Our stories.

A couple of days ago I, my husband, my three sisters and brothers-in-law scattered my parents’ ashes into the sea. The day had been a long time coming. My father has been dead for nine years and my mother for three. Their ashes had been residing in a cabinet in my kitchen all that time. Why so long? We kept dad’s ashes waiting until my mother passed away, and she took a lot longer than any of us expected. Then, we girls had trouble reaching a mutually acceptable decision. We all had different opinions on where and how, and each of us felt very strongly about our viewpoint. We wanted to find a solution with which we could all be comfortable. Word to the wise: don’t just decide whether you want to be buried or cremated, also choose where you want...

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Is it art?

A few weeks ago I happened upon a conversation (via facebook) about the work of the recently departed American artist, Thomas Kincaid. He apparently died from ‘natural causes’ at the ripe old age of 54. (What kind of ‘natural causes’ takes out a healthy bloke at 54? I’d like to  avoid them! He hadn’t been ill; it wasn’t suicide; he wasn’t an alcoholic or druggie… I mean, what the hey? But, I digress.) For those who are unaware of his work, Mr Kincaid did the sort of painting that probably belonged on Hallmark cards in their “Victorian” portfolio. It is sentimental, often sugary sweet and hopelessly romantic. Almost every painting includes some type of building or street light pulsing warm, golden...

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Charity begins at home.

Since we gave refuge to Cheeky the cockatiel I’ve discovered some less pleasant aspects of my character. Before I go into detail, please understand that I love all creatures great and small (except for cockroaches) and I wouldn’t deliberately harm any of them unless forced into a situation that required it. At least, that’s what I used to think. Cheeky was homeless and we had an empty cage. (Jenkins the Eastern Rosella went to his heavenly reward three years ago.) Cheeky moved into Jenkins’ empty house and once more we awoke to early morning bird song (or, in Cheeky’s case: screeching). Ah bliss.He/she’s a dear little lad/lass (I have no idea how to determine the sex of a cockatiel) and he loves our company so Cheeky is a...

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A chocolate Easter…

As I sit here waiting for inspiration to kick in for my special Easter Saturday blog, I’m sipping a coffee and munching on a chocolate rabbit. I began with its ears and I’m now down to it’s belly button. It’s been a while since I’ve consumed this much chocolate in one sitting, so I’m beginning to feel rather queasy. Perhaps I’ll let it sit on my desk, topless, until my stomach can regroup. Now, I know the purists among you will be shaking your heads at my wanton disregard for tradition (hot cross buns on Good Friday and eggs on Easter Sunday) but in my defence let me point out, it’s only a rabbit. We all know that eggs are a symbol of new life and therefore it’s been easy to adapt that symbolism to fit with...

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