Dethrone Them All

I was still awake around 6:00am this morning when I checked The Advertiser online to see the latest news. I saw that Buckingham Palace had released a statement confirming that King Charles will strip Prince Andrew of his remaining royal titles and require him to move out of Royal Lodge at Windsor. He will now be known simply as Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor.

Royal Lodge is a 30 room mansion where Andrew has lived for around twenty years without paying rent, although he did fund renovations worth about £7.5 million, roughly $15 million Australian dollars, when he moved in. British media are reporting that he will likely relocate to accommodation on the Sandringham Estate, which is privately owned by the King.

These developments follow the continued public scrutiny of Andrew’s relationship with convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein. Virginia Roberts Giuffre, who alleged she was sexually abused by Andrew through Epstein’s network, died by suicide in April this year. In her posthumously released memoir titled Nobody’s Girl, she wrote about three alleged encounters with Andrew.

Virginia’s family released the following statement in response to the Palace’s announcement regarding Prince Andrew’s titles and residence:

“Today, an ordinary American girl from an ordinary American family brought down a British prince with her truth and extraordinary courage.

Virginia Roberts Giuffre, our sister, a child when she says she was sexually assaulted by Andrew, never stopped fighting for accountability for what had happened to her and to countless other survivors like her.

Today, she declares a victory.”

The royal family really are disgusting aren't they?  It is an institution built on birthright, where a handful of people glide through life with titles, privilege, and access that ordinary people could never dream of. They move through the world as if ordained by something higher, as though their lineage alone justifies their elevation above everyone else.

I remember watching Wimbledon once. One of Andrew’s daughters — I can’t remember whether it was Beatrice or Eugenie — leaned out of the royal box to speak to someone outside it. The expression on her face struck me: a look that seemed to say my world is purer, my blood is cleaner, and you should feel honoured that I am speaking to you at all. I couldn’t shake the smugness of it. It made me feel physically ill.

The royal family horrifies me. I think Australia should break away from the monarchy as soon as possible. And yet, for all my disgust, I can’t quite look away.

When my brother and I were kids, we used to hang out at the Mitcham Shopping Centre. I don’t remember exactly how we got there — whether Mum dropped us off or we tagged along on shopping trips — but I know there were times when it was just the two of us, roaming around like we owned the place.

This was back when pay phones were still a thing. We used to reverse-charge calls to Buckingham Palace, Sandringham, and other royal residences. And the wild part is, they accepted the charges every time. We’d ask to speak to Prince William and Prince Harry. I can’t remember what the Palace staff said back, but I know we tried often enough that it became a little game.

As we got older and Prince William went to Eton, we even reverse-charged a call there once and somehow got through to his security detail. I told them I had met Prince William when he travelled through Australia — but I don’t think he’d even been here.

So from a young age, I had this strange, amused fascination with the royal family.

Like most girls my age, I followed Prince William and Prince Harry, and I used to tell Mum I was going to marry Prince William. I remember once when I got in trouble, Mum looked at me very seriously and said, “If you want to marry Prince William, you should start acting like someone he would want to marry.” I was young, but even then it struck me — she genuinely thought I had a shot. I don’t think so!

Mum and I have watched a number of documentaries about Queen Elizabeth and her sister Princess Margaret and they were interesting. I like the Queen in principle, she did live a life of service and apparently she had a wicked sense of humour but I'm sorry that's not good enough.

Look what they did to Diana. Her very essence seemed to clash with everything the monarchy stood for — warmth against protocol, vulnerability against cold tradition — and they treated her appallingly for it. She was a light they didn’t know how to handle, so they tried to smother it.

I still remember when she died. St Peter’s Cathedral in North Adelaide held a service for her, and even though I had school, I wagged it and went. The cathedral was full — Adelaide dignitaries, families, strangers who simply needed to be there. I didn’t go for ceremony or status. I went because something in me needed to honour her.

And I cried. That was back in the days when I could cry. It was the bagpipes that set me off — that haunting, ancient sound filling the cathedral. It felt like the whole world was grieving through those pipes.

My dad met the Queen once. A proper official meeting. He was young and had been out the night before in London, and when she asked how he was, he told her he was paying for his sins that morning. She laughed and ordered him a strong black coffee. 

The thing is, Jesus didn’t like wealth. He wouldn’t have been impressed by a palace or a crown, and I’m certain He would not have had much time for the royal family. I don’t actually dislike wealth myself — in many ways, I want it. I want to travel the world in business class, alone and peaceful, staying in beautiful hotels where I feel safe. 

But there is something deeply unsettling about a family that flaunts its excess as they do. And then they still have some sort of power or control over us. It doesn’t sit right. It feels grotesque. 

I’ll tell you what else is grotesque. I remember back in 2019 when Harry and Meghan were in South Africa, and that’s when they really started talking publicly about how hard their lives were. I don’t doubt they’ve had a rough trot, and the racism they’ve faced is an indictment on parts of British society. But I remember thinking, I challenge you to step outside of the compound you are staying in and ask someone on the street in South Africa how hard life can really be. The contrast was obscene — the wealth, the privilege, and then this public pity party in one of the poorest places on earth.

I don’t know — my interest in the royal family is the same interest I used to have in TV shows like Days of Our Lives and The Young and the Restless. They’re soapy, they’re trashy, and I’m drawn to that somehow. But the royal family exists mostly as a relic of the British Empire. They’re entitled, they’re elitist, and the world could do without them. Honestly, I say dethrone them all.

I’m not a fan of the snobby side of life. Fair enough, have your money, have your nice cars and clothes and luxury things. I don’t have any of that, and I don’t know if I ever will. And even if I did, I don’t know that I’d really want luxury items. I think I’d rather spend my money on travel. But if I ever did buy something expensive, I’d never flaunt it.

I remember driving down at Semaphore once and seeing a tomato red Ferrari with the number plate “BROKE.” I thought that was pretty disgusting — wealth as performance, arrogance as personality. No thank you.

I’ve never bought designer clothes, apart from George Gross and Harry Who. My mother used to be friends with them and she wore their pieces. I once bought a skirt and a jacket from them — they were beautiful, well made, elegant. Not high end luxury, but still expensive enough that they felt special. That’s the kind of fashion I understand — quality, not screaming labels.

Because honestly? With designer clothes and bags, I think I’d feel ridiculous. If I was working in a call centre and turned up in a Carla Zampatti suit, people would think I’d lost my marbles.

There is quality, and then there is obscenity. And I want to spend the rest of my life leaning toward quality.

In saying that, I can’t really afford much of anything right now. I’ve been brainstorming ways to earn money, but the truth is, it sounds ridiculous, yet I don’t actually have time for a job at the moment. I volunteer with the Red Cross, my human-rights organisation, I’ve just agreed to be the communications coordinator for an anti-poverty group, and I’ve also signed up for Lifeline. That’s four volunteer roles already. On top of that, I’m hoping to start uni at the end of February, and I need to produce artwork so that this whole path I’m building has credibility. I couldn’t squeeze in a job even if I tried — and yet, I still need more income.

That’s when I had an idea: romance novels.

They’re shorter than a standard novel, and in many ways, the structure is already there. People look down on romance, but I don’t. They serve a purpose. They are about the possibility of love. They give people hope — whether they’re alone, stuck in a relationship that doesn’t feel right, or simply someone who adores love stories. Romance novels are about longing, yearning, connection and the belief that something beautiful could happen.

I think that matters. And I think I want to be part of that world. So I’m going to give it a go.

I’m gravitating towards writing romance novels because I desperately need an income. And I can’t help but think that Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor might now find himself in a similar position — suddenly needing to figure out how to earn an income too. Apparently he was all caught up in status, and now everything he ever believed in is being stripped from him.

Despite the fact he was friends with a wicked man and he is accused of abusing minors, he hasn’t been convicted of any crime in the United States or the United Kingdom, and I have to wonder what happened to innocent until proven guilty. But the truth is, the way he has carried himself whilst he’s been under this very shady spotlight has said more than any conviction ever could.

Hopscotch And Pistachio Nuts

Today I want to tell you about a few things I love. There are so many things in the world to worry about or challenge — but on the flip side, there are also so many absolutely amazing things that I just can’t get enough of. 

The first thing I love is bioluminescence. Fireflies, glow worms, mushrooms. There are so many creatures that light up — jellyfish, fish, squid and octopus, crustaceans, comb jellies, worms, millipedes, snails, even bacteria and those magical sea sparkles that dance in the waves. There are probably countless others I don’t even know about yet.

Bioluminescence feels like one of those things people rarely talk about, yet when you stop and think about it, it’s one of the great quiet mysteries of the universe. If I ever make a lot of money, I'm going to fund a permanent exhibit at the South Australian Museum filled with bioluminescent life — glowing softly in the dark so children and adults alike can marvel at it the way I do.

The second thing I love is tardigrades. Little indestructible bears you can’t even see — wandering around in droplets of moss water, padding through the universe like they’re late for a meeting only they understand. I love that they look like tiny, wrinkled space puppies and yet they can survive almost anything: boiling, freezing, radiation, even the vacuum of space. They’re like microscopic aliens laced with ferocity and resilience.

For a long time I’ve wanted to buy a microscope so I can finally see them with my own eyes. I also have an idea for a children’s novel about tardigrades — because if you think about it, it's mind blowing that such a force of nature lives all around us, quietly, stubbornly, impossibly alive, and yet we can’t even see them.

The third thing isn’t something I love in the traditional sense, but I’m endlessly fascinated by it — parasites and viruses. Not the fluffy, comforting kind of fascination, but the kind that makes your brain spark in all directions. Things like Toxoplasma gondii, rabies, and those eerie parasitic fungi that take over ants — one bursting through the head like something out of science fiction, another making the ant climb to the top of a blade of grass and wait patiently to be eaten so its life cycle can continue.

I don’t admire them morally, obviously, but there’s something almost awe-inducing about the way they manipulate behaviour, consciousness, movement, instinct. It’s not love, exactly — more like a strange reverence for the sheer wildness of biology and the hidden puppet-strings in nature.

Now I want to move to people. I’ve always had a small circle, and now with the death of my father and Nanny, it’s tiny. I call them the Big Four: my mother, my brother, Rebecca and Maiki. My dad’s first children are completely disconnected from us after they tried to prove my mother was dishonest in the creation of his will. Mum has her half sister, my auntie, and her family, but I rarely see them — maybe once a year, if that. So really, it’s just me and the Big Four.

I’d like to expand my circle, but I find it hard to trust people. It’s one thing to type away here in this anonymous blog, but many of the things I write about are things I’d never say out loud — not even to the Big Four.

I love my mother. She really is an incredible woman — independent, creative, stylish, funny, loyal, and successful in both her personal and professional life. She’ll tell me stories about her past boyfriends before Dad — footballers, politicians, rockstars, a whole line up of interesting men. Very different from my romantic résumé, but that tells you the sort of woman she is and the kind of people she attracts into her life.

My brother is a know it all. He’s arrogant, and I think he carries a bit of toxic masculinity. But I love him — I do. It broke my heart when he once told me that the two of us weren’t like two puma cubs who were close when we were young and then sadly drifted apart. But in a strange way, I think we’re making up for it now, even if he criticises my art and politics.

Rebecca and Maiki are my chosen family. I can be a little hot and cold with Rebecca, but at the end of the day, I’ve known her her whole life as she's four years younger than me. She is Nanny’s granddaughter, and I’ll be there for her until the end of my life, or hers.

And then there is Maiki. We call each other megusta. I really love him. There’s nothing romantic about our relationship — it has moved past that. We’ve friend zoned each other completely, and thank God we did, because he has been there for me when I literally had no one. On nights when there was no one to talk to and I felt completely alone, he was there. I will be forever grateful, and he will be a part of my life until the day one of us dies.

I love Antarctica. I really love it. It’s hard to believe it’s been 13 years since we went, because I remember it like it was yesterday. My brother always tells me that I never just want to visit a place — I want to live there. And he used to be right. Places like Alice Springs, Tanzania and Sydney once called to me so strongly I felt a genuine pull to pack up and relocate.

There’s a post office at Port Lockroy on Goudier Island, off the Antarctic Peninsula, run by the United Kingdom Antarctic Heritage Trust. Every year they advertise for a handful of people to go down and live there during the summer tourist season, running the tiny post office. I remember wanting to do that so badly. The idea of being somewhere remote with a small group of people really appeals to me — a little community, isolated from the world, where you could actually get to know people properly. I love that. I’d never leave Adelaide now, though.

Antarctica itself is unreal. The ice looks man made — as though someone carved it deliberately. It's hard to believe it’s all the random majesty of nature, sculpting glaciers, icebergs and mountains of snow that make the whole continent feel like a movie set. I love how the penguins just pop out of the water like little rockets — part cheeky, part ancient instinct, another cog turning in the machinery of life at the bottom of the world.

I’m so grateful I remember Antarctica as vividly as I do, and that I went at all, because I don’t think I’ll be able to go back. I think my flaw will disqualify me. But it's not something I dwell on. There’s still the north — and one day I think I’d like to see the ice in the Arctic too.

I have this memory from when I was a child — I think it was at my half-sister’s wedding. I fell asleep on the cushion of a bay window. What I understand a bay window to be is that soft seat built into the base of the window, almost like a little mattress or day bed attached to the wall. It was cosy, like a tiny cocoon, and I remember feeling safe there — safer than I’ve ever felt in my life. Even now.

So I love bay windows, and I would love a house with one. I’ve only really seen them in movies since, but that memory sits somewhere deep. I don’t think about it often, but when I do, it brings the best feeling.

Another thing I love is the 90s TV show Northern Exposure. It's one of those shows that feels like stepping into a slightly magical pocket of the world, even though nothing supernatural really happens. Just a tiny Alaskan town full of odd, brilliant, eccentric people who somehow make more sense than the real world ever has. I love how gentle it is — the slow pace, the strange conversations, the small town quirks, the feeling that everyone knows everyone and somehow that’s comforting, not suffocating.

There’s something about those snowy streets and quiet evenings and the way the characters find meaning in ordinary life that makes me feel calm and seen. It’s the kind of show that doesn’t just entertain you — it keeps you company.

Northern Exposure is my favourite show, and I’ve binge watched all 110 episodes across its six seasons a number of times. I haven’t watched it in a long time, and I’ve decided that before uni goes back next year, I’m going to sit down and give it my full attention again.

I love neon lights. I have this memory from when I was a child, at Scotch College. Mum and Dad had a friend who was a politician, and we visited her family home overlooking the city. While they were talking in the lounge room, my brother and I went off with her two sons, and in one of the rooms there were neon lights. I remember being absolutely mesmerised — it felt magical, like I was witnessing something rare and special.

One of her sons is a lawyer now, and sometimes I want to write to him and ask if I imagined it, or if those neon lights were really there. I’m sure they were real, but the mind is capable of anything, and memories can blur around the edges. I doubt the son would remember me, but I remember those lights — and I swear they existed.

Apart from that memory, I love neon lights because they are so beautiful, but also a little bit seedy. They’re tied to strip clubs, casinos, cheap motels — places that exist on the edge of something. Neon dances between the underworld and this electric field of dreams and make-believe. It's glamour and grit at the same time, like hope flickering in the dark.

I want to learn how to bend neon myself. I actually had a weekend class booked in Sydney last month, but I told the girl I needed to reschedule. I didn’t say it was because my sleep has been so bad lately — I just quietly pushed it back. She was lovely about it though, so I’ll go, probably in February before uni starts.

I love the 80s. I love Coca-Cola yo-yos, Care Bears, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, slap bands, Cabbage Patch dolls, Etch A Sketch, My Little Pony — little plastic windows into a childhood that still glows in my mind. The 80s meant movies like The Land Before Time. I watched it again last year and it really is a beautiful piece of art. Seeing it as an adult, I could also recognise how much of its spirit — the circle of life, the grief, the loyalty — quietly lives inside The Lion King.

At school we used to collect stickers and swap them, play marbles, show off our treasures like they were diamonds. I remember cassette tapes — I had a Kylie Minogue tape that Dad originally banned, but eventually surrendered to. I remember watching Neighbours with Nanny and whoever else was looking after us, and how Ruffles chip packets used to have Neighbours cards inside to collect. Sometimes Nanny would tape shows for us on VHS, and it felt like magic — the idea that you could hold time and play it again later.

The 80s were the absolute best, and I loved them. I was a kid with consciousness in the late 80s and I remember the 90s vividly too, but the 80s were a good time to be small, curious, and alive in the world.

Something I love with my whole heart is the house Mum used to own in Canberra. Dad had to spend a significant part of every year there for work, so Mum bought a house for him to live in. Some of his colleagues would stay there too. It was a big house, and my brother Eric and I shared a bedroom when we were there. We had two single beds, pushed up against opposite walls, and the curtains had cows and farmyard animals on them — lots of green. We used to go there during school holidays, and sometimes we’d play hopscotch and eat pistachio nuts with the Indian girl next door.

There was a corridor in the house that seemed to connect two separate worlds — like a secret passageway — and we would wander through it like explorers. I remember how cold Canberra was. There was an oval behind the house where we’d go and play, but sometimes it was so freezing we couldn’t stay out long. I remember silver spoons where the spoon part was plastic and the handle was silver, and beautiful warm custard — small comforts in a cold city.

I also remember waking up one night and wandering into the lounge room to find Mum, Dad, and some of Dad’s colleagues watching a scary movie — something like The Exorcist. It terrified me. I have always been scared of my own shadow, and that memory still sits uneasily in my chest.

More than anything, I loved that house. I still love it. I want it — even if I never own a house in Adelaide, I want that one. I asked Mum’s accountant if he could find the address, and he said he’d look, but I don’t think he has. One day, somewhere, somehow, I’ll find it again. And when I do, I swear it will make me the happiest woman in the world.

Something I have deep love for is Meat Loaf's album Bat Out of Hell. People always used to identify me as a massive Meat Loaf fan, but it wasn’t really Meat Loaf the performer that captured me — it was Jim Steinman, the man who wrote the music and the words. He was theatrical, emotional, operatic, ridiculous and genius all at once — and that combination lives in my bones.

I love the song Bat Out of Hell. It’s about a young guy desperate to escape his boring, trapped life, so he tears off on his motorcycle at full speed, feeling unstoppable and alive. He’s chasing freedom, passion, and intensity — but it all ends in a crash. The song blends love, danger, teenage drama and that feeling of running from everything only to burn out in the most dramatic way possible, like a bat out of hell. It is my favourite song of all time. It satisfies everything I need in a story — intensity, tragedy, longing, and meaning. 

My second favourite song on Bat Out of Hell is “All Revved Up with No Place to Go.” It's about a young guy bursting with energy, desire, and excitement — convinced he’s ready for the world — but he’s stuck with nowhere to put all that feeling. He thinks a girl will be the answer, that she’ll be his ticket to something bigger, but she grows and moves forward while he stays exactly where he is. In the end, he’s still overflowing with dreams and fire, but he hasn’t gone anywhere at all — all revved up, with nowhere to go.

I like some of Meat Loaf and Jim Steinman’s other work, like Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell, but the truth is I’m really just a Bat Out of Hell girl. The lyrics, the drama, the ache — it’s the soundtrack of my early twenties. I would drink cheap champagne and orange juice, smoke cigarettes, and listen to Meat Loaf in my little unit in Frewville, feeling every note like it was written for me.

I love every track on the album. "You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth" is a favourite, but the final song — "For Crying Out Loud" — is the one that always surprises me. It’s a little dirty, unapologetically intense, and somehow still heartbreakingly beautiful.

I love handwritten letters. I love writing them and receiving them. In an age of WhatsApp, Messenger, and emails, there is nothing like someone taking the time to sit down and put pen to paper just for you. A handwritten letter feels like an extension of the sender’s soul — something personal, private, and deliberately given.

Most of my letter writing these days is for Amnesty International, and I’m also about to write a whole stack to the UN and the International Whaling Commission — I don't handwrite those types of letters. But every now and then, I’ll whip out some beautiful letterhead and craft a few lines by hand. I don’t think I’ve received a handwritten letter in nearly thirty years. I once had a pen pal who wrote to me on simple lined paper, and to this day it feels like one of the purest gifts — a message given from the heart, not a keyboard.

This mash up of things I love turned out to be more memories than anything, but I’m glad I wrote it. I think I’m going to put on a little Meat Loaf now before I try and get some sleep.

One final thing I love — maybe the thing I love most — is love itself. Romantic love. Two people choosing each other, building a partnership, being each other’s person. I’ve been hesitant to talk about true love because I’ve never experienced it. How can I comment on something I’ve never had? But after 44 years of watching the world and the people around me, I know it exists. It happens. It is possible to meet someone who, despite everything, simply loves you.

I once thought I loved that judge in Sydney. And I do think it’s possible to love someone even if they don’t love you back — but I know now that wasn’t it. There was power in that situation: he was a judge, I was a young woman, and there is power in both of those things. Someone once asked if I’d ever want to see him again and I said no, because I wouldn’t want him to see me getting old. I wouldn’t want him to see me now, because I’m fat. But if I take him out of the equation, what I really want is to meet someone who wouldn’t care about any of that. Someone who simply loves me — as I am.

I joke about wanting a man from the Liberal Party, and that would be ideal in my mind — but honestly, I could love any kind of man. I don’t care what he does for work or how old he is, as long as he’s over fifty. I don’t care how much money he has either. As long as he’s a good, decent person, we can build the rest together. I believe in love. Truly. I don’t think I’ve romanticised it; if anything, I’ve spent most of my life assuming it would never happen for me. But if I can fall in love with Sheikh Mohammed bin Abdulrahman bin Jassim Al Thani, otherwise known as the Prime Minister of Qatar, then surely I can fall in love with a local man here in Adelaide.

I’m open to it. I’d like it. It will just take me a very long time to trust someone enough to let it happen. I believe I have something to offer someone — but I’m also aware of time. Menopause is coming in the next five or so years, and my “flaw” would turn most men away before we ever even got that far.  Sometimes I wonder if there’s a man alive who could love me — truly see me and stay.

So for now, I think I’m going to cocoon myself. Not to disappear, but to become. To lose weight, to refine how I present myself to the world, to feel strong in my body again and confident in how I move through life. To learn how to engage with the world more naturally, more gently. And then — maybe — I’ll be ready to put my best foot forward into the world and see what happens!

Repetition Of The Ridiculous

A couple of weeks ago, I applied for another police check through SAPOL, using the same criteria as my previous AFP check — working with vulnerable people. The results arrived in the mail today, and it listed a disclosable court outcome for using a mobile phone while driving.

This contrasts with my earlier AFP check, which came back with "no disclosable court outcomes" for the exact same criteria. You can see my SAPOL check below; I’ve edited out my personal details.

I know you can’t really read it, but that bottom heading says “Disclosable History.” For most people, the line after that is blank. But for me, my soul destroying criminal activity is outlined — along with the $25 fine I had to pay when the judge handed it down. But the thing is, it only comes up sometimes. I now have no clear idea whether I’m a convicted criminal or not, and that bothers me more than I can express.

I know it sounds like I’m joking, because in some ways I can see the humour in it. But to me, this is no joke. I have to go for the rest of my natural born life declaring my criminal conviction from 2013, because if I don’t — and it comes up — I look like a liar. On the flip side, if I declare it and it doesn’t appear, that’s probably the safer option.

Apparently, my conviction became spent after ten years of automatically appearing on police checks. I thought that meant once I’d served my time, that would be the end of it. But as I discovered with the Red Cross, it still appears on checks for anyone working with vulnerable people — and then, inexplicably, sometimes it doesn’t.

People say they don’t care. But they do. I’ve applied for a number of government temp jobs when the conviction wasn’t spent, and I was certain it would appear. I made jokes about it, tried to get ahead of it. Managers sometimes said things like, “Oh my goodness, I didn’t realise it comes up — I’ve had a fine for that too.” Then I’d have to explain that it wasn’t the actual act of using the phone while driving that got me the conviction — I’d contested it — and then whole thing would get a little bit weird.

When I volunteer, I get emails saying, “Disclosable court outcomes don’t automatically disqualify you from volunteering with us.” The wording of that alone drops your status a notch — as if the default is disqualification, and they’re making an exception to consider you.

Now I’m left unsure of myself. I don’t want to work. I don’t want to volunteer. I’m tired of justifying myself — tired of begging to stand on equal footing with my peers.

I got this police check today because I’m going to use it as a piece of artwork, alongside my other check that came up clear. I’ll repeat the images, side by side, over and over — repetition of the ridiculous. Because I’ve learned to live with the conviction itself. But please, don’t tell me that sometimes I am a convicted criminal and sometimes I’m not.

I think about this blog and I sometimes wonder if it's too self indulgent. But I write about my life because, in truth, I am completely alone. I’m not starting a sob story about having no friends or family—I’m simply making a realistic statement. I live with my mother. My brother is in London with his family. I have a handful of friends, but no one I really talk to.

I don’t feel sorry for myself because of this. If anything, I take comfort in the thought that maybe someone will read my story and sit with it for a minute. When I opened my mail tonight and saw the conviction notice, I tried to talk to Mum about it. I told her I’d made peace with the conviction itself, but that the uncertainty around it makes me unsure of who I am. To me, that’s a fair feeling. She, however, said I was making a big deal of it and I just couldn't let it go. 

I don’t really talk to Mum about anything serious. She laughs at my ideas and I don't think she really takes me seriously. She’s not a bad person — she’s a fabulous woman — but she’s not someone I’d go to if I had a real problem.

I sometimes joke that I’d like to find a husband in the Liberal Party. It would be nice not to be alone anymore — to have a lover and a friend, someone I could talk to. But more than that, I want things to be light. I don’t want to analyse every emotion or every problem, just share easy conversation and a life of good humour and fun together.

I haven’t been with someone for so long that I’ve almost forgotten how to be a partner. But I know I can be supportive. I’m a good listener, and I love to laugh. I might say I want lightness, but when things get heavy, I can be there for that too.

Even though I don’t have a wide circle right now, I don’t want a man from the Liberal Party to fill that void. I want someone to see me walking alone and ask if they can walk beside me. I also want someone who would be happy to live in an apartment in town with a doorman or a reception desk, with me, my mother, and our two cats.

If they didn’t want to live with my mother and two cats, I’d understand — that would be completely reasonable. Mum and the cats could always live in the apartment next door. Or maybe it would be easier if they just moved in here with us in suburbia. Whatever they’re comfortable with — I just want to share a home, to cohabit. I want it all.

I don’t want to change anyone, but eventually I’d like to have a conversation with my partner about leaving the Liberal Party — and maybe even writing a letter to all state and federal Liberal MPs to tell them they’re completely out of touch with reality. I would also like to flag in those letters that Susan Ley will never be Prime Minister for reasons such as threatening to reverse Albo’s decision to recognise Palestine as a state.

Still, whenever I daydream about finding love, I remember my conviction. I don’t know how I can stand on equal footing with anyone when that’s part of me. It’s not just the conviction that would make equality in a relationship unrealistic for me. My flaw would be a deal breaker for most men, but maybe somewhere in the party there’s someone who could see past it.

I was talking to my brother on the phone last night, telling him about my volunteer work with a human rights organisation. I mentioned that during a conversation with my supervisor, I referred to another person we work with as “she.” My supervisor had stern words for me, because that person uses they/them pronouns. It’s written in their email signature, but to be honest, I hadn’t noticed — I was completely oblivious. I never called them “she” directly, and it was an honest mistake.

I was telling Eric that this generation can be very unforgiving about that sort of thing. I was kind of annoyed. I would never intentionally disrespect someone’s wishes about how they’re referred to, but sometimes the younger ones can be a little rigid about it all.

I told Eric it reminded me of a dinner a couple of years ago with my friend Luna and a group of the planetarium crowd. I referred to Luna as “she,” and they got angry with me because they also use they/them pronouns. I actually knew that, but it completely slipped my mind. I said to them, “I’m so sorry, darling. I have no excuse — it’s just that when I was young this wasn’t a thing, and I need a bit of time to get used to it.”

My brother is quite brutal about the whole they/them thing. He said, “If someone’s offended I call them the wrong gender, that’s on them,” and called it “fucking ridiculous.” I don’t agree with him. I think it’s wonderful that we now live in a world  where people can be free to identify however they feel most comfortable.

The day after I called Luna “she,” I went to uni and told a fellow student about it — they’re non-binary themselves. They said Luna should have been more understanding, that I wasn’t used to it yet. But then they went on to say they’d disowned their father because he refused to call them “they.”

Later that day, I spoke to another group of girls at uni about it. They told me to call everyone “they.” They said you never really know how someone identifies, so it’s safer that way.

I don’t call everyone “they,” and after my slip-up last week, it’s clear I’m still not completely tuned in. But I support it — I love that people can be free in that way — and I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Incidentally, my friend Luna is now in court for attempted murder. Apparently, they tried to smother someone with a pillow in a hospital setting. I haven’t spoken to them since finding out about their criminal activity.

Eric and I then moved on to talking about my artwork. I told him about a piece I’m working on called I Can’t Believe It’s Not Rubber. Essentially, I’ve bought a whole stack of real rubber ducks and I’m waiting for the plastic ones to arrive. I’ve also ordered a pile of vinyl “rubber” chickens and I’m waiting on the real rubber versions of those too.

The point of the piece is to highlight how we call them rubber ducks and rubber chickens, even though they’re often plastic or vinyl. I actually ordered one small batch of genuine rubber ducks, and I just got an email saying those particular ones have been recalled. The documentation of the recall will become part of the artwork as well.

It’s about how labelling them “rubber” elevates them in the eyes of the consumer, when really they could be anything. It applies to humans too — we say we are one thing, but often we’re not.

We don’t have a bath at home, so I’m going to hire a hotel room with a big, beautiful bath and photograph the rubber ducks and then the plastic ducks in it, highlighting how they look identical but are made from completely different materials. With the rubber and vinyl chickens, I’m thinking of filling a bin with eggs and photographing them there.

Once I have the photographs, I’ll mount them alongside the physical ducks and chickens and build a piece around that. I’m planning to enter I Can’t Believe It’s Not Rubber into an emerging artist competition and have some professional photos taken for my portfolio.

Eric thought it was a bad idea. He said no one cares about that kind of stuff. But I have to disagree. I don’t think it’s an absolutely brilliant idea, but it does have its merits. It raises a perfectly valid point — and that is exactly what art is supposed to do. Eric makes me laugh, the way he thinks he knows everything. Now that I’m starting to take art more seriously, he suddenly thinks he’s an expert, especially when it comes to conceptual work.

He thought my letters were shit too. He said writing to all the Chief Justices and Presidents of Parliaments meant nothing — that I’d only get replies on official letterhead from secretaries and they’d hold no real weight. I disagree with that as well. I might not have received as many responses as I’d hoped for, but there’s still something special about a collection of letters from the offices of Chief Justices and Presidents of Parliaments. I’ve moved away from using letters directly in my artwork, but I’ve got a few new letter projects to be sent out in the first days of January, and I’ll use the responses as gifts too.

Eric and I always have a laugh, but I never feel inspired after I’ve spoken to him. With my conviction project, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Rubber, and the next round of letters I’m sending out, I feel like I’m forcing myself to do them. Lately there’s been a certain darkness around my ideas — they’ve become so complicated and so full of meaning that they almost drag me down.

I’m pushing myself to finish them now because I know that in six months, if I don’t, I’ll be too put off to continue. I’m going to study fine art, but I need to learn how to switch my mind off. There’s art that can lift you up and make you feel like anything is possible, but even though my ideas involve ducks and chickens, which on the surface seem playful, I’m beginning to feel a real sense of emptiness and despair within them.

My brother Eric has just taken his son, Lewis, on a father–son trip to Amsterdam from where they live in London. He just sent me some photos of a shop he’s found that’s completely full of rubber ducks.

He said he’d buy me a rubber duck for my “art” project — the perks of having an expert “art critic” for a brother.

It Makes Logical Sense

I was at the hairdresser’s earlier today. My appointment was at 4:30pm, and Mario — my usual hairdresser — had already left, so Angela, my cool young former hairdresser, did my hair instead. She talked a lot about how she used to do my hair and the laughs we’d had. It almost felt like she was trying to make me feel bad for switching to Mario.

It’s not that I don’t love her — I do. I also love talking to young people because I learn so much about life as a young person these days. Angela’s taught me all kinds of things, like new terminology and even about Labubu dolls. I bought one once but quickly realised it was a fake.

But I like Mario. He’s sixty and closer to my age, and to be honest, I prefer his company. I spend a lot of time at the hairdresser, and I feel more at ease with him. When I say it felt like Angela was trying to make me feel bad, I don’t mean in a malicious or bitter way. She probably just wondered why I up and changed one day. There are no hard feelings at all.

Angela and I were talking about politicians and voting, and she told me this story about the last election when she went to the polling booth. She said she went up to one of the electoral commission staff to have her name ticked off.

First, she was asked for her surname, which she gave. Then she was asked for her Christian name — and she didn’t know what that meant.

Being Catholic, she assumed it was the name of the saint she’d been assigned somewhere along her spiritual journey. Some people nearby overheard and laughed, as did the staff member, who eventually explained that a Christian name is just your first name.

I actually think her response was fair enough. Calling our first name our “Christian name” is confusing and, in many ways, misleading. Angela said she felt stupid for not knowing, but I don’t think it’s stupid at all. It made me realise that I didn’t know why we called it that either — so I went online and did some research.

I discovered that our first name is called a Christian name because, once upon a time, names were given at baptism — the moment you were officially welcomed into the Christian faith. It was the name the priest spoke aloud as water was poured over your head, a kind of blessing that made you both visible and claimed.

But these days, most of us use the term without thinking about where it came from. It’s funny, really — something so personal, so central to who we are, is rooted in an old religious ceremony that now has nothing to do with many of us.

So no, Angela isn’t stupid for not knowing what a Christian name was. In many ways, she was on the right track.

It’s interesting — the other day I was talking about sentencing and the criminal justice system, and just today there was an article in The Advertiser by Andrew Hough and Emily Olle titled “Prisoners released into home detention before non-parole served, sparking calls for reform.” It told the story of a criminal who almost killed a young father in a car crash, and who is now set to be quietly released from prison more than six months before his non-parole period expires.

The paper reported that Luigi Gligora, 51, was drugged and travelling at 170 km/h along West Terrace when he ploughed into the car of The Advertiser’s then deputy editor, Ben Hyde, on October 4, 2021 — leaving him fighting for life and with a lifelong brain injury.

In April 2024, Gligora was sentenced to four years in jail with a two year non-parole period after pleading guilty to aggravated causing serious harm by dangerous driving.

By April this year, he had already been moved to the Adelaide Pre-Release Centre — a transition that allowed him to spend time in the community after serving only about a quarter of his head sentence.

Just 17 months into his jail term, the victim of this horrific crash, Ben Hyde, received a letter informing him that Gligora had been granted approval for home-detention release.

Apparently, under the Correctional Services Act, home detention can be granted after a prisoner has served just half of their non-parole period. I honestly cannot believe that. What a slap in the face to any victim. But this article did shed some light on a few of the questions I’ve had about imprisonment and custodial sentences.

On home detention, offenders are subject to electronic monitoring, but they can actually be released from their home to participate in society — for things like employment, education, urgent medical treatment, or “any other purpose” approved by their supervisor.

Various criteria are taken into account when assessing a prisoner’s suitability for home detention — things like their proposed accommodation, drug and alcohol use, and general compliance. But the victim’s views or the judge’s sentencing remarks are not considered. That is absolutely infuriating.

The article then said this:

Under current South Australian law, victims of crime are effectively gagged from going public with their concerns about a prisoner’s home-detention bid. Victims are notified by email of the decision — sometimes within days of the prisoner’s release — with little recourse except to “submit their comments” to the department.

How is that fair? The victim is made a victim all over again — this time by a justice system that seems more concerned with managing offenders than protecting or respecting the people they’ve harmed.

The article then went on to provide some numbers.

In 2023–24, there were 7,097 South Australian offenders living in the community under corrections orders — an increase of 619 on the previous year, and the highest percentage rise in the country.

At the same time, the state’s prison population peaked on March 18 at 3,464 — just 113 short of the approved capacity of 3,577. By 2030–31, the department is projecting that number to climb to a peak of 4,384 prisoners.

The numbers offer some context for why certain offenders dodge custodial sentences—there simply isn’t enough room. But that’s no excuse for the selective, and often disproportionate, jailing of others.

Who decides who goes to jail and who doesn’t? How can we accept a system, in a country like Australia, that allows perpetrators of serious crimes to receive minimal sentences—if any at all—and then, as their time ends, to return home? To go back to work, to study, to reintegrate into society. To be given a second chance—a chance many of their victims will never have.

In some ways, I surprise myself. On paper, as an offender myself, these people are my peers. But I haven’t committed a violent, fraudulent, or deceptive crime. Still, I experience the world much like many of them would — living with a conviction recorded against my name. I think mine is just tolerable enough for employers and volunteer organisations. Any more — maybe shoplifting or graffiti — would probably be too much.

But for a man like Luigi Gligora, I don’t know where he could ever find work. Most places require a police check these days, and you would hope his would make clear the inexcusable offences he’s committed. Yet on the other hand, if he’s not working, he’s likely on Centrelink, which isn’t enough to live on unless you’re on disability, a carer’s payment, or the aged pension. So if he’s on Newstart, maybe he would resort back to crime — and the cycle begins again.

I don’t know. I feel passionately about poverty, housing, and social justice. But in my heart, I feel tough on crime. I do. It makes my blood boil when perpetrators of serious offences are let off lightly — when their upbringing, trauma, or some tragic life event becomes the reason they’re spared. As I said the other day, we’ve all been through the wringer, but not all of us go out and commit serious offences — especially against another person.

You’d think most judges must be reasonable people — intelligent, fair, and guided by principle. So why aren’t they tougher on violent crime? Are their hands tied? Or is it that instinctive pull toward leniency — that human impulse to give someone a second chance, to root for the underdog?

I don’t understand it. I’m not calling for the return of the death penalty. I’m simply saying: please. Protect us. Hold people accountable. Restore balance to the scales of justice so they do not make a mockery of the harm done — to both people and places — by those who seek to destroy the peace, love, and happiness we all deserve. They must not be given the chance to do so again.

I read another article on The Advertiser’s website titled Former Israeli military director claims released Palestinian prisoners are millionaires. It was written by Zoe Smith, a senior producer who I’m guessing serves as some sort of Middle East correspondent.

Lieutenant Colonel Maurice Hirsch, a former Israeli military prosecutor and adviser to Israel’s Ministry of Defence, claimed that more than half of the 250 Palestinian prisoners recently freed in the Israel–Hamas ceasefire deal have become millionaires due to long-term stipends from the Palestinian Authority. He said that around 160 of them received monthly payments of about 8,000 shekels, or roughly 3,450 Australian dollars, over many years, allowing them to accumulate large sums of money.

Hirsch also argued that Israel indirectly funds these payments because, under the Oslo Accords, a portion of tax revenues collected by Israel are transferred to the Palestinian Authority. He claimed this money is then used to pay terrorists and called for an end to what he described as a “money pipeline” that rewards violence.

The Palestinian Authority has previously said it replaced its “pay for slay” system with a broader welfare program for prisoners’ families, but Israeli officials, including Foreign Minister Gideon Sa’ar, dispute this, saying the payments continue under a different structure that still benefits those convicted of terrorism. Hirsch said that many released prisoners now live in prosperity rather than showing remorse.

I don’t know a lot about the “pay for slay” system, but I’ve heard of it and wanted to understand what it is — or was — as I believe it’s now been phased out. From what I’ve learned, “pay for slay” is a nickname people use for a program once run by the Palestinian Authority. Under that system, when a Palestinian was imprisoned by Israeli authorities, either in Israel or in the occupied territories — whether for political reasons or for committing a criminal offence — their family received monthly payments.

The idea began long ago, when Palestinian leaders wanted to support the families of those in prison, since many had lost their main source of income.

Over time, though, Israel and other countries criticised the system, arguing that it effectively rewarded people for violence. That’s how it came to be known as “pay for slay.” The Palestinian Authority has since said it replaced the program with a broader welfare system that supports families based on need — not on what the imprisoned person did, but on poverty or the loss of a family member.

Like I said, I’m no expert on what this system was, but so many Palestinian people are locked up in Israeli prisons without charge. A welfare program like that seems reasonable — a way to support the families left behind who have lost their main source of income.

One argument against it was that if someone was arrested for something minor, their family might receive a small payment, but if someone was jailed for a more serious offence — particularly for terrorism or security related crimes — their family would receive more. To critics, that made it look as though more serious crimes were being rewarded financially. But to me, it makes logical sense — the longer someone is in jail, the more help their family needs.

I want to learn more about this and what the system has shifted to now. I understand there’s a fine line between compassion and incentive, but honestly, I think any opportunity Israel and like-minded countries have to demonise Palestine and the Palestinian Authority, they will take.

There’s a real contrast between the way our judges lock up offenders and the way Israel and the occupied territories lock up offenders. You have to have done something really bad to end up behind bars here in Australia, but in Israel and the occupied territories, if you’re Palestinian, you don’t have to have done anything at all.

And then, if your family is compensated in your absence, it’s suddenly seen as part of some complex system incentivising terrorism. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying all Palestinians are innocent or don’t deserve jail time. I’m just saying the two justice systems are very different, and yet when I draw a comparison between them, I can safely say that neither one truly delivers anything that remotely resembles justice.

A Kind Of Folk Hero

I remember during the Sydney Olympics in 2000 there was a swimmer named Eric “the Eel” Moussambani from Equatorial Guinea.

He’d only learned to swim a few months before the Games and had never even seen a full size Olympic pool until he arrived in Australia. He was entered in the 100 metre freestyle, and because the other two swimmers in his heat were disqualified for false starts, he had to swim the race alone.

He finished in 1 minute and 52 seconds — about twice as long as a typical Olympic time — but the crowd absolutely roared for him, cheering him all the way to the wall. He became a kind of folk hero for determination and heart; a reminder that sometimes just showing up is the victory.

If I’d been in the crowd, I would have cheered him all the way to the wall too. It took courage and grit to see the race through, especially for someone so new to swimming. It’s a sweet, wholesome story that added a touch of humanity to the Olympic Games.

But the reality is, he never should have been competing at that level. There should be a standard that athletes have to meet. There are plenty of community swimming programs and smaller competitions around the world where swimmers can build experience, but if you’re going to stand on an Olympic starting block, you need to be ready to compete with the best. Eric simply wasn’t — and if he’d been up against other swimmers that day, he was never really in the race.

I’m reminded of that story today because I’ve just received my two bound books of oaths back from the new bookbinder. I had them redone because the first binder did a shoddy job, and there was no way I could present them to the Speaker of the House of Assembly — and, most importantly, to the Chief Justice of South Australia — with any sense of integrity.

So I had them rebound. But I don’t know what it is with bookbinders in this country. The book for the Speaker has a scratch on the leather, the dedication isn’t centred on the cover, and the black spine has been clumsily glued on, giving the whole thing an amateur finish.

The body of the book is dark green to represent the House of Assembly, but I can’t help thinking the Speaker will be insulted to receive something of such poor quality.

I was talking to Mum about it, and I told her I was annoyed — my reputation is on the line. She knows the Speaker and said he’ll probably glance at it for a moment before shoving it in a drawer, never to look at it again.

I took some comfort in that, but I’m still hesitant to send it. You can see his book below — you can even see the scratch.

I had a clamshell box made for the Chief Justice’s book, and I had a quote from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis embossed on the front. The book itself is okay — its body is red, with a black spine like the Speaker’s — but the bookbinder has used a different font on the cover of the book to the one on the clamshell box. The dedication also isn’t positioned in an ideal place on the cover. I’m really, really, really disappointed.

The Speaker’s book I can live with, because it’s probably going to spend most of its life in a drawer in the Mawson electorate office. I also think the Chief Justice will likely take a quick look and then put it away somewhere.

But when he does look at it, I want him to wonder what inspired me to reach out to all the Chief Justices of the world and ask for a copy of their oaths. I want him to see potential in the work itself — to think, even for the briefest moment, that if it didn’t infringe copyright laws, these oaths would look magnificent etched into glass or scaled across the wall of a house. Something that could be shared with the world.

I want him to see magic in what is, without question, the most important piece of artwork I will ever make. But I’m not sure he will see magic in two mismatched fonts and a dedication that looks irresponsibly placed on the cover of the book.

Below you can see the black clamshell box and the red and black book. I chose red and black to match the judge’s robes.

If I had more money, I’d have the Chief’s book rebound, but I’m going to send it as it is and hope he can find beauty in imperfection. Still, there’s something about bookbinders. They remind me of the Eel. They’re nice people, and they claim to do something beautiful and rare, but really, they’re not even in the race. They have no business positioning themselves as craftsmen when they take no pride in their work.

They shouldn’t accept payment for work that simply isn’t up to standard. Both bookbinders I dealt with were perfectly pleasant, but the work they’ve produced is nothing short of criminal — a crime against art itself, and against the integrity that art demands.

Now that I have the two books, I have to send them. I’ll put the Speaker’s in the post — that way, if his electorate officer notices the scratch, they might assume it happened somewhere along the unpredictable journey with Australia Post. But the Chief Justice’s will have to be couriered.

I went onto the Courts Administration Authority website and used the chat function to ask for the correct address. The person on the other end started explaining how court documents go to the registry, not directly to his office, but eventually she gave me an address on Gouger Street. I’m going to risk it. Realistically, I’m sure it will reach him.

Once he’s got it, in my mind it will play out like the end of the 1995 movie Babe. After the little pig has stunned everyone at the sheepdog trials by herding the sheep perfectly, there’s a long, quiet pause. The crowd bursts into applause, Babe looks up at the farmer, and Farmer Arthur Hoggett, kneels beside him. He looks at Babe with that gentle, proud half-smile and says softly: “That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.”

It’s the last line of the film — understated but full of emotion. It’s Farmer Hoggett’s way of saying, you’ve done more than anyone expected; you’re enough; you’re safe; it’s over now.

I don’t know if the Chief Justice will write me a polite note acknowledging the book and my letter. Somehow, I doubt I’ll receive anything — because really, what could he say? He has no way of knowing the significance the Book of Oaths holds for me, and it would be unfair to share that with him. 

But to me, I’ll imagine him receiving it and saying under his breath:

“That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.”

The idea of it thrills me. And then, I’ll just go about my business.

I’ve been thinking about a life I once imagined for myself as a novelist. I had this idea for a story set in Cambodia — which is why I went there at the end of last year, to do some research. I want to go back to Cambodia to write and to see what else I can learn while I’m there. I’m hoping to go in June next year, but I’m not sure I’ll have enough money. I need a lot of money if I want to travel business class.

It’s not about luxury — it just suits me, with my flaw. I like the extra sense of security, and the way they look after you, especially when you’re travelling alone. I thought about selling my car, which could bring in around $10,000. I don’t really need it — Mum drives less and less now, so I could use hers most of the time.

But then I thought: if I sell my car, there will only be one car in the driveway. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but if an intruder were passing by at night, they might think we were an easy target — one resident instead of two. Mum says that’s incredibly unlikely, but once the thought arrives, the fear of fear is worse than the fear itself.

So I have to find another way to come up with the money. I haven't worked in so long, ten years this year. I've been caring and studying and also I have been trying to navigate a very disturbed sleep pattern. But in so many ways the idea of a job excites me. My resume presents me as a customer service professional but I'd really like to try something else. Like welding or floristry. The only thing is you need qualifications to do specialised jobs and I don't have any time left in my life to get them. 

I was reminded of Cambodia today because it’s Monday, and every Monday I send a message to Tim and Thy — my guide and driver from over there. We have a little chat and wish each other a good week. We’ve become very close since I left. Thy always sends me photos of the two of them when they go fishing together, and they’ve promised to take me fishing when I come back.

In so many ways, I long to return. I felt so safe staying in a hotel for those few weeks; my sleep was surprisingly good, and I made some amazing friends. The temples are beautiful, and the people are so welcoming and kind. It’s a deeply creative place — full of colour and spirit — and I want to be there again soon.

Manifestly Excessive

Yesterday’s post got me thinking about a few things. The first is how I seem to live in a near constant state of fight or flight — a kind of low-level panic humming beneath everything — born from this deep fear of a home invasion. The nights are the worst. When the house is quiet and everyone else is sleeping, my mind begins its own vigil, rehearsing the worst case scenario over and over.

But the thing is, not everyone is sleeping. Out there, in the same streets we like to call our safe little suburb, there are people moving through the dark — breaking into cars, creeping around houses, shattering the illusion of security we cling to. Even here, in this supposed suburban utopia, the night has its own pulse.

Living in fight or flight mode feels like being held hostage by my own mind — paralysed by sheer terror, unable to move or negotiate my way out of it. Fight or flight is meant to save your life: a rush of adrenaline, a shot of cortisol, the body bracing for danger. But when it never switches off, it starts to destroy you. The brain forgets how to rest; the heart learns a rhythm that’s always one beat too fast.

Over time, that kind of vigilance becomes its own addiction. You get so used to the chaos that calm feels strange, even unsafe. The body keeps score of every surge and spike, every sleepless night, until one day you realise you’re not living — you’re surviving. Fight or flight was designed to get you through a moment. It was never meant to become a way of life.

And the thing is, it’s really bad for your health. Constant stress doesn’t just leave you tired — it raises your blood pressure, strains your heart, and feeds inflammation that can turn into heart disease or stroke. Cortisol throws your metabolism and hormones out of balance, storing fat around your belly and leaving you exhausted even when you’ve done nothing at all. Your gut slows down, your immune defences weaken, your memory blurs. It’s the body’s quiet rebellion against being kept on red alert.

The truth is, the emergency was never meant to last this long. Learning to come down — to breathe, to rest, to feel safe again — isn’t a luxury; it’s survival of a different kind.

After learning more about fight or flight mode, I’ve decided my primary goal has to be finding a home that at least creates the illusion of safety. I feel calmest in nice hotels — the ones with twenty four hour reception. I like knowing someone’s awake while I’m asleep, that if something were to happen, someone might notice. Maybe that’s why I want to move into an apartment in the city with a doorman or a reception desk. I want to live there with my mother and our two cats.

I know it sounds close to impossible given where things are right now. I’m in this strange kind of limbo — not working, not studying, not really moving toward any particular destination. But people move to warmer climates for their health; this would be my version of that. I need to live somewhere that feels secure, and that means an apartment with a single entrance, nothing else. Just one way in, one way out. The thought of that steadies me. An apartment like that would feel safer than any stand alone house: you’re one among many, there’s a quiet sense of community, of shared watchfulness.

And I’m going to make it happen. My next step is to study Fine Arts at Adelaide University— I’m still waiting to hear if I’ve been accepted, and I won’t know until December, but I’m cautiously optimistic. I’m not going to be a conceptual artist; I already am one, and I always have been. This will just make it official. There’s nothing that says you can’t make money from conceptual art — in fact, the act of doing so is part of the practice itself. That’s exactly what I intend to do: build a life and an income out of the work I love, so I can get the hell out of this house that’s slowly eroding both my physical and mental health.

The other thing yesterday’s post made me think about was my brief time in 2011 as a court officer at the Downing Centre District Court in New South Wales. When I first started at the courts, the other court officers would tell me about all the judges — their quirks, their preferences, their tempers, what they liked and didn’t like. They told me stories about the big trials they’d overseen and the reputations they’d earned. But there was one judge who stood out above all the rest, even more than the judge I loved so much. His name was Judge Michael Finnane.

In 2002, Judge Finnane presided over some of the most high-profile trials in the country — the coordinated Sydney gang-rape cases. Over several nights, groups of young men committed a series of brutal assaults against young women and girls, marked by extreme degradation and cruelty. In his sentencing remarks, Finnane described them as “the most horrific of crimes.” He identified Bilal Skaf as the organiser and ringleader and imposed a 55 year head sentence with a 40 year non parole period — one of the heaviest non-life terms ever handed down for sexual offences in Australia.

In 2005, the NSW Court of Criminal Appeal reduced Skaf’s sentence to 28 years with a 22 year non-parole period, calling the original punishment “manifestly excessive” and not within the “worst-case” category. But the fact that Judge Finnane imposed that sentence at all says everything about the kind of person — the kind of man — he was. What he was really saying was: "I am responsible for taking you out of our community for as long as I can, and I will not let you near another woman for at least forty years."

Later, after a quashed conviction and retrial due to juror misconduct, another ten years was added for a separate attack, bringing Skaf’s aggregate sentence back up. The later recalculations left his parole eligibility well into the 2030s — a legacy of Finnane’s determination that crimes like these must never go unanswered.

I read that after Judge Finnane retired from the District Court he went back to the Bar. I also read that he died in 2023, which I thought was sad. I don’t want to talk as if I knew him — I didn’t — but I know he was a traditional man. I was his court officer for just one day, and he liked it when his court officer tucked him into the bench by pushing his chair forward. I happily did that. I think I would have done anything he asked me to do.

He wrote a book called The Pursuit of Justice: My Life as a Lawyer, Judge and Social Justice Advocate. I have a copy, though I haven’t read it yet. I have a lot of biographies and autobiographies, but I tend to reach for the classics — Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, War of the Worlds — books that live somewhere between imagination and moral code.

Just last night I found myself thinking about that massive sentence Judge Finnane gave Bilal Skaf. And I wish I’d had the chance to say to His Honour, on behalf of all women: thank you. Thank you for recognising those gang rapes for what they were — gang rapes against all women. Thank you for refusing to let those crimes be softened with lenient sentences or brushed away with excuses. Thank you for holding the offenders accountable and for saying, in clear, legal language: not only was what you did bad, it was really bad.

Something else I was thinking about is how I lost everything because of that one judge I once thought I loved. Everything. I lost my past, my future, my sense of self. And I’m only just starting to get it back. But looking back, he wasn't bad and he wasn't good either. He was simply just unremarkable. But Judge Finnane was remarkable. He truly was. And if I had to have lost everything for a judge, I wish it had of been for him.