There’s such a storm just happening now both at home and work. Projects flying around, gigs to prepare for, new directions and opportunities and at the same time paying attention to consolidation of current projects, as well as family, dogs and all that entails.
It seems like there is hardly a moment to think, never mind act and the temptation, even on a Sunday afternoon, is to open up the computer files and start planning and working.
It’s taken me this long to realise that any work done under these conditions won’t be very productive. Without rest, and without paying attention to the important things first – health and family – the head won’t be able to fly as free as it needs to in order to produce the best goods possible.
The head space needs to be calm in order to work well. Balance needs to be maintained for mental and spiritual health, and yet it’s difficult sometimes to defy the feeling of obligation to get on with things. Thus the internal struggle seeps across the weekend, eating up precious free time.
So, for this moment anyway, I’m off to do some of that head clearing.
Have a wonderful week, everyone, and remember to take time for your sanity.
As one of my personal mantras says; everything in moderation, including moderation!
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Grow A Pair
Two weeks ago I turned 50.
Now, I know that many people dread that milestone, while others don’t care one way or another. Me? I’m grabbing and running with it. Woo hoo – I get to be an adult whether people like the way I do it or not. You can criticise my technique but you can’t argue with the chronology, buddy!
I get to grow old and I get to do it however I want to. Grumpy or smiley, I can do it with impunity, for now I am a senior citizen. Going by what friends have experienced I’ll soon get those lovely letters from the Government to prove that I’m 50, which cordially invite me to get a titty squash and jobbie assessment to make sure I don’t have breast or bowel cancer. Such fun!
And if I want further proof that I’m a senior citizen I need only walk past the Norwood Senior Citizens club and read the sign out at the front door that tells me that Tuesday and Friday afternoons are for the ‘Over 50s’. (Note – the first time I realised that this may apply to me I shuddered.)
It’s a strange situation; I’d always pictured someone who goes to these clubs to be self-admitting themselves to God’s waiting room. I don’t actually know of anyone over 50 who has time to attend one of their sessions. Everyone I know who has passed their golden jubilee is far too busy either enjoying their increasing freedom as the kids leave home or they’re starting new careers.
Is it a Baby Boomer thing? That we shall never knowingly grow old and doddery like our forbears? Or is it a continuation of the ‘I Want and I Shall Have’ mentality that refuses to give up getting until we’re falling down?
For me, I know it’s the absolute fascination of ‘I’ve got this far and I’m not dead yet!’ feeling, and wondering how much further I can push my abilities and courage.
It’s got a lot to do with courage. I’ve spent a lot of my earlier life being fearful – a reflection of the way I was brought up. But I’ve found those fears to be unfounded so with renewed confidence I grab my 50 returns of the sun and plough off into territory that is new, exciting, and is filled with infinite possibilities.
Happy birthday to me, and to my decision to ‘grow a pair’.
And if I can do it, so can you!
Five ways I know I’m now 50
1. I’ve started to be very selective with how I spend my time and who I spend it with.
2. I like to be home at ‘a decent hour’ and I don’t like being out two nights in a row.
3. I eat weetbix for ‘digestive health’.
4. I am coming to understand the concept of ‘spare wine’.
5. I listen to ABC radio. By choice. And enjoy it!
Now, I know that many people dread that milestone, while others don’t care one way or another. Me? I’m grabbing and running with it. Woo hoo – I get to be an adult whether people like the way I do it or not. You can criticise my technique but you can’t argue with the chronology, buddy!
I get to grow old and I get to do it however I want to. Grumpy or smiley, I can do it with impunity, for now I am a senior citizen. Going by what friends have experienced I’ll soon get those lovely letters from the Government to prove that I’m 50, which cordially invite me to get a titty squash and jobbie assessment to make sure I don’t have breast or bowel cancer. Such fun!
And if I want further proof that I’m a senior citizen I need only walk past the Norwood Senior Citizens club and read the sign out at the front door that tells me that Tuesday and Friday afternoons are for the ‘Over 50s’. (Note – the first time I realised that this may apply to me I shuddered.)
It’s a strange situation; I’d always pictured someone who goes to these clubs to be self-admitting themselves to God’s waiting room. I don’t actually know of anyone over 50 who has time to attend one of their sessions. Everyone I know who has passed their golden jubilee is far too busy either enjoying their increasing freedom as the kids leave home or they’re starting new careers.
Is it a Baby Boomer thing? That we shall never knowingly grow old and doddery like our forbears? Or is it a continuation of the ‘I Want and I Shall Have’ mentality that refuses to give up getting until we’re falling down?
For me, I know it’s the absolute fascination of ‘I’ve got this far and I’m not dead yet!’ feeling, and wondering how much further I can push my abilities and courage.
It’s got a lot to do with courage. I’ve spent a lot of my earlier life being fearful – a reflection of the way I was brought up. But I’ve found those fears to be unfounded so with renewed confidence I grab my 50 returns of the sun and plough off into territory that is new, exciting, and is filled with infinite possibilities.
Happy birthday to me, and to my decision to ‘grow a pair’.
And if I can do it, so can you!
Five ways I know I’m now 50
1. I’ve started to be very selective with how I spend my time and who I spend it with.
2. I like to be home at ‘a decent hour’ and I don’t like being out two nights in a row.
3. I eat weetbix for ‘digestive health’.
4. I am coming to understand the concept of ‘spare wine’.
5. I listen to ABC radio. By choice. And enjoy it!
Monday, June 13, 2011
Looks Like a Bomb Hit it!
Hey all!
Holiday Monday here which means its busier than normal day. What with some work this morning, haircutting of son's giant afro, quick catch up with pal and then what may be a long meeting with Adelaide Theatre Guide colleagues, the actually most exciting thing is the formal launch of my new website! I say my 'new' website - it's also my only personal website.
We do have the Three Stuffed Mums website which is www.threestuffedmums.com and I have to say there are some exciting things shaping up for the Mums in 2012. And now there is my website at www.maggiewood.com.au which brings together all my skills for hire under the one 'shopfront'.
Have a look and I'd welcome feedback and comments.
Rushing off now to tidy house that looks like a bomb hit it!
Have a great week!
Holiday Monday here which means its busier than normal day. What with some work this morning, haircutting of son's giant afro, quick catch up with pal and then what may be a long meeting with Adelaide Theatre Guide colleagues, the actually most exciting thing is the formal launch of my new website! I say my 'new' website - it's also my only personal website.
We do have the Three Stuffed Mums website which is www.threestuffedmums.com and I have to say there are some exciting things shaping up for the Mums in 2012. And now there is my website at www.maggiewood.com.au which brings together all my skills for hire under the one 'shopfront'.
Have a look and I'd welcome feedback and comments.
Rushing off now to tidy house that looks like a bomb hit it!
Have a great week!
Sunday, June 5, 2011
...With a Cleaver in His Hand
I'm drinking a glass of the most delicious orange juice from one of the trees in our back garden. I've been doing this every winter since I came to Australia 12 years ago, and still I'm awed by it.
Where I lived in Scotland, stuff didn't grow on trees, except for leaves, and maybe chestnuts in the autumn but that was an 'English' thing and even if we used them for games of conkers we'd never have had a clue about how to eat them. At one point, when I lived in Red Rd Court there wasn't a shop that sold fresh fruit and veg closer than two suburbs away. There was a supermarket but they gradually stopped selling the fruit n veg in favour of getting more freezers in. If you wanted an orange you had to get on the number 8 bus to Springburn, which was once every 30 mins if it turned up, and take your chance there.
It wasn't so bad when I moved to Govanhill. Allison Street was a long corridor of fruit and veg heaven. There was a huge population of Indian and Pakistani people in the suburb, and the women would shop daily for their cooking needs, which gave us residents the follow-on benefit of being able to walk into a shop at up to 9pm at night if you were longing for a banana.
And oh, the banana wars that went on! You'd see the signs go up 'Bananas 6p a pound', then the rival down the street would offer them at 4p, then someone would go to 2p.
My bestie, Linda, whose flat I shared, revelled in the banana wars and would report the latest to her dad, Jim, with the same enthusiasm a broker would have for the stock market. Her ultimate triumph came one day when she was able to proclaim 'They're giving them away for free!'.
There were also shops that sold all the cooking implements needed at very low prices. You'd see these yuppie folks on the telly with their latest chic item, like a mortar and pestle, that would have cost them a fortune. Stroll down Allison St and you'd get it for a fiver (I did). My one regret is not buying a chapati pan when I could. I'd actually really like one now so if anyone knows of where I can get a decent one in Adelaide, let me know.
They also had a few Halal butchers in Allison St. My main memory is when I was still dewy-eyed about the ex husband and wanted to take him to meet the parents. Called my mum who said 'well, we're having pork chops tonight but it's a public holiday - can you get a few more down Allison St and bring them up with you?'. And so, quite unthinkingly, I sent the ex into the Halal butcher to ask for four pork chops while I sat in the car.
I knew something was up when I saw him bolting from the door shouting "Drive! Drive!". Apparently its is something of a dangerous faux pas to ask for pork chops from a Halal butcher with a cleaver in his hand.
Have a lovely week!
Where I lived in Scotland, stuff didn't grow on trees, except for leaves, and maybe chestnuts in the autumn but that was an 'English' thing and even if we used them for games of conkers we'd never have had a clue about how to eat them. At one point, when I lived in Red Rd Court there wasn't a shop that sold fresh fruit and veg closer than two suburbs away. There was a supermarket but they gradually stopped selling the fruit n veg in favour of getting more freezers in. If you wanted an orange you had to get on the number 8 bus to Springburn, which was once every 30 mins if it turned up, and take your chance there.
It wasn't so bad when I moved to Govanhill. Allison Street was a long corridor of fruit and veg heaven. There was a huge population of Indian and Pakistani people in the suburb, and the women would shop daily for their cooking needs, which gave us residents the follow-on benefit of being able to walk into a shop at up to 9pm at night if you were longing for a banana.
And oh, the banana wars that went on! You'd see the signs go up 'Bananas 6p a pound', then the rival down the street would offer them at 4p, then someone would go to 2p.
My bestie, Linda, whose flat I shared, revelled in the banana wars and would report the latest to her dad, Jim, with the same enthusiasm a broker would have for the stock market. Her ultimate triumph came one day when she was able to proclaim 'They're giving them away for free!'.
There were also shops that sold all the cooking implements needed at very low prices. You'd see these yuppie folks on the telly with their latest chic item, like a mortar and pestle, that would have cost them a fortune. Stroll down Allison St and you'd get it for a fiver (I did). My one regret is not buying a chapati pan when I could. I'd actually really like one now so if anyone knows of where I can get a decent one in Adelaide, let me know.
They also had a few Halal butchers in Allison St. My main memory is when I was still dewy-eyed about the ex husband and wanted to take him to meet the parents. Called my mum who said 'well, we're having pork chops tonight but it's a public holiday - can you get a few more down Allison St and bring them up with you?'. And so, quite unthinkingly, I sent the ex into the Halal butcher to ask for four pork chops while I sat in the car.
I knew something was up when I saw him bolting from the door shouting "Drive! Drive!". Apparently its is something of a dangerous faux pas to ask for pork chops from a Halal butcher with a cleaver in his hand.
Have a lovely week!
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Gein' it Laldy
I always find it therapeutic to join in when Tina Turner appears on the telly, and thus I’ve just greeted Sunday morning with a full belt version accompanying Ms Turner singing River Deep Mountain High. Thanks goodness we have tolerant neighbours.
Singing, though, it’s a great thing, eh?
After singing at the top of your lungs, whether it’s in the shower or on the stage at Radio City Music Hall, it’s such a cathartic experience and leaves you feeling great. I hope it’s the same for everyone. Singing’s become very commodified and it’s felt amongst some people that unless you’ve spent amounts of time studying music or paid your dues on the stage that you rank lower in the singing pecking order than others.
Stuff and nonsense, I say.
I grew up in a family where the gatherings and parties centred on people doing their ‘turn’. Everybody had a song that was theirs and after a few drinks were taken in smoky living rooms, the first person would, after much persuasion and (false) modesty start up the singing.
I can remember my cousin George Burns gein’ in laldy (tr. giving it everything/big licks) with The Donkey Serenade, Auntie Mary would sing On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep or ‘Always’, my dad would – very occasionally – sing Chattanooga Choo Choo. Auntie Jean would sometimes sing ‘When You and I Were Young, Maggie’ and go all teary as she looked at my mum. Uncle Pat would sing ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’ to my cousin Kathleen, and after heaps of cajoling Auntie Mona would sing ‘Ave Maria’ in her warbly soprano. Oh and cousin Lily would sing ‘Ten Guitars’ and somebody would always have a go at 'The Crystal Chandelier' and the superbly maudlin ‘Nobody’s Child’.
My early attempts were well received, and I usually was rolled out to sing the top of the day’s hit parade ‘Two Little Boys’.
To us, singing was as natural as speaking. It didn’t really matter how good or bad you were, and if you were challenged tonally, you usually managed to develop a style that got you through. There were no stars, no divas, and if anyone tried to do one they were soon cut off at the knees.
These days, we don’t sing so much, which is sad. I love getting the gals in the office to join in a chorus – everyone always smiles afterwards and it adds a zing to the atmosphere. Maybe it’s the making of the noise as much as anything.
I remember the first time I heard a women’s drumming group – sure after five minutes it got a bit samey, but in those first few minutes there was sheer pleasure in the noise itself and I couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear.
Acknowledgement and kudos have to go to some people who are already working to remove the exclusiveness of singing today. In particular I’m thinking of Sidonie Henbest, Nikki Aitken, and Matthew Carey who organise the superb Cabaret Live that welcomes everyone who wants to get up on stage and have a bit of a sing. It’s on the first Sunday of the month at La Boheme in Adelaide and it’s a fantastic night of entertainment, always packed.
Luckily a lot of my friends are all involved in theatre or comedy or music which is fantastic because we probably sing more for pleasure than most other segments of the population. Some of them haven’t been able to do shows for some time due to work and family commitments, and it’s a shame to lose that joy that singing either by oneself or together with friends brings.
That’s why I’ve been talking to some of them about an idea for singing circles. It’s a bit like a book club, but instead of talking books we get together, have a few wines and have a bit of a sing. We could sing together or do a solo. We could sing songs about where we’re from, or from the latest releases, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not that there would be no stars amongst us – we’d all be stars. All ability levels welcome, and perhaps stories and poems too. It’s just a gathering and a chance to spread the joy.
Who’s in?
Message me!
Singing, though, it’s a great thing, eh?
After singing at the top of your lungs, whether it’s in the shower or on the stage at Radio City Music Hall, it’s such a cathartic experience and leaves you feeling great. I hope it’s the same for everyone. Singing’s become very commodified and it’s felt amongst some people that unless you’ve spent amounts of time studying music or paid your dues on the stage that you rank lower in the singing pecking order than others.
Stuff and nonsense, I say.
I grew up in a family where the gatherings and parties centred on people doing their ‘turn’. Everybody had a song that was theirs and after a few drinks were taken in smoky living rooms, the first person would, after much persuasion and (false) modesty start up the singing.
I can remember my cousin George Burns gein’ in laldy (tr. giving it everything/big licks) with The Donkey Serenade, Auntie Mary would sing On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep or ‘Always’, my dad would – very occasionally – sing Chattanooga Choo Choo. Auntie Jean would sometimes sing ‘When You and I Were Young, Maggie’ and go all teary as she looked at my mum. Uncle Pat would sing ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’ to my cousin Kathleen, and after heaps of cajoling Auntie Mona would sing ‘Ave Maria’ in her warbly soprano. Oh and cousin Lily would sing ‘Ten Guitars’ and somebody would always have a go at 'The Crystal Chandelier' and the superbly maudlin ‘Nobody’s Child’.
My early attempts were well received, and I usually was rolled out to sing the top of the day’s hit parade ‘Two Little Boys’.
To us, singing was as natural as speaking. It didn’t really matter how good or bad you were, and if you were challenged tonally, you usually managed to develop a style that got you through. There were no stars, no divas, and if anyone tried to do one they were soon cut off at the knees.
These days, we don’t sing so much, which is sad. I love getting the gals in the office to join in a chorus – everyone always smiles afterwards and it adds a zing to the atmosphere. Maybe it’s the making of the noise as much as anything.
I remember the first time I heard a women’s drumming group – sure after five minutes it got a bit samey, but in those first few minutes there was sheer pleasure in the noise itself and I couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear.
Acknowledgement and kudos have to go to some people who are already working to remove the exclusiveness of singing today. In particular I’m thinking of Sidonie Henbest, Nikki Aitken, and Matthew Carey who organise the superb Cabaret Live that welcomes everyone who wants to get up on stage and have a bit of a sing. It’s on the first Sunday of the month at La Boheme in Adelaide and it’s a fantastic night of entertainment, always packed.
Luckily a lot of my friends are all involved in theatre or comedy or music which is fantastic because we probably sing more for pleasure than most other segments of the population. Some of them haven’t been able to do shows for some time due to work and family commitments, and it’s a shame to lose that joy that singing either by oneself or together with friends brings.
That’s why I’ve been talking to some of them about an idea for singing circles. It’s a bit like a book club, but instead of talking books we get together, have a few wines and have a bit of a sing. We could sing together or do a solo. We could sing songs about where we’re from, or from the latest releases, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not that there would be no stars amongst us – we’d all be stars. All ability levels welcome, and perhaps stories and poems too. It’s just a gathering and a chance to spread the joy.
Who’s in?
Message me!
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Two Metres Short
Isn’t it weird how the pursuit of things turns you into a stalker?
Or is it just me?
Exciting Saturday afternoon spent in Spotlight (a craft and material store) in town, chasing after a particularly patterned piece of material.
I saw what I needed, picked it up and admired it, but put the bolt of cloth down to go see if there was something else that might fit my purpose even more. Alas, when we went back to where I’d put it, it was gone! Arrgghh!
I spied it – a group of young girls were up at the counter with it. Double aarrgghh – there wasn’t that much material left on the bolt and I needed four metres. For now it was gone. We (patient hubby and I) decided to visit a nearby store of a similar vein to see if they had any. Alas they didn’t and we headed back to Spotlight. The group of young girls were now at the counter getting a length of MY cloth cut. We hovered around the side and back of the counter.
“Its gonna be all gone!” I whined.
“Its ok,” said hubby as he exerted his radar hearing, “she only wants two metres.”
Hope rose in my heart.
We made another circuit of the very large counter island and glanced downwards as the gaggle of girls walked past us with their cut of my cloth.
Where was the bolt? Where was it?
Not on the near part of the counter, so we shuffled through the queue towards the far side, and not there either.
Oh panic! What to do!
And then I saw it peeking out of the pile of previously purchased bolts and whipped it out.
Clutching it to my chest (yes I over reacted) I grabbed a number, got in line and glared at anyone who even glanced at my precious cloth.
Our number was eventually called and I asked for four metres. The lady measured out the cloth remaining on the bolt. Exactly two metres. Blast!
Hubby helpfully muttered “That girl got your two metres dear” and I cursed her under my breath.
But it wasn’t her fault. It was my fault for not trusting that what I requested had been delivered. That’s what happens when you second guess the universe – you end up two metres short!
If I was a church of Scotland Minister on the famed TV program ‘Late Call’ I’d now say the words “And life’s like that..” and then go on to give a really cheesy analogy from real life to illustrate the principle.
I’m not a Church of Scotland Minister but I will go on to say that so many people expressed a wish that they’d seen our show Three Stuffed Mums at the Adelaide Fringe but didn’t have the chance. Well the good news is that the Universe is throwing you a second opportunity because we’re at the Cabaret Fringe on the 3, 4 & 5 June at The Maid once more and we’d love to see your there. Book at BASS on 131 246 or go to www.bass.net.au. Please.
Cheesy hard sell over.
Have a wonderful weekend and week!
Or is it just me?
Exciting Saturday afternoon spent in Spotlight (a craft and material store) in town, chasing after a particularly patterned piece of material.
I saw what I needed, picked it up and admired it, but put the bolt of cloth down to go see if there was something else that might fit my purpose even more. Alas, when we went back to where I’d put it, it was gone! Arrgghh!
I spied it – a group of young girls were up at the counter with it. Double aarrgghh – there wasn’t that much material left on the bolt and I needed four metres. For now it was gone. We (patient hubby and I) decided to visit a nearby store of a similar vein to see if they had any. Alas they didn’t and we headed back to Spotlight. The group of young girls were now at the counter getting a length of MY cloth cut. We hovered around the side and back of the counter.
“Its gonna be all gone!” I whined.
“Its ok,” said hubby as he exerted his radar hearing, “she only wants two metres.”
Hope rose in my heart.
We made another circuit of the very large counter island and glanced downwards as the gaggle of girls walked past us with their cut of my cloth.
Where was the bolt? Where was it?
Not on the near part of the counter, so we shuffled through the queue towards the far side, and not there either.
Oh panic! What to do!
And then I saw it peeking out of the pile of previously purchased bolts and whipped it out.
Clutching it to my chest (yes I over reacted) I grabbed a number, got in line and glared at anyone who even glanced at my precious cloth.
Our number was eventually called and I asked for four metres. The lady measured out the cloth remaining on the bolt. Exactly two metres. Blast!
Hubby helpfully muttered “That girl got your two metres dear” and I cursed her under my breath.
But it wasn’t her fault. It was my fault for not trusting that what I requested had been delivered. That’s what happens when you second guess the universe – you end up two metres short!
If I was a church of Scotland Minister on the famed TV program ‘Late Call’ I’d now say the words “And life’s like that..” and then go on to give a really cheesy analogy from real life to illustrate the principle.
I’m not a Church of Scotland Minister but I will go on to say that so many people expressed a wish that they’d seen our show Three Stuffed Mums at the Adelaide Fringe but didn’t have the chance. Well the good news is that the Universe is throwing you a second opportunity because we’re at the Cabaret Fringe on the 3, 4 & 5 June at The Maid once more and we’d love to see your there. Book at BASS on 131 246 or go to www.bass.net.au. Please.
Cheesy hard sell over.
Have a wonderful weekend and week!
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Colour and Fairytales
Had a fantastic week off work.
Its the first time in over a year I've had more than a few days, no shows, not being ill, just good quality time to do stuff, and do stuff I have! There have been a few things that I'll go into in later blogs that took up time, I got to have some great family time with hubby and sons, and all in all just get my act together a little bit more. One of the things I haven't done is clean the house so its in as much of a shambles as it was this time last week. Oh well, lah de da.
Did you watch the Royal Wedding? I wasn't going to but there was nothing else on the telly! And boy do you get sucked in by all that pageantry. The bride was lovely in her Grace Kelly-ish dress and the groom looked handsome in his uniform. Plenty of swords there amongst the uniformed guests' posessions. Could have been interesting if a rammy broke oot at the purvey (tr. "If a fight had broken out at the reception).
The whole thing was worth it for the laugh when we got to see the two York gels dribble out of their limo dressed as the ugly sisters for the panto. Why didn't anybody say anything to them? Costumes by Central Casting, mascara and eyeliner by A Clockwork Orange. Jeez.
I could never have attended. Three hours in church without a toilet break? My idea of hell. Funny also to see the priests all dressed like peacocks in their finery and the two nuns looking miserable in their greys.
I once knew an apprentice nun who was lovely and who's order wore navy blue. After she'd been to her first massed meeting of nuns she exclaimed that she'd never seen so many shades of navy blue in her life. A feeling I later reflected on when I was asked to attend the reception of a Glasgow footballer's wedding and I realised I'd never seen so many shades of blonde and spray tan in my life. And as for the ladies... boom tish.
Anyway, it seems that the theory of the purpose of these royal weddings is to distract the people from what's really going on. It had its work to do here in sleepy Adelaide, as about 2km down the road from us, on the same day as the wedding, there was had a triple shooting and seige. A man opened fire on his neighbours, three people were killed, one injured and then a policeman was shot and his colleague injured. The shooter then holed up in a neighbouring house and didn't come out for nearly 12 hours. All very horrible stuff.
It was very weird, because that part of the main road was blocked off for almost 24 hours and the three things I had to get to that day were on the other side of the blockade. The whole situation felt very wrong and absurd. I had to get the dog to its clipping appointment, yet three people had been killed. What was horrifying was that I could consider this dilemma quite rationally. Part of my head is yelling "PEOPLE HAVE BEEN KILLED FOR GODS SAKE!" and the other side is going "Yeh but how do I get to the poodle parlour?". I'm not trying to minimalise or trivialise what happened here - the ability of our minds to rationalise the situation is quite scary, and by the looks of the number of vehicles who still tried to get through the blockade (while the seige was still going on) I wasn't the only one. Businesses were carrying on, walkers and joggers stood at the borderline of police cars to have a look, and the media hovered there as well in search of the latest updates.
Have we been desensitised to others' tragedy? What pushes us forward with the routine when things like this happen? Is it our safety zone, that if we keep on doing as normal then it's proof to ourselves that it hasn't happened to us? Those poor families tied up in this, losing loved ones to bullets and, it seems, mental illness, is too much to comprehend - especially when it happens on our safe, Adelaide suburban streets. Where do you go when something so horrible happens within coo-ee distance of home?
Apparently, we retreat to the safe, to the known, and we sit down and lose ourselves in a pageant of colour and fairytales on the other side of the world.
Its the first time in over a year I've had more than a few days, no shows, not being ill, just good quality time to do stuff, and do stuff I have! There have been a few things that I'll go into in later blogs that took up time, I got to have some great family time with hubby and sons, and all in all just get my act together a little bit more. One of the things I haven't done is clean the house so its in as much of a shambles as it was this time last week. Oh well, lah de da.
Did you watch the Royal Wedding? I wasn't going to but there was nothing else on the telly! And boy do you get sucked in by all that pageantry. The bride was lovely in her Grace Kelly-ish dress and the groom looked handsome in his uniform. Plenty of swords there amongst the uniformed guests' posessions. Could have been interesting if a rammy broke oot at the purvey (tr. "If a fight had broken out at the reception).
The whole thing was worth it for the laugh when we got to see the two York gels dribble out of their limo dressed as the ugly sisters for the panto. Why didn't anybody say anything to them? Costumes by Central Casting, mascara and eyeliner by A Clockwork Orange. Jeez.
I could never have attended. Three hours in church without a toilet break? My idea of hell. Funny also to see the priests all dressed like peacocks in their finery and the two nuns looking miserable in their greys.
I once knew an apprentice nun who was lovely and who's order wore navy blue. After she'd been to her first massed meeting of nuns she exclaimed that she'd never seen so many shades of navy blue in her life. A feeling I later reflected on when I was asked to attend the reception of a Glasgow footballer's wedding and I realised I'd never seen so many shades of blonde and spray tan in my life. And as for the ladies... boom tish.
Anyway, it seems that the theory of the purpose of these royal weddings is to distract the people from what's really going on. It had its work to do here in sleepy Adelaide, as about 2km down the road from us, on the same day as the wedding, there was had a triple shooting and seige. A man opened fire on his neighbours, three people were killed, one injured and then a policeman was shot and his colleague injured. The shooter then holed up in a neighbouring house and didn't come out for nearly 12 hours. All very horrible stuff.
It was very weird, because that part of the main road was blocked off for almost 24 hours and the three things I had to get to that day were on the other side of the blockade. The whole situation felt very wrong and absurd. I had to get the dog to its clipping appointment, yet three people had been killed. What was horrifying was that I could consider this dilemma quite rationally. Part of my head is yelling "PEOPLE HAVE BEEN KILLED FOR GODS SAKE!" and the other side is going "Yeh but how do I get to the poodle parlour?". I'm not trying to minimalise or trivialise what happened here - the ability of our minds to rationalise the situation is quite scary, and by the looks of the number of vehicles who still tried to get through the blockade (while the seige was still going on) I wasn't the only one. Businesses were carrying on, walkers and joggers stood at the borderline of police cars to have a look, and the media hovered there as well in search of the latest updates.
Have we been desensitised to others' tragedy? What pushes us forward with the routine when things like this happen? Is it our safety zone, that if we keep on doing as normal then it's proof to ourselves that it hasn't happened to us? Those poor families tied up in this, losing loved ones to bullets and, it seems, mental illness, is too much to comprehend - especially when it happens on our safe, Adelaide suburban streets. Where do you go when something so horrible happens within coo-ee distance of home?
Apparently, we retreat to the safe, to the known, and we sit down and lose ourselves in a pageant of colour and fairytales on the other side of the world.
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