London wedding and death of a Holy Man

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I keep remembering those bleak London streets in 1997, strangely silent with the exception of a few screams and sobs. The enormous waiting crowd, united in shocked grief. And two tiny boys, walking with bowed heads, their lives shattered by that car wreck in Paris.

And the heartbreaking sight of one simple word MUMMY on a wreath.

Love Life and Joy

 

So pleased to see some happiness for one of those stoic little boys in 2011. Kate Middleton has achieved what my six-year-old daughter sighs for – to marry a Prince. May they live happily ever after.

And a death in India of the Guru, Sathya Sai Baba, who died this Easter. I’ve been a long time on a spiritual path and during my quest, I spent time at his ashram in India. I found him to be a fully-realised man who not only answered the question that had tormented me for years, but sent me away from his ashram saying ‘I didn’t need to follow the guru’.

Through Sai Baba, I met several people I have respected and loved over the years. I have felt quite melancholy all week remembering the ashram, the smell of the blessed food, the incense and the early morning devotions and Darshan.

Above is a photo of a younger me (no make-up and I had been very ill when I first arrived in India) with one of my stunning Italian friends, Raffaella, who I met at the ashram. 

The Italian women always looked beautiful at the ashram. They wore fresh flowers in their hair. The monkeys bit and terrified; the elephants were glorious in their baths. Food never tasted as delicious as the simple food there. And Baba was like an elegant, gentle child whose energy would strike the large crowds as he appeared for Darshan. 

 Om Sai Ram   

 


Writing with mist

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I have taken the Summer curtains down at home and replaced them with the toile winter curtains. I am sad it is the end of the lovely Easter break. I do enjoy having Daisy at home even though it makes it impossible to write and I love not having to do the school run and lunches.

The Easter show is too expensive. Can’t believe for a family of three it cost nearly $100 to get into the gate to look at a few pigs and chickens. Daisy, of course, loves the pony rides and show bags, but for the same money we spent we could have had a night or two away in a good hotel.

A few photos from the show above. The print in the middle with the girl and bunny is one of the Emily Martin prints I have in Daisy’s room. I love her whimsical work. We did manage one day trip to the very misty mountains.

 I just need to get out of the city at times and walk through the bush, feel crisp, unpolluted air and escape air-traffic noise. I’ve carried the mist from the mountains back with me – it’s swirling around my laptop and through my mind, forming my current book in the Blue Mountains. I’m still plotting and feeling my way through the characters. When they’re ready to talk – I’ll begin. And last night I dreamt of Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski, which has given me an idea for another short story.

 As David said, ‘you’re always working, even when you’re asleep.’

Inner-city Light

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It’s the school holidays and the city streets seem slightly emptied out, with so many gone to the mountains or Byron Bay or their holiday houses. We were too occupied with writing, doctors and life to realise this time had come and so didn’t organise anything. I’m slightly jealous of my friends who have departed. I ache to be in the Blue Mountains at the moment and although we shall have a little day trip or two there, it’s not the same as a long break.

This is my favourite time of writing when I get to daydream, plot and plan and feel the characters moving forward to introduce themselves. I think of this stage as falling into trance when I am beginning to undergo a hypnotic little spell for the book to work. I have certain procedures and superstitions I have to follow for the spell to work and the words to come.

My daughter and I have been ambling along city streets dappled with shadows and mellow autumn sunshine.

This was our walk in pictures today, as we strolled to her swimming class. A man lay nearby out of shot, hit by a car – ambulances and police were everywhere.

Even amongst the traffic, airplanes and gritty chaos the trees and light was spectacular. I kept turning in circles, attempting to take it in. I’m always bemused by how the inner-city is such a paradox of urban and nature combined. Planes so low over the eucalyptus trees that they almost seem to land on our head, trucks, graffiti, bats, lizards, trees. I love the peeling, genteel shabbiness of the old houses and the peeling, gnarled trees guarding the road and having survived countless years of pollution.

Sometimes you have to view the everyday at a different angle for it to make sense or meaning.     

And today it is raining heavily. The sky overhead my little brick is dark and grey.

Adieu, DCI Tom Barnaby

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Adieu, DCI Tom Barnaby. I shall miss you greatly. Last night your farewell episode played in Australia and I blubbed along to it, as you in your usual dignified understated way made your farewells to the cast.

 

I’m not happy about your cousin taking over the role. Interviews where he talks about his sexy wife and how they have a more active sex life than yours has already put my hackles up. It sounds as if Midsomer Murders could go the way of the once-great Bill.

No matter how great Cousin Barnaby is, he can’t replace you, Joyce and Cully. At times, you could be a bit dour and far too focused on work but over the years I came to love Joyce and her zest for life, her bookclub, her drama, her desire to travel, to live in a chocolate-box pretty English village and her ability to always support you as you raced to yet another bloody, grisly murder. The three of you made a great team and Cousin Barnaby with his sexy wife and sexy little dog can’t possibly follow those giant footsteps.

In vain I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. The real stars of Midsomer Murders are the houses, the locations and the wonderful, dark, baroque and witty scriptwriting of Anthony Horowitz, but it does matter.

Over the years I’ve come to believe in you, Sir, and I don’t feel for one second you are a man who will handle retirement easily. Your life was entirely wrapped up in your work; you had no other interest. And you will drive Joyce mad when you are at home underfoot and Cully, no matter how close she is to you, has her own life.

 I shall now have to watch endless reruns of Midsomer Murders so I can at least pretend that you are still out there dealing with the ever-soaring bodycount in Midsomer County.  

Adieu and thank you, DCI Barnaby, for the memories. Hats off to you, Sir. I do wish you had stayed. 

 

After the Edit

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Relief, relief, relief . I just emailed the edit of Poets Cottage back to my publishers.
 No time to relax in Little Brick, however, as I now have to wrench myself away from 1930s/present day Tasmania to  hurl myself back into 1940s/present day Blue Mountains. A Tardis has nothing on me. Which of course is one of the joys of writing – the time travel.
Life has been hectic. Loads of doctor’s appointments for my daughter and her special (as in ‘not too many six-year-olds have them so she must be special’) gallstone. David has begun a new book which sounds wonderful and so we are both working together.
He is away on a work trip to Western Australia.
Our laptop crashed last week just as I had nearly finished the edit. I’m now boasting of several more grey hairs from all these harrowing hours as the old laptop went to laptop hospital.
I lost all my emails and my address book but did manage to salvage Poets Cottage and photos.
And so if I haven’t replied to your email or you haven’t heard from me for awhile, please get in touch as I’ve lost my emails.
So pleased the edit is over for now, but so wrenching to bid my characters adieu for awhile.
The skies are grey over Sydney and drizzly rain which is of course perfect.
This photo above is of the edit as I worked on it when we stayed at the Captain’s Cottage in Stanley.
I always feel empty after an edit and slightly dislocated. I need to exercise more and read Winnie the Pooh and Mary Poppins again
 
images via weheartit

Hats off to a great broad

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I’m totally shocked. Last night I dreamt about Elizabeth Taylor. We were seated next to each other on a train. She was incredibly beautiful and reading a fashion magazine featuring her on the cover  We were having a conversation about something and I remember saying how honoured I was to be sitting next to her which she brushed aside and continued talking to me. In the dream she was incredibly sassy and down to earth.

I woke to the sad news that she has died at 79.

Dreams are such strange and puzzling things. I’ve often dreamt lines and scenes from my books. But never have I dreamt about Elizabeth Taylor.

I remember Johnny Depp in an interview saying he had become good friends with Elizabeth Taylor and how down-to-earth and what a terrific broad she was.

They don’t make them like Taylor much anymore, alas.

RIP Elizabeth. Hats off to a great iconic dame. xx

I’ve been through it all, baby, I’m mother courage.
Elizabeth Taylor
image of young Elizabeth link
image of older Elizabeth link

Harvest Moon over Dickson Street

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Hurrying to my spiritual women’s group meeting, carrying deer antlers. The rain-soaked, almost deserted city streets. Shop windows dummies in vintage clothes observing me with detached boredom.

The blues are playing in the corner pub but I’m blown with the Autumn leaves along the soggy streets.

I love the cooler seasons.

The edit is nearly at an end which also brings me immense relief and pleasure. A few more loose ends to tie together in a bow before sending to the publishers.

Life seemed full of magic and possibilities last night. 

I half-expected a golden deer with vivid blue eyes to come strolling towards me as I scurried along to my meeting.

And the super-moon so large, it kept me awake until 3am, pulsating with the tides and beating dreams away.

This morning, my daughter wakes me vomiting and is kept home from school – sick again. The hours I had looked forward to for editing are bid adieu.

Outside in the garden, the tracks of a deer lead away from my writing shed. 

  

 

The Nigella Effect

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Yesterday I took an impulsive break from my edit and attended the very packed Nigella Lawson book signing at David Jones.


When I say ‘impulsive’ I mean very last-minute decision to go. I literally shut the laptop and ran for the train wearing my comfortable writing clothes (read ‘scruffy’). I arrived at David Jones just as the signing was starting and thought I had found the end of the queue until the frazzled-looking security guard kindly showed me the end of the queue was way, way, way, way, way back snaking around the shopfloor.

Ever the optimist, I jumped right on the end and began making new friends as we waited patiently in line for the domestic goddess herself.

It was a lot of fun to observe normally too-cool-for-school Sydneysiders going slightly crazy over Nigella. She is obviously well-loved in Sydney.

In our house alone, David loves her, as does my Daisy and I have all her cookbooks. Well, I have now that I bought Express yesterday. My middle-sister who has been going blind for years is also potty over Nigella and has been following her movements from her country house in Tasmania since she arrived.  I think she admires her for her tenacity in tough times as well as her domestic artistry when it comes to the kitchen.

Amongst the madness and fun, the ever-game and smiling piano player played on in David Jones You can see a better post HERE where more shots were taken including of the smiley piano man .

A sales consultant had fainted. Whether from the excitement of Nigella or from the crowd, I’m not sure.

All good things come to those who wait. It was my turn to meet Nigella when the woman in charge realised I didn’t have my book purchased for her to sign. Total chaos! I quickly had to buy one from a valiant sales consultant.

And in the above image you see Nigella smiling at a scruffy looking writer as I threw myself at her like an excited puppy-dog. Note that big smile even though she has been smiling and signing for close to an hour by this stage.  

And for those who are curious of what she was really like, I can divulge she has beautiful, pale skin, intelligent, kind eyes, and a very down-to-earth and warm persona. I was thrilled. Too often, I’ve met famous people who disappoint in real life but Nigella is the genuine article. She may adopt a character for the screen but her charm was sparkling through as she interacted with the people who had queued patiently to have their moment with her. 

As I left the store, I was intrigued to see the staff member still lying on the floor nearly an hour later obviously waiting for the ambulance. Hopefully that woman is okay.

I remember when I saw Jerry Hall in the street once. I do love the very Sassy Jerry Hall and I was so impressed by her strut and the way she worked the gawking crowd. There were a bunch of workmen to who she waved and they began singing out to her. She was incredible. Being a person who tends to prefer to observe others, I’m often impressed by those who court fame. That Jerry Hall moment worked its way into my book when my bohemian writer, Pearl in the 1930s thread, struts her way down the main street of my Tasmanian sea-fishing village. Pearl may be clothed in the fashion of the 1930s but I was also seeing Jerry Hall as I wrote, long blonde hair swaying, high heels clicking as she sashayed through a modern-day Sydney street.

Who would you wait in queue for to grab a moment with? When it comes to celebrities it’s obvious I’d wait days for Johnny Depp, Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter.

But I was very glad I got a chance to finally meet the sensational Nigella!

Returning back to my edit, I submerged myself back into the world of Pencubitt in the 1930s and was surprised to have a call from the school. Was my daughter sick? No, she was waiting with the Office Reception as I had totally forgotten to collect her.

 Such is the effect of the brush with fame for us mortals. I’ve never forgotten to collect my daughter and so that’s what I call the Nigella Effect.  

 

A Crack in the Blue Sky.

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We celebrated Daisy turning six on the weekend. It was all rather a blur of Princesses, Pirates, sword-fighting, Piñatas and lollies cascading through the air.

 I made the party bags and David created a Pin The Sword On The Pirate game, which went very well.

The little boys who came dressed as pirates and reminded me very much of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys.

David also dressed as a pirate for the day and I wore a tiara. Daisy had wanted me to wear a pink dress and pink high heels but I settled for yellow high heels.

 I was still creating my party bags at midday on the day of the party. Very stressed! Thankfully, Daisy’s Fairy God Mother turned up to assist in time.

All I can remember is Abba music, sunshine, the sky so blue it hurt your eyes and Daisy dancing against the blue in a pink Princess dress. Life with all its frustrations and sadness could still not be sweeter than watching her dance against the sky.

 The edit of Poets Cottage continues and I am frantically doing one last check knowing that once it goes back to the publishers I cannot change anything major. I am stitching the beak, the eyes, checking the stitching of my loved bird before I release her back to my editor for her to do another check if she is flight-worthy. Editing is exhausting for me. Writing is so much easier. The Autumn sunshine is so mellow. Such a beautiful time of year. But my thoughts and prayers are with Japan and her people very much this week.

 My daughter finds cracks in the pavement and tells me that an earthquake has happened in Sydney. She talks about the big wave in Japan but it’s impossible for her to comprehend. When David and I visited Pompeii several years ago I was struck by the poignant powerful sadness I felt when viewing the figures, preserved for all time, trying to escape the volcanic ash.

This week when I think of Japan I keep seeing those figures. It’s too hard to explain to a six-year-old why cracks appear in blue, perfect skies.