tuk tuks in Phuket are sadly not of the fun three-wheeled variety found elsewhere in Thailand, and they’re also more expensive. If you’re getting a tuk tuk home and you know you’re being charged an inflated rate but they won’t budge (any of them!, because they don’t like having to take you up that hill to your hotel), pick one with pimping lights and pumping music. Makes you feel like you got your money’s worth, and your fellow passengers will sing.


  • Bartering is expected at the markets but not in shopping centres and restaurants. Barter with good humour and manners to get you further. If you’re allowed to walk away without a fight, you’re at their limit. Don’t forget, the final dollar you save will probably be way more important to the Thai seller than to you.
  • Street stalls and markets in Phuket and other areas of Thailand are full of life and hustle and bustle and give credence to the Thai catch cry of ‘same same’. If you want something a bit different, head to the quieter areas off the beaten track, like old Phuket Town or even some of the larger shopping centres. Old Phuket Town has some wonderful historic streets dotted with unique shops and galleries, where the speed slows down tenfold and the quality and variety goes up.


  • Try some street food – hot and fresh. Pad Thai cooked right in front of you is not to be missed and is one of the safest ways to eat.

  • Remember that just about everything in Thailand comes with chilli, occasionally near deadly quantities, so ask for it to be tempered to your taste buds if you don’t want to lose your lips.
  • Always eat the pineapple. It’s holiday pineapple. A special kind of pineapple. Delicious. It also has ‘medicinal’ properties to overcome other ‘issues’ you may have when suddenly adjusting to a different diet. Lots of fruit! Say no more.

  • Fresh croissants at brekkie are a good thing, but Thai humidity makes them soggy within seconds. If there’s a conveyor belt type toaster, whack them through to return them to their former crisp glory. Also transforms pancakes from rubbery to hot and delicious within seconds. Winning.

  • No matter how many times I try desserts in Asia, even at the poshest of establishments, I am underwhelmed. They’re all about flummery, gelatinous textures and super sweet flavours. But the local ice creams are pretty fab, and dirt cheap. If you’re buying from the street-side box fridges, forget the standard magnum type things and hit the local brands instead. Delicious!
  • Try a street stall pancake for dessert on the run. There’s a bit of a fixation on banana flavoured ones, but the simple lemon and sugar is a classic. Watch the cooker first to see how thick the pancakes are – it’s a little like Goldilocks and the Three Bears – you have to get one that’s just right.


  • Don’t drink the local water – that will increase your chances of getting sick. This means the country goes through an extraordinary number of plastic bottles buying bottled water, many of which end up in the oceans and discarded on the beaches. Shame! Don’t leave them behind and be horror tourists.
  • But if you keep one, or even better, travel with your own drinking bottle, you can boil water at night and keep refilling your own bottle and help save the world one bottle at a time.
  • Keep some bottled water next to your toothbrush and use that for brushing instead of the unpotable local stuff. That one sneaks up on you.
  • Wine drinkers – just give up for the duration and stick to cocktails – cheaper by far and feels more like a vacation. Or drink the local beer which is a cost effective travel drink.

Spa treatments and massages

  • Do some of these. Do many of these. Do these every day if you can. Get. a. foot. massage.
  • Choose the place you go carefully. Sometimes it is a case of you get what you pay for, like nail polish that goes furry and peels in two days for $9. The spas in resorts or hotels are more expensive, but they are more convenient and will often be nicer with better privacy and offer a more indulgent experience. Hotels usually offer two for one deals and happy hour deals in the middle of the day, especially in the low season.

  • I’m pretty sure the spa treatment places along the main drag with strings of girls and lady boys thrusting the massage menus at you as you walk past do more than manicures and back massages. Especially the ones with private rooms. That’s probably not the place to go if you’re away for a girls’ week away.
  • Be aware that once you add oil in the mix (aromatherapy massages), tummies and sometimes even more can be involved. You’re in charge – specify beforehand if you want to concentrate on certain body parts or leave some out.
  • Try something new – I did a heat compression massage which was fab, but don’t let anyone walk on your back. No one’s tried that on me, but I’ve heard stories and it can do a lot of damage.


  • Zika virus and malaria are about, so take insect repellent with you and put it on before you go out. Close your door and wardrobe at night in your hotel room – mozzies lurk there during the day and come out at night to catch you unawares. Sneaky little buggers. Depending on where you go, consider malaria tablets (before, during and after your trip), and even a mozzie net.

And a special tip to my beloved daughter and others of the lily white variety.

  • Yes, Ms Temporary Tomato. Of course you can still get burnt under an umbrella, especially when your skin is so white and transparent even taxi drivers comment. And the water in the pool does afford any protection as you float around on top of it, even for a few minutes. In fact, it’s just like saying to the sunburn gods, ‘Send it down, Huey – with an extra bit of bite.’ It’s like that Thai chilli- it burns.

Wherever you go, do a bit of research first about your destination and what’s on offer. For Thailand, Lonely Planet is a good start, or Phuket.com, or expat or foodie blogs and (serious) foodie reviews (more on eating out in Phuket coming soon). You don’t want to find out about the amazing things when you get home.




How to banish the texting sloth in your life and text like a boss


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I am totally crushing at the latest bit of technology in my life. The time I am saving now when I’m wasting time!

No longer do I have to battle that pesky little ‘keypad’ on the bottom of my phone trying to type long messages, hitting all the wrong keys, battling autocorrect, lagging three steps behind when I’m in a conversation with multiple 20-somethings at the same time. I’m still struggling with my first reply and my phone’s going ping, ping, ping, with all the messages flooding in. By the time I’m finished my response, it’s likely to be no longer relevant. How do they type so bloody quickly on those things? And no – using my thumbs does not work! They don’t seem to be connected to my brain the same way yours are.

So now I’ve got my own back – I have invested in a bluetooth keyboard which connects to my phone to a regular little keyboard but bit smaller. I can use ALL my fingers again (well, nine of them) and keep up with all those rapid, pinging conversations from the young ones in my life.

I actually bought the keyboard because the keyboard on my fancy little laptop for travels had decided it will not type ‘A’s anymore, which makes writing coherent sentences quite difficult. And the cost to repair? $280. Gotta love this disposable technology designed to last just a couple of years, or just until it’s out of warranty!@?

In any case, connecting the iphone to the keyboard has brought a great joy to my life.

Phone keyboard sloth – be gone!