No Harm Done

Last weekend, my brother and his wife sent me some flowers to congratulate me on my new job at the call centre. They were from Tynte Flowers, their go-to florist. It was a nice gesture, and it really surprised me, to be honest. You can see them below.

Like I said, it was a nice gesture, but I’m not sure it makes up for how unbelievably nasty and cruel my brother has been to my mother and me over the past year or so. He would argue that he looks after us by letting us stay in his house, but he charges rent and doesn’t contribute to any maintenance. I don’t want this blog to turn into a space to complain about my younger brother, but as I start to come to terms with my true values and what I want from life, I’m struggling to see where he fits into it anymore.

Last week I completed a stack of onboarding forms for my new job, which starts on 11 May. One of them was for a police check. If you’ve read any of my earlier posts, you might have seen that back in 2013 I was caught texting while driving. I contested it and was issued a notice to attend court, but I didn’t go—I didn’t want to front up to a judge. As a result, the magistrate recorded a criminal conviction against me.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand how serious that was. I had no real sense of the long-term implications or how something like that can follow you. The one relief was that after ten years the conviction becomes “spent” for the purposes of a basic police check. I did learn, though, that it can still show up in more detailed checks, like those for working with vulnerable people.

So, when I filled out the form, I felt completely confident nothing would come up—it was just a standard police check for an office role. But the day after I submitted it, I received a notice from the police saying my check had been flagged for manual review.

My heart sank. I knew the conviction was spent, but I also suspected that might mean extra scrutiny.

The next day, a woman from HR called about something unrelated—rostering—and asked how I’d gone with the onboarding forms. I told her everything was fine, but that my police check had been flagged for review. She said it was probably just a name match with someone else, then asked if I expected anything to come up.

I told her about the spent conviction. It was a difficult conversation to have. She didn’t sound impressed and mentioned she’d never had anyone go through a police check with something come back. She did say that a conviction wouldn’t automatically exclude me from working at the call centre but by that point the tone had shifted.

I explained that the conviction was spent and that I was only raising it because I thought it might explain the delay. Still, I came away from the call feeling awful—anxious, exposed, and, if I’m honest, a bit diminished, like I wasn't worthy like everyone else who’d been offered the role.

The next day I sent a short clarification email, reiterating that the conviction was spent, and she called me. I told her I was feeling really concerned, but she wasn’t especially reassuring. She is a nice woman—we actually share the same surname— but in that moment she made me feel like I was somehow less than the other candidates.

She said she hadn’t told the hiring manager yet, in case the check came back clear, but kept adding things like, “if multiple convictions come up,” and “if you’re telling the truth, it shouldn’t be a problem.” It was unsettling to hear, especially given how minor and long ago it all was.

At the end of the day, it is what it is. I can’t change it. But while she was talking, I found myself thinking about how this must feel for anyone with a conviction—how even a small mistake can follow you, and how hard it must be to move forward, especially for people with more serious records. I’m not excusing serious offenders, but if someone has done their time and is genuinely trying to rebuild their life, the path must be incredibly steep.

My own conviction reads something like “use of mobile phone while driving – $25 fine.” The fine alone makes it clear that I didn't cause an accident and there was no harm done. And yet, if something that minor can cast a shadow, it’s hard not to wonder what it must be like for other offenders.

I felt sorry for myself for a day or so, but then I pulled myself together and thought, I’m not going to let this defeat me. Nelson Mandela had a criminal conviction—albeit under a morally corrupt rule of law—but a conviction all the same. Donald Trump has a criminal conviction, and he probably deserves a million more, and he’s the President of the United States.

I’m still waiting to hear back about my police check, and I think the problem is the system. It isn’t really set up to easily produce a clear result once a conviction has been there. It’s not the end of the world to go to review, but it does raise eyebrows.

I don’t know how this will turn out. If it doesn’t work out for me, I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll take the attitude that everything happens for a reason—and hopefully the rejection will lead me to something bigger and better.

But for all intents and purposes I’m working on the principle that I start on 11 May. The job itself is two days in the office and three days at home during the training period, and then once that’s over it shifts to four days at home and one day in the office. Working from home is ideal for me—Mum and I really look after each other, so I’ll be here for her.

I wasn’t working during COVID, so I never really settled into the whole work-from-home culture, but I make volunteer calls from home—the system is all online—and I like it. I’m going to set up a proper home office. I do have a desk in the big TV room where I usually sit, but the internet isn’t great in there, so I’ve contacted my friend Muhammad, who’s a computer man by trade, to see if he can sort it out.

There are a few logistical things to think about before starting work again. The main one is my sleep. It’s been really bad lately, but I’m confident it will even itself out once I’m working. The best routine I had was when I was in Cambodia for a few weeks—I had to be up in the mornings for Tim and Thy, who were picking me up, and then I’d stay awake right through until about 11:00pm.

I’m planning to do a bit of a harsh reset. At the moment I’m up all night and only getting to sleep around 9:00am. I just need to push that forward—first to midday, then 3:00pm and so on—and I’ve got enough time to do that. If it doesn’t work, I won’t be able to drive into the office because I’ll be too sleep-deprived, but I’ll still be able to perform at work—I’ve done it before.

I’ve been binging Married at First Sight. The latest season has already aired on TV, but I’m watching it on 9Now. I love that show. It’s so trashy, but it’s exactly what I need.

Most of the couples are in their 20s and 30s, but there’s always a token older one. This time they had this beautiful 50-year-old woman, and she was matched with an absolute arsehole. All the couples have been pretty mean to each other, and I’m completely invested in how all their fights play out.

It is a bit sad watching it though, because one of the experts, Mel Schilling, recently died at 54 from cancer. I liked Mel—she was feisty and always stuck up for the underdog.

I’ve been studying journalism and keeping up with the news, but I take a different approach to it these days. I used to want to be part of it—to write letters, physical ones and letters to the editor—but I’ve ditched that now. I don’t want that. I want a quiet, peaceful life, not worrying about things I can do absolutely nothing about.

I will say I’m following the Ben Roberts-Smith case with interest. He has a lot of supporters—on my Facebook I’ve seen people “standing with him.” They’re mostly conservative types. I do believe in innocent until proven guilty and I don’t like trial by media, but I can’t help thinking that if he really did those things, they should lock the bastard up and throw away the key.

With all my interest in the legal system, I still can’t say I understand it. But I want to know this—if he is being tried for war crimes, why aren’t they trying him in The Hague?

It's now 12:20am and my night has just begun. I'm going to finish up in a minute because I want to get back to Married at First Sight, I think the next episode is a dinner party which are always thrilling. But before I go, I want to share something with you.

It has been over a month since I wrote letters to all the politicians in the Federal Parliament about Aboriginal deaths in custody. I wrote to all the house of reps and all the senators. Until today I had only received two responses. Today I received a further two.

The first letter was from the office of Senator the Honourable Kay Gallagher who is also the Minister for Finance, Minister for Women, Minister for the Public Service and Minister for Government Services. I was advised by her office that as the issues raised in my letter fall within the responsibilities of the Minister for Indigenous Australians, Senator the Honourable Malarndirri McCarthy and the letter was forwarded to the National Indigenous Australian Agency for consideration.

The other letter was from the office of the Honourable Anthony Albanese, MP, The Prime Minister. I was advised that all correspondence to him is read and carefully considered, however not all items receive a response. They then said they had forwarded my letter to the South Australian Premier’s Office.

I know I just wrote in this post about not wanting to care about current affairs the way I used to, but I do still care—about Aboriginal deaths in custody, and about the fact that I sent out close to 300 letters to our elected representatives. One of them, who happens to be my least favourite politician in the whole world, Senator The Honourable Michaelia Cash, is the only one who had the decency to send a personal response. The other three letters were simply passed around.

I asked for that particular politician’s personal opinion. I asked them directly. I spent $1.70 per stamp and took the time to write to each of them. I’m in disbelief. I’m angry. And I feel compelled to do something, because what this lack of response has shown me is a level of indifference in the Parliament of Australia that I find hard to accept.

These are elected officials, paid with public money, and I asked respectful, topical, and vitally important questions. I wasn’t asking for the Government’s position. I was asking for their position, as individuals.

My goal in life has been to fly under the radar. I have an anonymous blog. I live an anonymous life. But this doesn’t feel good enough to ignore.

Mum told me tonight that I was being arrogant expecting responses from every member of parliament. I bit my tongue, but I couldn’t help thinking—were you like that? Was my dad like that? Not responding to people who reached out?

Does my letter not matter? Do Aboriginal deaths in custody not matter?

I’m not going to kick and scream about this from the rooftops. I am going to wait a few months and write again—this time making it clear how unacceptable it is for a member of parliament, whether in the Senate or the House of Representatives, to ignore an honest request for information from a member of the public. They are accountable to me, and to everyone else who takes the time to ask questions, write letters, and make phone calls.

I won’t sound hysterical or unreasonable. But I will write a letter that their offices have no real option but to respond to.

All Their Gluttonous Glory

It’s been so long since I last posted. In many ways, I felt like my blog was dying — like I wanted to stop writing. But that’s not the case at all. I’ve been absent because it’s been a transitional period in my life, and I’m trying to adjust to a new normal. I don’t want to write about it, and I’m not really dwelling on it. I’m just taking each day as it comes.

But life hasn’t completely stopped. Other things have been happening, so let me fill you in on what I’ve been up to. The first thing I’ll tell you about is a major life event that took place a couple of weeks ago: I sold my car.

It’s the first time since I started driving that I’ve been without my own car, but I had to sell it because we needed the money. Also, Mum doesn’t drive anymore. I generally drive her around in her car and use it for myself as well, so it didn’t really make sense to have two cars when one wasn’t being used. 

Below you can see the last two photos I took of my old Toyota Corolla. It was a good car. My dad bought it for me before he got dementia. He asked me what kind of car I would like, and I told him I wanted an “adult” car — not a hatchback. It had to be a sedan. He went to great lengths to find it for me, and it served me well for however many years I had it.

Since I last wrote, I seriously considered studying at Le Cordon Bleu to become a pastry chef. The idea came to me when I thought about how much I would love to do a commercial cookery qualification at TAFE SA but cooking and tasting meat would be a huge barrier to success. So, I thought pastry would be a way to learn the art of cooking in a more specialised area.

I love cake art, chocolate, and confectionery, so the full plan was to study SFX at the Media Make Up Academy for two years, learn moulding and sculpting and all of those sorts of skills, and then do the pastry chef qualification and apply the SFX skills to that. I could seriously make some epic cakes and chocolates in all their gluttonous glory.

I was absolutely certain this was the path I should take. I even had to deal with Le Cordon Bleu, who are not only incredibly expensive but also, in my view, incredibly snobby and dismissive of prospective students.

But sure enough, just as the idea came to me, it passed.

I was talking to my friend Maiki, and I said that I can’t live like this. I have literally wanted to be everything, and ended up nothing. But there is one thing that I am, and that is a writer. It’s why I came back to this blog. It’s my safe place.

I actually started a Bachelor of Journalism through Adelaide Uni online this week. I’m going to be doing it in the background. I haven’t even told anyone I’m doing it. I’m just going to plod away at the degree until I finish it.

I’m also going to start up another blog which will focus on opinion pieces and articles about current events. I will build up a journalistic portfolio from there. I don’t actually want to work as a journalist in a newsroom for television or print, but I would like to write freelance pieces and write books. I think this degree will help me with that.

A little while back, I did a massive mailout. I wrote to all the members of the federal House of Representatives and all the senators. I wrote to the ministers twice, once at their electorate office and once at their ministerial office, to ensure they got my letter.

The letter asked them a few simple questions, like whether they think the government is doing enough about Aboriginal deaths in custody, and it drew attention to the 600+ Aboriginal deaths in custody since the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody in 1991.

Below you can see the letters being sent off at my local post office. My old friend Jimmy, who used to own the post office, has moved on, and there is a new younger guy who has taken it over. He kind of annoys me a bit because he doesn’t seem to have the passion or interest in the postal service that Jimmy had, but he was interested in my letters, which made me warm to him a little bit.

I was initially going to hold an exhibition about Aboriginal deaths in custody at this year’s SALA (South Australian Living Artists) Festival. I was going to exhibit some letters like this and use 600+ miniature coffins I had manufactured in China, each with a number printed on it. But I have decided an exhibition like that could be in poor taste, because this is not my lived experience. I am not an Aboriginal woman; I am a privileged white woman making observations which could be culturally offensive.

I emailed Aboriginal Legal Rights about the potential exhibition and they didn’t even respond. But I have another idea about how I would like to exhibit the material I am putting together, and it will hopefully be powerful, respectful, and culturally appropriate.

I must have sent close to 300 letters, and this was a couple of weeks ago now. I have only just had two responses come in.

I found it serendipitous that the first letter I got back was from my least favourite politician in the entire world, Senator Michaelia Cash. Her first line thanked me for my letter, and then she said, “Any death in custody is a tragedy.” It then went on to talk about the measures the Coalition had taken to improve outcomes when they were in government.

I know that her office would have written the letter, but that line about any death in custody being a tragedy is something I can imagine her saying and thinking. That completely deflects from the topic of my letter. It diminishes the significance of Aboriginal deaths in custody. There wasn’t a royal commission into deaths in custody in general; it was about Aboriginal deaths in custody. There is so much I would love to say about that letter I received from Michaelia Cash, and I know this is a nothing blog hidden within the vast crevices of the world wide web, but it would be just my luck that someone reads it and I get sued. So I’ll leave it at that.

The second letter I got was from the Director of the First Nations Justice Branch, First Nations and Justice Policy Division. The office of the Attorney-General, the Hon Michelle Rowland MP, had passed it on to that department to respond. It was an interesting, informative two-page letter which touched on topics like reducing First Nations incarceration rates as the most effective way to reduce deaths in custody.

I’m surprised I’ve only had the two letters back. I’m hoping they will come in a wave. I was waiting for the state election to be over before I write to the state politicians. I think all the seats have been declared now, so I will send those letters out in the next week or so.

I almost forgot — as well as pastry cheffing, I entered the world of filmmaking. I didn’t, and don’t, actually want to be a filmmaker as such, but I did a life plan and figured I had a spare seven months this year where I could do a Diploma of Film at SAE.

There is always a hurdle when it comes to me, and the hurdle here was my half-sister, who was accusing Mum of hiding Dad’s non-existent money, used to work at SAE. I wasn’t sure if she still worked there, so I had to discreetly ask. I found out she didn’t, so I went for a tour of the campus on Franklin Street. It was the old Eynesbury College, where I spent a tiny bit of my school years.

The campus was amazing, with lots of equipment, and the students all looked so cool — albeit very young. I enrolled, but just as I was certain I would finish the year making epic YouTube documentaries about parasites and bioluminescence, the idea passed.

These fantastical courses at Le Cordon Bleu and SAE haven’t really seemed real. It’s almost as if I knew I wouldn’t really be doing them. But something real has been happening in the midst of all of that: I have been looking for a job.

In total, I have had five different interview offers. The first one was at the Royal Adelaide Hospital on their switchboard. I went for the interview, and I love switchboards, so this role appealed to me, but you had to do overnight shifts, and I thought if I sign on for this, I’ll never fix my sleep issues, so I withdrew my application after the interview.

The second was an interview at the Housing Trust call centre, which I also withdrew from because it just seemed a little dark for what I am after.

I then got an interview at AHPRA, which was also a call centre role — two days in the office, three days at home. It paid really well, but it was a temp job, so I withdrew from that interview as well.

Then I got invited to an interview with the AGL call centre, which was good money for what it is, but again I withdrew from it.

The most important interview I had was with another call centre.

I first had a simple recorded audio interview online, and then I was invited to a group interview on Tuesday. There were around twenty people there, and we were seated in groups around tables. Team leaders came and sat with us and observed how we interacted.

When we went around in a circle, they asked us to introduce ourselves and tell the group something about ourselves. I said my name, and then I said I love bioluminescence. I told the group I had seen bioluminescent mushrooms and glow worms, and that it was my goal to see fireflies in real life.

I was in a group with all men — they actually drowned me out a bit. I like to think of myself as a strong woman, but somehow I kept that side of me quiet on Tuesday.

They talked about the role, which during probation is two days in the office and three at home, and then after probation, four at home and one in the office. I loved being there. It reminded me of when I worked in the Centrelink call centre. It had the same atmosphere.

When it came to my one on one interview, I was really nervous. There were two youngish women interviewing me and, when I spoke, you could almost hear my voice trembling. But I steadied myself, found my rhythm, and began to speak with more confidence. That was until they asked me to give an example of a time I hadn’t met the expectations of a previous role.

I told them about a time I was working in the Super SA call centre. I had just finished a call with a particularly rude man and, after I hung up, I muttered under my breath, “what a nark.” My team leader was listening to the call and she came over and told me she had heard what I said. She reminded me that I shouldn’t be calling members names like that. Then she added, “and he’s not a nark.” That was the moment I realised I had absolutely no idea what a “nark” actually was.

It was something I had picked up from my mother. She used to say, “don’t be a nark,” whenever I was doing something wrong. I had used the word countless times in my life, always thinking it meant something entirely different. Only then did I discover that a nark is actually a snitch. So there I was, telling this story in an interview, fully aware that I had chosen a questionable example and used the wrong word entirely. I walked out of that interview convinced I wouldn’t get the job.

But yesterday, I got the call — they offered me a job! I couldn’t believe it. I felt relief, disbelief, and a quiet sense of gratitude all at once. After ten years out of the workforce, I had been invited back in, and I accepted immediately. There are still a few things to clear — my references and police check — but if everything falls into place, I know this: I am not going to put myself in this position again.

I am going to commit to this job and give it everything I've got. I am going to stay as long as they will have me. More than anything, I feel like I am finally on the right path. I’ll also continue my journalism and I’ll continue my art projects, especially the work around Aboriginal Deaths in Custody.

There is something deeply comforting about that. And perhaps the most unexpected gift of all is the work from home component. I can be here, at home with my mother, and still build a life for myself. 

Over the last little while that I’ve been absent from this blog, I’ve seen some beautiful things. The most beautiful was this little Easter display at the counter of a café at Burnside Village. It was incredibly special.

The last thing I’ll share with you in this, my resurrection post, is that the other day it was my gorgeous hairdresser Melissa’s 22nd birthday. She’s actually not my hairdresser anymore — I’ve swapped to the owner — but Melissa and I still love each other. I had an appointment with the owner, Mario, on her birthday, so I bought her these flowers below.

I picked the flowers up from a bucket on the sidewalk of The Parade, and they are my favourite kind of flowers. She turned 22 — that is 23 years ago for me — and yet it feels like just yesterday. I look at someone like Melissa, who is only 22, and she’s got her whole life sorted. She’s in a long-term relationship, she’s building a house, she’s got a trade, and she’s been at her job for seven years.

I was never that sorted at 22, and I’m still not now. But I’m on my way, and the timing might be different, but I think everyone’s got their own kind of normal.

An Era Saturated In Sensationalism

I am not a crier. I don’t exactly know why, but I pretty much don’t cry. Sometimes, like when my father and Nanny died, I will cry, but little things that would normally set the average person off just don’t do it for me. For pretty much the second half of my life I’ve either been numb or crying superficial tears.

But I feel like crying now. I really do.

I am experiencing a profound sadness, which I think is more anticipatory grief, and I am all alone in this journey. I don’t feel sorry for myself for not having the ability to talk to anyone about this. I am managing.

Back in 2011 I wrote this crazy book. It was insane and I don’t even know where most of it came from. But in the book, the ringleader of the Bali Nine, Andrew Chan, is tied to a makeshift crucifix in a forest in Bali, Indonesia, waiting to be executed by a firing squad. While he is waiting, everything becomes crystal clear and his life suddenly makes sense to him — albeit too late.

I feel like this is happening to me at the moment, where it has all suddenly become crystal clear. The study, the letters, the projects — it all means nothing. The only thing that means anything in this world is family and the ones we love.

I put off doing studio-based subjects at uni until next year because I felt inadequate when comparing myself to other extremely young students at the art school. Fuck inadequacy. It doesn’t matter. If I want to be a glass blower, suck it up and go to uni and who cares what they think.

But here’s the thing, I can’t do that now.

I am not martyring myself, but I need to have significant availability during the day, so I’m just going to get any old degree online and then do glassblowing postgraduate if I am in a position to do it at the time. A degree is going to be an absolute secondary thing for me. I’m not even going to tell anyone I’m doing it. I’m just going to get the job done while I’m doing other things.

Those other things will be making sure I am where I am needed, as much as possible. And it will mean working. I need a job as a matter of urgency.

My whole life there has always been money around. I have never gone without anything I ever wanted. That is firstly because my parents had a lot of money when I was growing up, and secondly because when I was working, I always had extra money to buy the things I wanted. That’s even when I wasn’t earning a lot — but somehow life seemed so much cheaper back then.

Now, I’m not joking, Mum and I are in a very serious financial situation. So much so that I didn’t think we were even going to have enough for the basics in the last fortnight.

So first of all, on Tuesday I’m selling my car. That will give us an extra buffer, which I am very much looking forward to. I’m taking it to this place called Universal Motors and they will auction my car for me. I don’t know how much I’ll get for it, but really anything will do.

The second thing I am going to do is get a job.

And it’s interesting how the universe works, because once I realised I needed to get a job, I got an email from the Department of Health inviting me for an interview for a job I had applied for a while back. It is on the switchboard of one of the hospitals. The interview is next Wednesday.

I hope I get this job. It’s casual and it could work around the other things I’ve got going on at the moment. I’ll just have to wait and see.

See, I say I am sad, and I am. My heart is really breaking. I can physically feel it in the pit of my stomach. But you’d never know. Just like everything else in my life, I can hide these things really well.

The other thing is, it’s not about me, so I really need to stop indulging in this negative cesspool of grief.

I haven’t written in this blog for some time now. That’s because I have so much I want to say, and even though this is an anonymous blog I don’t feel I can really express myself in relation to certain things.

Since I last wrote I haven’t really been up to much. Two weeks ago to the day Mum and I went to the Gold Class cinemas at Marion and saw Wuthering Heights. I know that seems ridiculous, me saying that I am selling my car and yet there we were going to a luxury cinema experience, but this was before things got really bad.

Below are two photos I took of the escalators you can see as you walk into the Marion Shopping Centre.

I absolutely love Gold Class. It’s great because people don’t usually talk while the movie is on and you can really sit back, relax, and enjoy the experience. Below is the entrance to the Gold Class lounge.

And this is inside the lounge itself.

I also took this photo of the bar. 

We ordered some food and something to drink and then made our way into the cinema. I couldn’t get a photo of it until the credits were rolling because I didn’t want the other patrons to feel like I was taking their photo.

As for Wuthering Heights, I have not read the book. It was first published in 1847 and Emily Brontë used the male pseudonym Ellis Bell, because women writers were often not taken seriously at the time. I haven’t read any of the Brontë sisters, but I can relate more to Jane Austen and her classic novel Pride and Prejudice.

I loved this movie. First of all, I love Jacob Elordi, who I have previously posted about. He plays the romantic lead Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, and he is so incredibly sexy. I want a man like him. Tall, wild-bearded, gruff but sweet, and just hot.

I think I am coming into perimenopause, where just the sight of a man like that can make me weak at the knees. They do not create men like this in real life, and the reality is that even if they did, they probably wouldn’t go for me. But it was a good movie, and I went out and bought the book the day afterwards. One day I’m going to sit down and read it.

As we were leaving the cinema I noticed these pillars that went all the way to the ceiling. When I looked more closely, I saw that they had a form of mosaics on them with images from movies. I took some photos, which you can see below. I don’t know if they were individually mosaicked, or if the tiles were already there and someone painted the images over them.

I like this one of Mickey in Fantasia. 

Thinking about the story of Wuthering Heights unfolding, in my heart I felt like I would love to be an author. I’m still jumping around from career to career and from one university degree to another, even now at nearly 45 years old, but in my soul I would love to sit down and write books. I was thinking about this before my crystal-clear moment came, when everything suddenly made sense. It’s not something I’m going to commit to trying right now, but I’m going to keep it in the back of my mind. If one day one of the books I’ve been dreaming of writing wants to jump out of me, I’ll let it out.

I haven’t really been up to much else over the last two weeks. I’ve mostly been running Mum around to appointments and things like that. I also donated blood. You can see a new photo I took of the donor centre below.

I like giving blood, but I was quite sick again after donating this round. That’s the second time it’s happened, so I think I’m going to give it a rest for a while. But I am still pretty keen to reach my ten-donation milestone.

It’s now 11:32am on Saturday 14 March and I had a volunteer shift this morning. I absolutely love making these calls. I've got a real soft spot for the oldies. I’ve been doing it for nearly a year now and I feel a real connection to the people I speak with. Not too much of a connection, but to give you an example, last week I called one of my regulars three times and she didn’t answer.

When that happens we have to escalate the call and a supervisor tries to contact them to make sure they are okay. If they don’t answer those calls, that’s when family members and the police can get involved. This is part of why I think it is such an incredible service, because it makes sure people don’t go unnoticed or forgotten.

But I had to escalate this particular lady and I was genuinely worried about her because we have a nice little chat two mornings a week. The next day I contacted my supervisor and asked about her welfare, and he told me she was fine and had answered on the fourth call. So it’s little things like that.

I had one man ask me for my email address so he could send me some of his writing, and I told him I couldn’t give it to him. So I know my boundaries, but I do feel a special little connection with them. Some more than others.

I was talking to one lady this morning who told me that some of the people who regularly call her during the week had been shifted and that they had changed the roster. She said the organisation does that to make sure people don’t get too attached to each other. I can understand why they do that, but I hope they don’t do it to me.

I forgot to mention that a couple of weeks ago I had a call from the Speaker of the Parliament’s office. The lady told me that the Speaker had received my oath book and had said it was a beautiful book, and that he was going to bring it into the office to show her. I think he has two offices.

She then asked for my address and said he had written a thank-you letter to me. This was a while ago now and I haven’t heard anything, so I feel like there may have been a communication breakdown with the address. But I don’t care. I don’t want a thank-you letter. It’s just something I wanted to make for him as Speaker. I was so happy to hear that he said it was beautiful, though.

Another random thing that has happened to me in the last little while is that I got an email from a lawyer saying that I had purchased something from JB Hi-Fi and there was an issue with the warranty, and they are doing a class action against them. They said I didn’t need to do anything and that I would automatically be included unless I opt out.

I have no recollection of purchasing anything from JB Hi-Fi with a warranty, but I just thought to myself that it sounds like something I would be interested in hearing about to see how it plays out.

I read an article in The Advertiser online about Nick Xenophon, who had surgery for a brain tumour that left him disfigured. I thought it was really brave of Mr Xenophon to speak publicly about his experience, so I wrote the following letter to the editor in response to the article. They published it on 6 March 2026.

To the Editor,

Paul Starick’s article, Former South Australian Senator Nick Xenophon’s battle against brain tumour (5 March 2026), was both sobering and deeply moving. It takes considerable courage for anyone — let alone a former public figure — to speak openly about the physical and personal consequences of major surgery.

Mr Xenophon’s willingness to discuss the loss of his smile, his impaired hearing and vision, and the vulnerability that follows such an ordeal reflects the very qualities that made him a unique and much loved member of the South Australian Legislative Council and the Australian Senate. In a culture that often prizes image and invincibility, his candour serves as a reminder that illness does not discriminate, and that dignity lies not in perfection but in perseverance.

I wish Mr Xenophon every success in his upcoming surgery and continued strength in his recovery. I am confident that whatever chapter comes next, Mr Xenophon will continue to inspire South Australians to speak up and drive change.

Kind regards,

Me

Around the same time, I wrote another letter to the editor responding to an article that claimed Iran’s new Ayatollah, Mojtaba Khamenei, had received treatment for impotence.

To the Editor,

Your recent article on Mojtaba Khamenei referenced alleged past treatment for impotence drawn from diplomatic leaks. I do not defend him in any way. However, I do defend the right of other men who suffer from impotence not to have their condition weaponised through ridicule or sensational reporting.

Erectile dysfunction is a common medical issue affecting millions of men worldwide. When it is presented as a political punchline or shorthand for weakness, it reinforces stigma that can leave ordinary people feeling diminished or inadequate. A medical condition is not a moral failing, nor is it a meaningful measure of leadership.

Serious geopolitical developments warrant scrutiny of policy, power and conduct. Personal health matters — particularly intimate ones — rarely add substance to that analysis. Journalism can hold leaders to account without normalising humiliation as a tool of critique.

In an era saturated with sensationalism, a more disciplined standard would better serve public discourse.

Kind regards,

Me

I didn’t send that one, but the article I was referring to was a joke. I remember thinking to myself, is this journalism? It was utterly offensive and characterised impotence as a weakness, which is both unfair and, in my view, unethical.

So, I’m experiencing a profound sadness at the moment, but I am managing. I’m still working out a vocational pathway, but all I know is that if I study it has to be online and I have to do it quietly so there’s no expectation that I will suddenly have a qualification at some point in the not-too-distant future. I just want to do it and then go about my business.

I have a job interview coming up and I want and need this job more than I have ever wanted and needed a job before.

And I’m still thinking about writing books. I can’t think forever though — at some point, if I want to do it, I’ve got to get on with it.

I’ll finish this blog with two beautiful photos I took yesterday when Mum and I went to The Parade. The first is out the front of The Flower Parade, a local florist. I love the way they have buckets of flowers out on the sidewalk. It reminds me of this Parisian floral fantasy I have of owning a cosy little florist where people swing past on their way home from work to pick up a fresh bunch of flowers for their loved one.

The other photo I took was inside the mall, out the front of a fruit and vegetable shop — more buckets and more flowers. It always puts a smile on my face when shop owners do this. It’s one of those beautiful little luxuries in life. 

And I’ll tell you one thing: no matter how broke I get, I will always have enough money to pick up a bunch of flowers for my mother on the way home from wherever I’ve been.

Out Of My Depth

It’s currently 2:42am on the last morning of February — the 28th. It’s a Saturday, and it is hot. We have two air conditioners, and they both seem to be blowing out hot air. I’ve spoken to a few people about it, and they tell me to turn one — or both — off. But it’s hotter without them, so it’s really a matter of choosing the lesser evil.

That said, it’s actually good practice for me. If I want to be a glassblower, I have to get used to being in the hot shop, which — as its name suggests — is a very hot place. So, I’m not complaining too much.

On Thursday night I took Mum to the Adelaide Planetarium. My friend Mariah is an astronomer there, and she got us tickets to her Adelaide Fringe show Our Magnificent Moon. Below you can see the sign just outside the Planetarium doors.

As we walked down the corridor towards the lift, I noticed an A4 sign promoting the event.

Mum and I jumped in the lift and went up a level. As the doors opened, I saw people gathering in the waiting area before the show.

The Planetarium used to be part of UniSA, but after it merged with University of Adelaide, it’s now part of Adelaide University. As we stood outside the Planetarium, I noticed a sign for Adelaide University glowing on the screen nearby. It was the first time I’d seen any of that paraphernalia around the place.

I love the Planetarium. I really do. I’ve been to so many courses and sessions there — there was a time when I was practically part of the furniture.

I stopped going because of an 80-year-old man who kept grabbing my bum every time I hugged him. He also did this weird thing where he would press himself against me in a way that made my skin crawl. I had to decide whether to say something about him or simply stop going. I chose to stop going because I didn’t want to ruin him for Mariah. She loves him and, for the life of me, I can’t work out why. To me, he is the definition of a sex pest.

Mariah and I are still good friends. She knows he did something that put me offside, but she doesn’t ask about it anymore.

Our Magnificent Moon was such a cool Fringe show. It was a full house. Mariah projected a huge graphic of the Moon onto the dome and talked us through its locations and craters. I think Mum found it a little boring. I was sitting next to Mariah’s husband, Rob, who I really like, and he kept sighing and looking at his watch. Meanwhile, I was sitting there thinking how extraordinary it all was. Here he is, married to this fabulous woman who knows everything about the stars, the Moon, space, physics, astrophysics — all of those enchanting subjects — and he seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

The talk went for just over an hour and it put me right back in the mood for anything astronomical. When Mariah asked if there were any questions, I put my hand up and said, “You’ve talked about some of the astronauts who went to the Moon during the Apollo missions — could you tell us a little bit about the rubbish they left on the lunar surface?”

She explained that the astronauts did leave equipment, waste, and various items behind on the Moon.

We said goodbye to Mariah and Rob and came home.

I started thinking about the Apollo missions and all the things they left on the Moon. The sheer arrogance of man. What claim do we have to it? Who are we to go and litter on another celestial body?

It feels like that old colonial way of thinking. We deem the Moon terra nullius. But how do we know that extraterrestrials don’t periodically travel there every million years and take up residence? What if we have disrupted their space? What if we have invaded it? And even if extraterrestrials don’t do that — who are we to assume that they don’t?

The first thing I did was find an inventory list of everything left on the Moon during the Apollo missions. Then I wrote a letter to NASA asking on what authority they left it all there.

Even the rovers — they annoy me the most. Who said we could do that? What permission was given? Littering is a crime, as far as I’m concerned, and we have done it in abundance. On the Moon. And on Mars too.

I said I wanted a peaceful and gentle life. I said I was going to stay away from heavy topics. And yet here I am, feeling compelled to investigate this further.

I know there is space law and all sorts of international agreements. But surely, they didn’t agree to this — to actually leaving man-made objects and waste on a celestial body that is not our own?

We don’t own the Moon. We never have. And we had no right to do that.

As I mentioned previously, February is coming to an end, and this year already hasn’t gone the way I’d planned. I was enrolled in the Bachelor of Fine Arts at Adelaide University. I dropped the studio-based subjects because I didn’t feel physically fit enough — or aesthetically pleasing enough — to participate. And now I have deferred the whole degree.

I am not doing any university this year, and I’ll tell you why.

First and foremost, I need money. Urgently. For myself and for Mum. I have to get a job, and I am going to apply for work with the Census when applications open in April. I am also going to continue building my hospitality skill set so I can apply for a casual job at the Adelaide Festival Centre or the Adelaide Entertainment Centre.

The other primary reason I’m not doing uni this year is that I want to complete a qualification through TAFE NSW — a Certificate IV in Arts and Cultural Administration. I think this qualification might give me an edge the next time the Centre is recruiting. And the reality is, while I'm at uni, my dream is to work there.

I feel like anyone who has read even a little of this blog would advise me not to defer my studies — again. But I’ve never felt so inspired to lose weight, fix my sleep, work for the Census, and develop short-term qualifications that will support jobs around university.

Mum is a player sponsor for the AFL football club she supports. She’s been doing it for around twenty years, and my brother and I used to poke fun at her, comparing sponsoring an AFL player to sponsoring a World Vision child. But she loves it. She gets a new player every year and usually takes the time to get to know them. Over the years, she’s made a lot of friends around the club and knows the President well.

On Wednesday last week she attended the first player sponsor dinner of the year, where she is formally assigned her player. The player always sits with their sponsor and, although I’ve never been, it sounds like a bit of fun.

On Wednesday night Mum was sitting at a table with the President and other VIPs. She told me that her player — a young man in his early twenties — told her he felt out of his depth being seated among such important people. I thought that was sweet.

In many ways AFL football players have always intimidated me. They seem to move in circles of beautiful women and confidence — a world where I definitely do not fit. And yet, I could completely relate to what he said. I could be sitting at a table next to my Mum — even next to my Dad when he was alive — and still feel out of my depth.