Work that Workshop

This afternoon I’m taking a workshop at a “Festival of Words”. I’ve only had a few days to prepare for it (3 and a half to be precise – Thursday was already taken with something else) because I’m a “fill-in”. My friend was scheduled to take it but, at the last minute, she had to be somewhere else and so she passed the baton on to me. When she first asked me, I was excited. It’s been a while since I’ve done this, so I thought, “FABULOUS!” In my initial excitement I thought the workshop was for beginners on the basic things you need to know and do, when beginning your writing “career”. This is a subject I’d led other workshops on, so I thought it would be a piece of cake. It...

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I’m grateful

Today, I am grateful I have a nice home with a functioning heater and a warm quilt on my bed. Outside the house the sky is grey, the air is chilly, the wind is gusty and we’ve already had rain all night and now a dash of hail this morning. (For those who are concerned, Mrs Golden Orb spider survived the hail.) All my joints are screaming and my arthritic-riddled and disc-slipped back is being a right old bastard. (Sorry for the language but that’s just how it is.) A small crowd of winter enthusiasts are up on Mount Lofty, urging the heavens to send some snow. Whenever a flake drifts down, the crowd cheer, high-five and snap photos on their phones. (I use the term “mount” very loosely. Most of my non-Aussie readers would say,...

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Farewell Phil Walsh

I was going to write about something happy, and maybe even a little inspiring, today but then yesterday happened. Yesterday, like everyone else in my state and, indeed, in most parts of Australia, I woke up to the news that Phil Walsh, the coach of my AFL (Australian Football League) team the Crows, had been murdered. Like everyone else, at first I thought it was an horrendously bad practical joke. It wasn’t. Then we heard that his son had been the one who wielded the knife. How could this happen? we ask ourselves. What could drive a son to do this to his dad? Rumours are spreading like wildfire. After all, my city is still small enough to have small town reactions to these things. Everyone feels as though they know the victim (the price of having a high...

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