The Humblest Of Journeys

It's currently 4:23am on Saturday, 26 April. It's the day after Anzac Day and about a week since the Easter long weekend. In just over three hours, I'll begin my first shift with the organisation, calling elderly clients. I'll be speaking to 20 isolated older people, spending a couple of minutes with each of them to check on their wellbeing.

I think the service is such an amazing initiative, and I like the way they have it set up in Microsoft Teams. There is a live chat with other volunteers, and I’m hoping that if there are any issues, I can put it in the chat and get some help. I don't feel nervous about being on the phones at all — I have a lot of experience in call centres and on busy reception desks. But I do feel a little nervous that something might go wrong, like the internet cutting out or the list of people I need to call not being available. I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed that everything runs smoothly.

I’ve signed up to do shifts on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I would like to do more, but with uni and TAFE starting up in just under three months, I didn’t want to commit to extra days and then have to scale it back.

Rebecca is currently at the Adelaide Clinic, and on Easter Sunday, I sent her a bunch of flowers. You can see the flowers below.

I love flowers so much that it doesn't take a lot to impress me, but I have to say, I really didn't like this bunch at all. I think it was the combination of colours. I ordered them from Tynte Street Flowers, and I would have thought they'd know better than to put those colours together. It was also the most expensive bunch of flowers I think I've ever bought — it cost me over $200. I thought about sending them an email to express my disappointment, but I decided against it. The reality is, it's a first-world problem, and hopefully the thought still counted. I also didn’t want to put that kind of negativity out into the universe.

The Pope died on Easter Monday, and since his passing I’ve learnt a number of things about him that I didn’t know. For example, he is being remembered for his humility and humanity. There’s been a lot of talk about Pope Francis being a champion of the marginalised — like the poor, migrants, and refugees.

He made a historic appointment by naming Sister Simona Brambilla as the first woman to head a major Vatican department - but I still don’t see any women priests.

And while he pushed the boundaries of reform — like allowing blessings for same-sex unions — same-sex couples are still not allowed to be married in the Catholic Church.

There’s something Pope Francis did that really caught my attention though. Historically, popes lived in the Apostolic Palace — a grand, formal building right next to St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s filled with frescoes, massive rooms, and is basically like living inside a Renaissance museum.

But when Pope Francis was elected in 2013, he declined to move into the Apostolic Palace.

Instead, he chose to live in a much simpler place called the Domus Sanctae Marthae — "House of Saint Martha". It’s a guesthouse inside Vatican City, originally built to house visiting clergy during events like papal conclaves. It’s clean, simple, and modern — more like a modest hotel — and very different from the royal style of the traditional papal apartments.

Pope Francis said he made this decision because he wanted to live "a normal life" and not be isolated. He preferred the atmosphere of community in the Domus over the formality and solitude of the palace. He also mentioned wanting a simpler, humbler life.

I was surprised I didn’t know these things about Pope Francis. I didn’t know he was a progressive reformer, and I also didn’t know how humble he was. I’m impressed, because the man lived in a way I think Jesus would have liked — and it seems like he’s the only one out of 266 popes who truly got the message that the Catholic Church exists to serve its followers, and not the other way around.

I thought about Pope Francis a lot after I learnt of his death and was bombarded with information about the life he had lived. They are calling him the "People’s Pope." I wish they wouldn’t call him that. They’re recycling the name they gave Princess Diana when they called her the "People’s Princess."

If I had some money, I would have gone to Italy to see him lying in state. It actually looks like a bit of a grotesque scene though — people going in there and taking selfies with his dead body. I wouldn’t do that, but I might have taken a photo of him.

You see, I’ve been thinking that maybe I was too quick to judge him. He did do so many good things, and those are the types of things I respect and admire, especially from powerful people.

A week before his death, on April 17, he visited Rome’s Regina Coeli prison for his customary Holy Thursday visit. Due to his ongoing health issues, he didn’t celebrate Mass or perform the traditional foot-washing ritual. Instead, he met with approximately 70 inmates, offering prayers and expressing his closeness to them.

Normally, Pope Francis would wash the feet of prisoners on Easter Thursday — just like Jesus. Although Jesus didn't wash the feet of prisoners, he washed the feet of his disciples and then encouraged them to wash each other's feet. This sends the message that no one is too important to serve others. I think that is a powerful message, and one of Jesus’s finest.

Pope Francis was the first pope to implement the washing of prisoners' feet. I have to say, that fills my heart with a level of joy I thought not possible coming from a Catholic pope.

There’s no doubt about it — he did some good things. But I simply cannot forget his attitude and words toward people who speak out against the Church.

I watched an ABC documentary series called Revelation, which showed footage from February 2019, just before a major Vatican summit on clerical sexual abuse. Pope Francis addressed pilgrims from southern Italy. During his speech, he stated:

"One cannot live a whole life accusing, accusing, accusing the Church. Who is the accuser? Who in the Bible is called the Great Accuser? The devil. Those who spend their lives accusing, accusing, accusing are not the devil’s children because the devil has none. [They are] friends, cousins, and relatives of the devil, and this is wrong."

Just like Bob Geldof — a lifetime of good work erased by one bad decision. But it turns out it wasn’t just one bad decision that Pope Francis made to try and diminish the value of anyone who accused the Catholic Church of wrongdoing.

Apparently, in the lead-up to these very words, he had already used his platform in public speeches and homilies to speak out against "gossip" and "accusations" against the Church.

I’ve been thinking about this all week. I can't marry up the two men:

• This humble, Christ-like figure who led a life of humility and justice.

• And this other side of him — just a man who has theoretically never had sex, whose perception of sexuality and intimacy may have been warped by abstinence.

• A man who used his power to try and erase the very real and very serious crimes the Church has committed against children — and, in turn, against every single person who has ever had faith in Christ or the Catholic Church.

So I’m asking myself: can he be good and bad at the same time?

The Sunday before Easter is Palm Sunday, and I always remember it because it’s the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a colt, which is a young donkey.

Jesus instructed two of his disciples to go into a nearby village where they would find a young donkey, a colt that no one had ever ridden, tied up. He told them to untie it and bring it to him. If anyone questioned them, they were to say, “The Lord needs it.”

This kind of makes me laugh a little, because if someone really did question the two disciples about why they were untying a young donkey, and they replied, “The Lord needs it,” I can’t imagine that being a sufficient enough answer. As if the person would just say, “Oh, okay, no worries then.” I feel like things would have been a bit more confrontational than that.

However, the disciples went and found the donkey exactly as Jesus described. They laid their cloaks over the donkey, and Jesus sat on it. As Jesus rode into Jerusalem, crowds gathered, laying palm branches and their own cloaks on the road before him, shouting:

"Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the King of Israel!" — John 12:13

Apparently, kings in wartime rode horses, but kings coming in peace rode donkeys.

Jesus riding into Jerusalem on a colt is actually the fulfilment of a prophecy from the Old Testament, from the book of Zechariah:

"Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion!
Shout, Daughter Jerusalem!
See, your king comes to you,
righteous and victorious,
lowly and riding on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a donkey."

— Zechariah 9:9

I find it interesting that he rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. They say a king of peace would do something like that, and I understand the prophecy had to be fulfilled. But there’s also something very confusing about making a grand entrance on a donkey — which would have been very small, because it was just a baby.

It reminds me a lot of his mother Mary’s journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem just before his birth. Although, it’s not actually in the Bible that Mary rode a donkey — that part was added later through Christian folklore. I don't know what I think of that narrative but I do know it represents the humblest of journeys.

I sometimes wonder if it’s a little bit patronising to the faithful to say that both Mary and Jesus rode donkeys for the two most significant journeys of his life: his birth and what would become his death. Especially Jesus. He was a 33-year-old grown man, and he would have had to weigh at least 70 to 80 kilograms — that’s a lot for a baby donkey to carry. He would have squashed it.

Anyway, I just thought their mode of transport was interesting. And honestly, I also think that if Pope Francis had the choice, he would have ridden a donkey over the Popemobile any day.

Calling For Justice

Sometimes, I just think I want to completely give up.

Not die—nothing like that. Not suicide. Just... give up. Give up the ideas, the plans, the volunteer work, the study, the travel dreams. Trade it all in for something quiet, predictable. A stable government job—maybe on a switchboard in some mundane department like the Environment Protection Authority. Just be content with my lot in life. Stop dreaming. Settle down in a cosy little unit somewhere. Watch Ancient Aliens, drink wine, and maybe even take up smoking again.

I haven’t smoked in years, and I swore I never would again. But sometimes I wonder—what if it didn’t matter? I’m going to die anyway. Why not go down doing something that feels good?

Even still, I know I’ll never go back to smoking. I’ve dreamt about it—those vivid dreams where I’m smoking like I never quit—but I don’t truly want it. Friends who’ve met me since I quit say they can’t believe I ever smoked; it doesn’t fit who I am. And they’re right. I was never the inconsiderate smoker—never around children. But it was still a revolting habit. These days, when I pass someone smoking, the smell makes me feel sick. And that’s good. Because I can joke about it, but I have no real desire to start again.

So why this urge to give up on life? I’ve talked in this blog before about how I gained a whole stack of weight—and about how I dream of being skinny again. It’s something I want, something I look forward to. But then a strange thought creeps in: What happens when I’ve done it? When the dream is fulfilled, what’s left to want? Will I feel empty, now that the thing I’ve looked forward to is no longer a future state?

But deep down, I know this much: if I give up now—before I’ve really even begun—I’ll regret it. In ten years, it’ll be harder to return to study than it is now. It’s already hard. I feel like Adam Sandler in Billy Madison, back at school as an adult, surrounded by judgy young people.

And I know the last time I wrote here, I said I was going to study 3D modelling and VFX at TAFE. But I’ve changed my mind—I’ve decided to do it at uni instead. And yes, that’s where all the young ones are. But I think if I walk in with my head held high and remind myself, I really don’t give a fuck what you think of me, I’ll be just fine. Uni starts in July which is just a couple of months away.

So I’ve decided: I’m not giving up. I’m going full steam ahead.

What that looks like for me actually isn’t so different from a quiet, predictable government job—just more colourful. I want to write things, make things, and travel. That’s the life I want. And the way I see it unfolding is this: for the next six years, I’ll rock the world of visual effects, neon bending, gilding, and every form of art I’ve loved from the sidelines but never fully pursued. And then—when I turn fifty—I’ll write. Blogs, articles, books. Just write.

I hope I can earn enough through writing to fund my travel. And no, I don’t have a backup plan. I know backup plans are probably wise, but sometimes I think they give you permission not to try quite as hard at the thing you really want.

All I want is a peaceful, creative life. A simple one. In between the art, the writing, and the travelling, I want to keep volunteering—both for the Red Cross and the human rights organisation I’m involved with.

That’s it. That’s the dream. And I’m going after it with everything I’ve got.

Before today, I hadn’t spoken to Rebecca in over a month. But this afternoon, she messaged me to ask how I was. I replied, and she told me she’s been in the Adelaide Clinic—for around four weeks now.

I don’t want to make it all about me, but I also can’t ignore the possibility that the fracture in our relationship caused her some distress. Maybe it even played a part in her ending up there. And knowing that... I decided to let everything go.

I didn’t think I wanted to be friends with her anymore. But the truth is, she’s Nanny’s granddaughter. And I want to be there for her. I want to look after her where I can—and I’m going to do just that.

We’ve arranged to go out for dinner next weekend, and Mum’s going to come along too. It might take a little time to rebuild what we had, but I don’t think it will take long. I've known the girl all my life.

I’ve been thinking about the letter I wrote to The Advertiser regarding the pro-Palestinian protesters being labelled a “security threat.” I stand by every word of it—I still feel deeply passionate about the language I used and the truth it held. But I’ve also come to realise that there’s no way a Murdoch paper would ever publish something like that.

So, I reworked the letter. You can read the revised version below.

Dear The Editor,

The recent coverage of the pro-Palestinian protest outside the election debate referred to the demonstration as a “security threat.” I find this language deeply troubling.

These were not violent agitators—they were citizens exercising their democratic right to speak out about a real security threat: the humanitarian crisis in Gaza, which has taken the lives of tens of thousands of civilians, many of them children.

Framing peaceful protesters as a threat risks silencing vital public discourse and sets a dangerous precedent. It suggests that disagreement—especially when it challenges foreign policy or questions the actions of a state ally—is something to be feared rather than heard.

The world is watching horrific scenes unfold in Gaza: hospitals destroyed, aid blockaded, civilians caught in the crossfire. You don’t have to agree with every protester’s sign or slogan to understand why people are speaking out.

We must stop vilifying the voices calling for justice. They are not the problem. The problem is our silence in the face of unspeakable human suffering.

Sincerely,

Me

When I sent it to them, I wrote a note saying that I realised my first letter might not be appropriate for the Advertiser and I rewrote it to something more suitable. I then said that I leave it up to their judgement. I really hope they publish it, I think it is a very valid point.

I taped the entire series of Married at First Sight which just finished it's run. There are 40 episodes in total—and I’ve just started watching. I’m really getting into it. Honestly, it’s exactly what I need right now.

Sometimes you just need a bit of trash TV to keep your mind occupied—enough noise to quiet the overthinking and make space for your gut to speak up. That’s how I know whether I’m really doing the right thing.

So, I’m off to spend the night watching MAFS.

Till next time.

Crimes Against Humanity

I volunteer in communications with a society I’m a member of. I actually resigned from the role to focus on my human rights work, but since they haven’t found anyone to replace me, I’ve continued helping out in the meantime.

One of the people I met through the council is Jill—an incredible woman who became a friend. She served on the council with passion and fire, and we really hit it off. She’s around 70 now, but honestly, I’ve found that once you hit 40, age just… levels out. We’re all kind of the same.

Jill retired from the council last year, and sadly, we soon got news that she was sick. No one said it directly, but rumours began circulating that it was cancer. Then, on Monday, a girlfriend of mine from the council rang and told me that Jill has liver cancer.

I was very sad to hear it. She had plans to travel around Europe with her daughter, who lives there—and now this. I also know liver cancer isn’t a good one. Not that there’s ever a “good” kind of cancer, but it’s one they still struggle to treat effectively.

Today, I sent her some flowers—just to say, “I’m thinking of you and sending you a big hug.” She messaged me to say thanks and told me the flowers really lifted her spirits. She also sent me a photo of them, which you can see below.

Earlier this evening, I read an article on The Advertiser's website that really pissed me off. It mentioned that pro-Palestinian protesters were expected outside the ABC studios in Parramatta, Sydney, where Albo and Peter Dutton were scheduled to debate—which they have now done. The article referred to the protest as a “security threat,” and I found that deeply offensive. In response, I wrote the following letter to the editor of The Advertiser:

To the Editor,

The coverage on 16/04/25 of the pro-Palestinian protest near the election debate described it as a “security threat.” I find this deeply troubling.

Peaceful protest is not a threat. It is a democratic right. What is a threat—what should keep every one of us up at night—is the killing of tens of thousands of Palestinians, the majority of whom were civilians. What should horrify us is the deliberate blockade of humanitarian aid, food, water, and medical supplies to a population under siege.

And what about the hospitals? The majority of them have been bombed. There are now almost no hospitals in Gaza left in use. Premature babies died when incubators lost power. Doctors performed surgeries without anesthetic. These are not unfortunate accidents—they are targeted attacks on the very lifelines of survival. They are crimes against humanity.

Framing protestors who speak out against these atrocities as the threat, while turning a blind eye to the state responsible for them, is not only unjust—it is obscene. It enables further violence. It tells the world that we care more about political discomfort than human lives.

Calling for justice must never be confused with condoning violence. I believe in peaceful protest, open dialogue, and a world where all lives are treated with equal dignity.

We must stop vilifying the voices calling for justice. They are not the problem. The problem is our silence in the face of genocide.

Kind regards,

Me

I actually wrote the letter during a Zoom meeting with the human rights organisation I volunteer with. I turned off my camera and mic, and just typed away. It was an interesting meeting, but I didn’t have much to contribute—I spoke briefly at the beginning, then just listened. The organisation is filled with passionate young people who are incredibly knowledgeable about human rights issues and the inner workings of the movement. I found myself excited for them—for their futures. They’re so fired up, and so good at what they do.

I don’t mean to sound patronising, like I’m so much older than them, but the reality is I’m at least 20 years older than most of them. There are older people involved too, of course, but tonight I had this moment of reflection: if I were 20 years younger and just discovering this organisation, I think I’d make activism my entire life. I was involved in these spaces when I was younger, to a degree—but now, my focus is different.

I still care deeply about human rights. I intend to stay involved with this organisation indefinitely and contribute where I can. I’m going to continue creating work that tells stories—about Palestinians, about stateless people, about injustice—but I also know what I want now. I want to make things. I want to write. I want to earn enough money to travel the world.

Something I am interested in getting involved with within the movement is projecting images onto buildings. I was at another meeting last night focused on making Palestine a federal election issue, and one of the campaign strategies they’re using is building projections. I put my hand up straight away—I think that projecting relevant images onto buildings at nighttime is pretty cool.

I’m not entirely sure it’s legal—it feels like one of those grey areas—but I’m up for it. 

I'm going to do things like that but my priority is to follow my heart and I want to see the world. Mostly Europe, but I’d also love to go back to Antarctica. I have no desire to visit the U.S.—I won’t be going there—but I want to experience as many other places as I can. And soon. Sooner rather than later.

That'll Be $14.65

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a dream where, when you wake up, you remember it for a moment—and then it’s completely gone. But it’s not really gone. Even though you can’t recall the details, you somehow instinctively know what the dream was about. I know that sounds strange, but it happens to me a lot.

It reminds me of fireflies—the way they use light to communicate. They’re not speaking in any way we’d understand, but they seem to have a complex language of their own, using those tiny flashes to select a mate. It’s all happening through light.

I know that remembering dreams and fireflies flashing their bottoms might not seem like the same kind of thing—but it is, in a way. It’s that unspoken, mysterious part of life that can’t be explained. Like déjà vu. That feeling where you’re sure you’ve been somewhere before, or met someone already, or that what’s happening has already happened. I don’t know if I’ve lost you, but that’s happened to me too. Not often—but enough for me to mention it.

Some really weird things happen to me.

Take today, for example. I was at the supermarket picking up The Australian and The Financial Review for Mum. I grabbed a drink near the checkout, and when it was my turn to be served, a young kid rang up my items and said, “That’ll be $14.65.”

As I pulled out my card to pay, the kid at the checkout next to us said exactly the same thing to his customer—“That’ll be $14.65.” Same words. Same tone. Same total. Myself and the kid serving me just stared at each other in disbelief.

I’ve been thinking about it—the odds of something like that happening are astronomical. Like, one in a trillion.

I’m into ancient astronaut theory, and I love delving into religion, but I’m not actually much of a believer in things like fate or signs. Still, I have to say: even though it was such a small moment, that might be the biggest coincidence that’s ever happened to me.

Even after it happened, the kid who was serving me and I sort of paused—like we were both waiting to see if it was some kind of mistake. Maybe the other checkout kid was unintentionally parroting him, or maybe there’d been a glitch in the system. But no. The customer at the next register went on to pay exactly $14.65.

Last week was my hairdresser's 21st birthday. I sent bunch of flowers with a 21 balloon to the salon. You can see below.

I’ve been seeing my hairdresser for a couple of years now, and she’s absolutely lovely—but lately I’ve been going to one of the owners, Mario. He runs the salon with his wife Angela, and they’re both really hard workers. I imagine they’d be tough bosses, but I enjoy talking to Mario. He’s a little closer to my age—he’s 60, which is only 16 years older than me—whereas my darling young hairdresser just turned 21. She’s nearly 23 years younger than me!

Mario’s interested in politics and world affairs, which I sometimes enjoy thinking about. I went in today to get a colour, and Mum came along for a blow-dry at the same time. The three of us had a good old chat about the upcoming election.

At one point, I mentioned to both Mum and Mario that I’ve been getting some 3D printing done by this guy who runs a business from home. And honestly, this guy is so incredibly rude. The few times I’ve seen him, I’ve been super friendly and polite, and he just gives me short, one-word answers—like he couldn’t care less if I were there. He acts like he doesn’t want your business.

I don’t want this to sound like I’m stereotyping—because I’m not—but I have wondered if he might be on the spectrum. But I said to Mum and Mario today, “You know what? I kind of like being treated like shit by him.” I said, “I don’t know what it is, but I’m drawn to him because he’s so rude.”

And then Mario goes, “Ohhh, you like it like that, do you?” And for a moment, it was a bit weird… But then we all just cracked up laughing.

When my dad was alive, he spent years working on these small kangaroo sculptures. He had them cast in metal, and I’m not entirely sure what he intended to do with them—but he gave one to me and said I could do whatever I wanted with it, artistically.

So I decided to have one of the kangaroos professionally scanned for 3D printing.

At first, I thought I’d use resin or the basic materials most 3D printers use. But I quickly realised those aren’t very durable. That’s when the rude 3D printing guy I’d been working with suggested nylon—a professional-grade material that’s strong and long-lasting.

I decided to go ahead and have a range of them printed in different materials.

After scanning the original kangaroo, he printed a few versions at home. Then he sent those files to China to have the resin and nylon prints made there. I was so impressed with the results.

You can see three of the printed kangaroos below.

You can also really see just how talented my dad was as a sculptor. He wasn’t known for his artistic side, but I think he did an incredible job on these. 

So here’s the plan: I’m going to have 200 kangaroos printed as a limited edition. I know that 200 might not sound especially “limited,” but my aim is to get them out there—to have them seen, collected, loved.

Once I’ve sanded and finished each one, I’m going to gild them in 24-karat gold leaf. They’ll be housed in custom-made boxes, and I plan to approach galleries and high-end boutiques. This is not just a little sculpture—it will be a fine art object.

And I think that’s really important—to position yourself as a high-end artist from the very beginning, so there’s no confusion about what you’re offering. It’s not a souvenir. It’s a work of art.

But I’ve hit a dilemma.

On the original kangaroo, my dad included genitalia. And over the years, when he showed the sculpture to friends, people often laughed about that detail and made fun of him for it.

On one hand, it’s a realistic and detailed little sculpture, and including the genitalia supports that anatomical truth. It was part of his original vision. On the other hand, some people might find it in poor taste, or think it’s unnecessary—or worse, that it detracts from the elegance and seriousness of the piece.

So I asked the rude 3D printer guy to remove the genitalia from the scan and print one without it. Just so I could compare.

And now… I’m stuck.

I’ve been talking to my dear friend ChatGPT about it—trying to figure out what’s best—and honestly, I’ve been getting mixed messages.

Below you’ll see two photos. The first is the kangaroo with his manhood. The second is without

What would you do?

The Sweet Old Lady

I just got back from a talk at the Arkaba Hotel by Stephen Pallaras KC, titled “The Sweet Old Lady and the Murderer Mother.” I dragged my friend Andrew along for the ride. Below are two posters that were displayed on the way up the stairs to the top level of the Ark, where the talk was held.

I knew who Mr Pallaras was, but I didn’t know much about him — and to be honest, I still don’t know much about him. But from what I saw tonight, I’m genuinely impressed. His wife introduced him with a glowing reference. He’s worked all over the world, served as the DPP, held a position as a judge, and been involved in academia — though I can’t quite remember if it was as a professor or associate professor. Either way, it’s clear he’s a highly experienced and, at least from what I gathered tonight, a deeply respected man of the law. 

His wife outlined the structure of the evening and mentioned that Mr Pallaras would be sharing his opinion on a few matters — and then telling us what he planned to do about them. I instantly turned to Andrew and said, “He’s going to run for parliament.” Below is a photo I took of his wife just as she was taking a bow.

There were about 400 people there to hear Mr Pallaras speak, which I think is quite a crowd for the top of the Ark on a Wednesday night. I had no idea what to expect, but since it was publicised as a true crime talk, I thought it could be interesting — and it definitely was.

The “sweet old lady” in the title referred to Vonne McGlynn, and the “murderer mother” was Angelika Gavare, who was convicted of Vonne’s murder. The crime took place in 2008, and when I saw the photo of Vonne McGlynn, it looked strangely familiar. As Mr Pallaras went through the details of the case, it all came flooding back — I remembered hearing about it at the time. It was such a horrific, heartbreaking story. Mr Pallaras said that Angelika Gavare was the worst murderer he had encountered in all his years in law.

What struck me most was the connection to something I’m involved in. Just last week, I finalised my position with an organisation, where I’ll be calling elderly citizens each morning to check on their wellbeing. I actually emailed them today to confirm my availability. And tonight, I learned that the service played a key role in discovering that Vonne was missing.

Vonne’s brother had arranged for the service to call her every morning. He told them that if she didn’t answer, they should try again — and if there was still no response, to call the police. The morning after she was murdered, the service couldn’t reach her. They tried a few more times, then alerted the police — and from there, the case began to unravel.

Even though I haven’t started making the calls yet, I felt a genuine sense of pride in the service. It’s comforting to know that something like this exists — a safety net for people who might otherwise be forgotten. You’d hope this kind of tragedy is rare, but I’m so glad the response was swift and that Vonne’s disappearance didn’t go unnoticed.

Below you can see a photo of Mr Pallaras while he was talking on stage.

Mr Pallaras spent the first half of the talk outlining the details of the prosecution’s case. He was the DPP at the time, so it must have been quite high-profile for him. After a short break, he walked us through the defence — which, frankly, was a bit ridiculous — and that’s when he began to share his personal views on issues like domestic violence, and in particular, parole.

He made a few compelling points about why he believes parole should be abolished. One that really stuck with me was his argument about sentencing: if a judge sentences someone to ten years, but they’re eligible for parole in five, what’s the point? Parole can apparently be granted for good behaviour — but, as Mr Pallaras said, behaving well in prison shouldn't be a rewardable achievement; it should be the expectation. He also mentioned the idea of adding time to a sentence for bad behaviour, which makes more sense. What I took away from his argument was: if someone deserves ten years, they should serve ten years — not ten with a chance at five. I don’t know if I fully understand all the mechanics of it yet, but I definitely gravitate toward his line of thinking, and I’d like to read more on the topic.

Then came the moment I’d predicted — he announced he was running for parliament. I gave myself a little pat on the back for my sharp political radar. I swear, I can smell it on them when someone wants to be a politician.

During the Q&A, one young man tried to get into an academic argument with Mr Pallaras about parole. He kept pushing the issue, and I just thought, “Who the fuck are you, and why are you here? Did you really come to a true crime talk to flex your political opinions?”

After the talk ended, I waited in line to get a photo of Mr Pallaras for this blog. I asked if he was running for the upper house, and he said yes. I told him I’d be happy to hand out how-to-vote cards for him — and I meant it. I like him. I can easily picture him dumbing down intense legal arguments for a jury — or for someone like me who doesn’t always follow legal talk. I’m thinking of reaching out to his office in a few months to offer my help. I’ve got experience with election campaigns — mostly rank-and-file stuff, which I actually enjoy.

Technically, I’m a member of another political party, but Mum said it shouldn’t be a problem if I want to volunteer for Mr Pallaras. I think she’s right. Below is the photo I took of him.

It felt strange seeing a senior lawyer referred to as KC instead of QC. One thing our Chief Justice did that I’ve always respected is that when the government stopped appointing Queen’s Counsel and transitioned to appointing Senior Counsel or SC, he personally gave up his QC title and adopted SC instead. That’s a rare gesture — especially from someone at that level — and it really struck me.

When I got home tonight, I looked up Stephen Pallaras online and found out he started his own political party — Real Change SA. He ran in the 2022 South Australian state election. I don’t want to get involved in the federal campaign, but something about this has made me feel like I do want to get involved in the state campaign next year in 2026. Just... not for the party I’m a member of.

Tonight wasn’t just about legal talk — it felt like a watershed moment for me, personally. Ever since Andrew told me that he used to kill sheep with a knife — and all but admitted they didn’t die right away — I’ve felt distant from him. Maybe it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but if you really sit with the reality of that kind of act... it’s brutal. It’s violent. It takes a certain kind of person to go through with something like that. And I guess I’ve been pulling away.

We met at the Arkaba tonight, and from the moment he sat down, he launched into a monologue about how he’s trying to get the Department of Veterans’ Affairs to pay for extensive dental work. The one thing I cannot handle in life is teeth — I hate everything about them. Especially brushing. Even my own teeth disgust me. But Andrew just kept going on and on, showing me his teeth, pointing inside his mouth — and honestly, I wasn’t listening. I was just trying to survive the moment.

The whole thing was so graphic, inappropriate, and deeply uncomfortable. We were in a social setting. Why was he choosing now to have this conversation? After the dental drama, he pulled out a letter from Housing SA about being relocated and went on about how unhappy he was. I wanted to say, “You’re lucky they didn’t send a letter about you hiding the fact your partner lives with you.” Because they haven’t disclosed their relationship status. But I bit my tongue.

And in that moment, I just thought — I want so much more than this. I already disconnected from Rebecca. I haven’t spoken to her in over a month, and I’m proud of myself for that. I don’t want a friend like her. And honestly, I don’t want a friend like Andrew either. I’d rather be alone than spend my time with people like this.

During the talk tonight, Mr Pallaras spoke about the low conviction rates for rape cases. He mentioned that there are rarely any witnesses to rape, which makes it difficult to secure convictions. And while that may be a legal reality, I found it deeply fucking disturbing. It’s no wonder so many women choose not to come forward — why would they, when they risk being dismissed, disbelieved, or humiliated by a system that often fails them?

But what happened next — while we were waiting to meet Mr Pallaras — was the final straw. Andrew told me that he’d been accused of rape by his ex-girlfriend. And that was it. I didn’t want to hear another word. I don’t care about his teeth, his relocation from Housing SA, or any of the chaos he chooses to unload on me. I don’t want to know him anymore. I don’t want him in my life. Please — just leave me alone.

Tonight was a watershed moment for me. I realised how far I’ve let my standards slip when it comes to the people I allow into my life. And it’s not about social status, or education, or income, or housing — none of that matters to me. What matters is that I feel safe, respected, and accepted. That I can be myself. That I’m not shrinking or second-guessing myself just to keep someone else company.

I’m done giving my friendship away to anyone just because they’ll take it. I used to have all kinds of friends — people from different walks of life — but over the years, I’ve lost most of them. Now it’s time to rebuild. But this time, I’m going to do it on my terms. And until then, I’m okay being alone. In fact, I’d rather be alone than waste my time with people who suck the life out of you like a vampire.

I Don't Like Mondays

Last night I met Sir Bob Geldof. It was such a surreal and special moment for me, and I still can’t believe it happened. I was scrolling through Instagram or Facebook one day when I saw “A Night with Bob Geldof” advertised. It said it was a talk about his life with a few songs thrown in. The instant I saw it, I bought two tickets — one for me and one for Mum. There was an option for a meet and greet, so without hesitation I upgraded the tickets.

We actually got front-row seats, and each ticket including the meet and greet was $300. I think that is a very reasonable price, especially for someone like Bob. Initially, the show was scheduled for the Adelaide Entertainment Centre, but closer to the date I got an email saying it had been changed to the Norwood Town Hall, which must have been because of lack of ticket sales. I thought that was a massive jump. They didn’t even try to fill the Festival Theatre. I also thought it would have been a bit of a blow for Bob personally, but Mum and I were really looking forward to the show.

The meet and greet was at 5:30pm so Mum and I went to my hairdresser at 4:00pm. One of the owners of the salon said that her niece was going to see Bob and she had meet and greet tickets too. My hairdresser is on the Parade so it wasn't a long walk to the Town Hall where we lined up out the front with all the other meet and greeters. You can see us in the line below.

Once we got inside the Town Hall, we waited around in the foyer for a bit. There was an Italian-looking woman standing nearby with her friend. She looked around fifty, and I have no idea why, but I suddenly knew she had to be the niece of the owner of my hairdresser. So I just walked up to her and asked — and she was!! She was absolutely shocked. She asked how I knew, and I just said it was a guess. I was a little surprised myself. It must have been because she looked Italian, and the owner of my hairdresser is Italian too.

Mum and I chatted with her and her friend for a while, and then we were asked to head upstairs. My mum has very real mobility issues, so we took the lift. As we stepped out, we saw the female toilets right in front of us. I took a photo of the sign on the door.

I took the photo because of the braille. I absolutely love braille. In the past, I even tried to learn it — I had a blind teacher and went to his house a few times, and he lent me a braille machine. But then I hit a few bumps in life and couldn’t keep going.

I still think braille is an incredibly powerful form of communication, and in the future I’m going to look into buying a braille machine so I can start using it in my artwork.

There was a largish group of people waiting out the front of the concert hall. There was a room off to the side where I assumed the meet and greet would be held. You can see the small crowd below.

We could hear Bob singing in the hall, and someone said he was doing a soundcheck. We’d been standing for quite some time and Mum started to struggle. There was a really lovely older couple standing near us, and the man asked Mum if she’d like some help sitting down on the stairs. She said yes, and he gently helped her over, while his partner sat with Mum and he stayed standing, talking to me. They looked cool — probably in their sixties, but the kind of people you could imagine being genuine Boomtown Rats fans.

I have to admit, I was really nervous about meeting Bob. He’s a rockstar, and I assumed he would be used to beautiful women and glamorous people. I am really fat, and I would be standing in front of him as someone who doesn’t fit society’s narrowest standards of beauty. I even told Mum I didn’t want to meet him.

We were sitting on the stairs when the door behind us suddenly opened — and it was Bob. I looked up and gave him a big smile, and he looked straight at me and gave me a warm, genuine smile back. In that moment, I felt completely at ease.

I had expected him to look away in repulsion, but then I remembered he’s a girl dad. He has four daughters, including Tiger Lily, the daughter of Michael Hutchence and Paula Yates whom he adopted. His daughter Peaches tragically died of an accidental heroin overdose in 2014.

And remembering that Bob is a father to daughters changed everything for me. Because even though I don’t look like the kinds of women he has been photographed with, I realised he understands women — all kinds of women. He’s been married twice, lived a big life, loved deeply, lost deeply, and he knows humanity in all its shapes and stories.

So instead of feeling nervous, I suddenly felt calm. Safe, even. Because Bob Geldof isn’t the kind of man who judges women by their bodies — he’s the kind of man who has seen life from every angle and knows how to be kind.

Everyone who was upstairs was then ushered into a side room, and we all lined up to meet Bob. While we were in the queue, I met another really big woman — probably about the same size and around the same age as me. She showed me a tattoo on her shoulder that said “Bob Geldof.” I asked her if she was going to show him, and she told me she had met him when she was younger and had shown him back then. Apparently, he freaked out and kept saying how she was the same age as his daughter, and she said he practically ran away from her. So she wasn’t going to remind him tonight.

While we were talking, she asked me if Mum was my mother or my grandmother. I said she was my mother, and she was shocked. Then she asked me how old I was, and I said 43. She absolutely couldn’t believe it. She told me she thought I was in my twenties, and then she smiled and said it meant we both experienced Bob in the same way.

I was getting butterflies watching all the people in front of me meet Bob. Below you can see two sneaky photos I took of what it was like waiting in line.

The lady in the photo below completely lost it. She was so overwhelmed she started crying. Bob was so kind to her and really comforted her.

As Mum and I edged closer to Bob Geldof, I remembered exactly why I loved him so much in the first place. I loved his work with Live Aid. Live Aid represents everything I think the world should be about — unity, humanity, and people coming together for a common cause. There has never been another event like it, and I doubt there ever will be. And Bob orchestrated that. He did that.

I love Live Aid, I love Bob Geldof, and I love the Red Cross — and there I was, just about to meet my hero.

When I was next in line, I suddenly decided I didn’t want any photos of myself with him. That’s because I hate photos of myself while I’m so fat. But even though I didn’t want a photo, I did want to give him a big hug.

When my turn came, the woman coordinating everything took my phone — I handed it to her without even thinking — and then I walked straight over to Bob and asked him if I could give him a hug. He gave me a huge smile and said, “Of course.”

Below is the photo the coordinator took of me giving Bob a massive, big bear hug.

I didn’t mind her taking that photo, but I didn’t want anything that could identify me. So while I stood there telling him my name and asking a few basic questions, the coordinator asked me to stand next to him so she could take a photo. I said, “Oh no thanks, I don’t want any photos.”

Bob looked at me and asked why I didn’t want any photos — even though he would have known exactly why. I told him I hate having my photo taken, and he said, “I fucking hate having my photo taken too.” I thought that was sweet, because it felt like his way of putting me at ease.

I said goodbye and walked off, and then it was Mum’s turn to meet Bob. She told him that I was her daughter. Do you know what he said? He said, “You must be so proud of her. She is gorgeous and very nice.”

It was so sweet — exactly the kind of thing a girl-dad rockstar would say about a fat fan who is not particularly visually pleasing. But the truth is, I don’t know what I was thinking when I assumed he would judge me. All the work he did with Live Aid alone shows he’s a fundamentally good person somewhere along the line.

After we’d both met Bob, we made our way to the concert hall. We had front-row seats, and below you can see the view from the front.

Below you can see the image that was on the screen while we waited for the show to start.

Bob came out and the crowd went wild. It was such a warm, energetic atmosphere, and I’m actually glad they moved the event to Norwood Town Hall. It felt full and intimate, rather than half-empty like it might have been at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre.

Bob was incredibly open, and in so many ways he allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of the audience. A few things really stood out to me. He talked about growing up in poor Dublin, Ireland. His father beat him — and his father would cry while he did it. He has two sisters, and he went to boarding school, where he was also beaten.

He described himself as a rebel at school. At one point he ordered fifty little red Mao books, which were delivered to the school and got him into a lot of trouble. You can see a copy of the book below.

He moved to London after school and became involved with the Simon Community, a long-running homelessness charity in Ireland and the UK. He worked in a meat-processing factory for a while, and somewhere along the line he started his band, the Boomtown Rats. He talked openly about how he used to sleep with a lot of groupies, and one night he slept with Paula Yates. The next day she turned up at his house with all her belongings and simply moved in. They fell in love, got married, and had three daughters together. He spoke passionately about Paula and their early love story.

What I found interesting was how Bob said Paula had been watching the news one night and saw the devastating reports about the famine in Ethiopia. It really upset her, and that was the moment Bob said he knew he had to do something. So I genuinely believe Band Aid and Live Aid were both born out of Bob’s response to something that deeply moved the woman he loved. In a way, it was all for love.

In 1984, Bob Geldof and Midge Ure brought together a supergroup called Band Aid. It was made up of some of the world’s biggest musicians — Bono, George Michael, Sting, Boy George, and many more. Together, they recorded the charity single “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” with all proceeds going directly to famine relief in Ethiopia.

Below you can see Bob singing Do They Know It's Christmas?

I think Band Aid was such an incredibly good thing, but as I was sitting there listening to Bob sing “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” I couldn’t help thinking about how patronising the song itself is. Its lyrics frame Africa through a Western lens, implying that an entire continent is defined by famine and hardship, while overlooking the rich diversity of cultures, religions, and traditions across it.

The line “Do they know it’s Christmas time at all?” is especially offensive — it assumes that celebrating Christmas is universal, when in reality many of the countries affected by the famine were not Christian-majority nations to begin with. It also suggests that African people are somehow unaware of Christmas, when that simply isn’t true at all. I know it was well-intentioned, but I do wonder whether they would get away with something like that now.

Bob talked about how, in 1985, he organised Live Aid — two simultaneous concerts in London and Philadelphia that were broadcast to nearly two billion people around the world. It became one of the most significant humanitarian events in history, uniting artists, governments, and everyday people in a single global effort to raise funds and awareness for the Ethiopian famine.

Below are two photos Bob shared with us. The first is of a starving child affected by the famine, and the second is a follow-up photo of the same girl as a grown woman who was able to build a life for herself because of the funds raised through Live Aid.

The Boomtown Rats had one really famous song called I Don’t Like Mondays. It’s a song I know well — not really because of my interest in Bob, but because it’s often played on the radio, at the pub, and even in clubs when I was younger. Bob told us the story of how he started writing it on a plane, and then he sang it.

When he stood up and performed it at the Norwood Town Hall last night, it felt like such an intimate moment. This is a song he has sung hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. He wrote it; it must live in his bloodstream by now. And yet, there I was, experiencing him sharing it with all of us in that small hall.

It was a special moment — one that sends shivers down my spine even thinking about it now. It was iconic. Below you can see Bob as he sung I Don't Like Mondays. 

Bob didn’t say a word about Michael Hutchence or his daughters, but he did talk about separating from Paula and the intense heartbreak he went through. He spoke about her death, and about eventually finding love again. He has been with his new partner for 30 years now, and they’ve been married for 10. He’s still heavily involved in work for Africa.

As I listened to Bob talk about everything he’s experienced in his life, I felt so ridiculous for ever having been nervous about meeting him — or for imagining, even for a second, that he might call me fat or make some comment about how I look. He has lived such a vast, unique human life.

It’s kind of funny that this scruffy, foul-mouthed rockstar is a knight, but he absolutely deserved it.

Bob finished the show by playing the spoons, and then he was joined by a few musicians for an incredible Irish folk song that had everyone up out of their seats. You can see below.

I feel good about seeing and meeting Bob last night. It was a perfect night, and I’m so glad I got to share it with Mum. But there is something that has put a bit of a dampener on it for me. Bob has faced criticism for accepting substantial speaking fees related to his anti-poverty work. For example, one corporate event in Melbourne reportedly paid him around A$100,000, plus business-class flights and luxury accommodation, to speak about Third World poverty. While the fee didn’t come from charitable funds, many people felt the contrast between his high remuneration and the subject of his talk was uncomfortable.

I don’t really understand how he could accept that much money to speak about Third World poverty — in some ways, it’s unfathomable to me. Thinking about it now, I’m not sure how it sits with me or whether it changes how I see him. I’m glad he didn’t call me fat; he seems like a genuinely nice man. But I can't help but feeling he might be a hypocrite.