A Cruel Sense Of Humour

On 30 April, I had a letter to the editor published in the Advertiser. It was in response to an opinion piece Alexander Downer wrote, talking about how people who “booed” during a Welcome to Country ceremony on Anzac Day were rude, but not racist. I had planned to stop being one of those people with an opinion on everything, but I couldn’t just sit back and say nothing in response to what Mr Downer said, which I personally found offensive. Below is a copy of my letter.

In case you were unable to read the words, I’ve pasted them below.

Dear Editor,

In his opinion piece “Left wing activists can learn from rude Anzac Day boos,” Alexander Downer argues that critics are wrong to interpret objections to Welcome to Country ceremonies as racism. While it is true that not all discomfort is rooted in prejudice, his framing reduces these ceremonies to political gestures rather than recognising their deeper purpose.

Welcome to Country is not a lecture or an imposition. It is a simple act of acknowledgment — a recognition that this land has a history that did not begin in 1788. Repetition does not make it intrusive; it makes it normal.

Mr Downer suggests that many Australians reject the language of invasion and national shame. But not everyone feels that way. For many, acknowledging that colonisation brought dispossession and conflict does not mean condemning modern Australia; it is simply an acceptance that the nation’s story is both good and bad at the same time.

Kind regards,

Me

That is the second letter I have recently written in response to Mr Downer’s articles. The first time I wrote, I felt a bit stupid afterwards, like I was trying to suggest I knew more than the former Foreign Minister of the country. This is, of course, ridiculous, as he has a lifetime’s worth of high-level experience in foreign affairs and life itself. But this article he wrote about Welcome to Country ceremonies made me realise that just because he has held high-level positions, and I am just a rank-and-file member of the public, doesn’t mean that he is necessarily right and that I am automatically wrong.

I have a further opinion on this particular article which I won’t put into writing anywhere. I celebrate Welcome to Country ceremonies, and I will continue to celebrate them and welcome any opportunity I am given to learn about Indigenous history and culture. I would say to anybody who doesn’t celebrate them that we should recognise this very special form of acknowledgment as simply the very least we can do in light of our colonial history and the legacy that continues to shape the ongoing racism and inequality experienced by our First Nations peoples.

It is an unfortunate coincidence that my next topic is my Aboriginal deaths in custody project, which involved me writing to all members of the federal parliament asking for their opinion on the issue and whether they believe the federal government is doing enough to reduce Aboriginal deaths in custody. There are 150 members of the House of Representatives and 76 senators, making a total of 226 federal parliamentarians. I actually ended up sending around 300 letters because I sent two letters to ministers — one to their electorate office and one to their ministerial office — consecutively.

It has now been a number of months since I sent those letters, and I have received a total of 11 responses. That is pretty poor indeed. I asked them directly for their personal opinion and, in the majority of cases, I have not received a response. 

Further to the four responses I have already written about, the other people who responded were Senator Larissa Waters, who wrote a one and a half page letter stressing the urgency of the issue of Aboriginal deaths in custody. Then there was Rebecca White, the Assistant Minister for Health and Aged Care, Assistant Minister for Indigenous Health and Assistant Minister for Women, who forwarded my initial letter to the Commonwealth Department of Health and Ageing, and the Director of Partnership and Reforms Section, First Nations Health Division, responded on her behalf.

Penny Wong, Senator for South Australia and Minister for Foreign Affairs, wrote a very brief letter stating that the Government is focused on community led solutions to stop First Nations people coming into contact with the criminal justice system.

Charlotte Walker, also a Senator for South Australia, sent a one page generic type of letter and then Malarndirri McCarthy, Minister for Indigenous Australians, Senator for the Northern Territory and Christmas and Cocos (Keeling) Islands, wrote a one and a half page letter acknowledging it to be a critical issue.

Julian Leeser, Federal Member for Berowra NSW, wrote a detailed letter. This name actually rings a bell to me. I can’t be sure, but I think he was working at the Liberal Party of NSW when I did a temp job there back in 2011. Mr Leeser’s letter talked about how some of the deaths in custody are due to diseases of the circulatory and respiratory systems, such as ischaemic heart disease or cancer. Tragically, others are deaths by suicide.

Finally, my local member for Sturt, Claire Clutterham, wrote back and acknowledged that I had written to other members of parliament. I don’t know how many she knew about, but the acknowledgement was there. She said she had reached out to the Minister for Indigenous Australians to explain to me what the Albanese Government is doing, and I think that was the letter I received from Malarndirri McCarthy. She then went on to share her own personal opinion: that First Nations people dying in custody is unacceptable and that a clear priority of this Government is reducing the incarceration rates of First Nations people.

I have to say I was pretty impressed with Claire. Her office put some time into the response, and she closed the letter by saying, “As your local Member I will continue to advocate on your behalf. I will continue to push for accountability and meaningful progress.” I like a politician who makes you feel listened to and heard, and who is personally passionate about delivering change. I intend to join the Australian Labor Party at some point this year and, when I do, I am going to go and introduce myself to her.

But to the ones who didn’t respond, I am going to write back to them and ask why. I am an epistolary conceptual artist. My instinct tells me that being ignored by almost the entire federal parliament is not the end of this project.

My police check cleared with no disclosable court outcomes and I was notified on Sunday 3 May. It made me feel good that my record was clean and I decided that I really wanted the job, so last week I went ahead and filled in the rest of the onboarding paperwork, ready for me to start this Monday, 11 May.

In the lead up to my first day of work, my mood shifted significantly from my last bleak post, and that’s because everywhere I looked there were flowers — and flowers displayed just as I like them. Below you can see the Mother's Day flower stand out the front of Foodland Norwood. I love flowers in buckets and, as you can see, it’s a big chaotic mess of floral bliss.

For Mother’s Day, I always send Mum flowers, and this year I ordered them from her favourite florist, Blooms. I picked out a beautiful arrangement on their website and assumed they would put the same arrangement together for Mum, but I was very disappointed on Sunday. The colours were the total opposite of what I had ordered, and I was really upset because I pride myself on being able to pick good flowers, but this time I was let down. Mum said she loved them, but I can’t be sure she was telling the truth.

I slept through the morning on Mother’s Day and wasn’t much use to Mum for a while, but by the end of the day I was shocked to discover that my brother hadn’t sent her anything at all. He called her and then sent flowers on Monday, but it was a tiny little bunch in a vase and I don’t understand how he could have sent her something so small.

This isn’t the first time I have seen him send these tiny little things, but why send them at all? If you’re going to send flowers, make it big and make it bold. If you can’t afford flowers, go and pick them from your garden or someone else’s, but in my opinion flowers should only be given if you’re going to do it properly.

You make a statement with the flowers you give, and my brother went to Tynte Flowers for his tiny little arrangement.  They are probably the most well-known florist in Adelaide, and my brother — actually, I will say it was probably his wife — chose the smallest thing they offer. 

On the other hand, I am flat broke and the flowers I sent Mum for Mother’s Day weren’t the biggest I’ve ever sent, but at least they said something. They said: “I literally spent my last penny on you for Mother’s Day.” Below you can see the difference in size between the flowers my brother and I sent.

So now I get to my character defining two days. Mother’s Day, I slept most of the morning. Sunday night I was up all night and starting a new job on the Monday. Before I left the house for the city on Monday morning, I hadn’t slept all night, and I felt like rat shit. I have stayed up all night and then the next day so many times I couldn’t count, but most of that was when I was younger. I am about to turn 45 and I can really feel it.

Monday morning, I was so tired to the point of exhaustion. I was so nervous about the new job and I felt anxious. It was an extremely overwhelming feeling, but I hoped the adrenaline would keep me going. There were 18 other people starting in the call centre on Monday and at 8:30am we were taken up to our training room in the office in the city. It was still so early, but I felt like I was pushing against something. I felt vulnerable, like if I involuntarily fell asleep, I would be completely at the mercy of the other people in the room.

We started with introductions and then there were PowerPoint presentations. During a break, people tried to talk to me and I must have seemed rude, but I could barely speak. I felt it in the pit of my stomach. My eyes felt so heavy — heavier than they had ever felt before. Physically I felt so bad, and all I could focus on was forcing myself to stay awake.

Before lunch, my eyes started closing for a little while longer than they should have every time I blinked. I think the trainer noticed and, in my head, I was thinking I’m just going to have to go and tell her that I can’t do this job and I have to leave.

Then I fantasied about having a brief nap in the back of an Uber while it drove me home to my bed where I could sleep for as long as I wanted. But I pushed through. After lunch we were told we had to walk up the road to another building which was part of the organisation. I thought that this was where my body would shut down completely or I would either die, have a stroke, a heart attack or completely black out. I forced myself to walk down to the other building. I pushed with every single bit of determination I have and forced myself to follow my colleagues and make it to the building, at whatever cost.

I had to stand up for over an hour while we were shown around the other part of the organisation, and I felt like I was having an out of body experience. I somehow made it back to the main office and training room and there wasn’t much time left in the day. I can safely say this was the worst day of my life. I have never felt so physically bad in my entire life. I had a very bad day 13 years ago and I've had days where I have experienced real sleep deprivation before, but those days were nothing compared to this day where I almost lost complete control of my body, and maybe my mind.

I made it to the end of the day but it wasn’t over yet. I had to stay up until 10:00pm and if I didn’t, the same thing would happen the next day because I would wake up early in the morning. So I stayed up and then collapsed into bed. I slept all night and woke up at 6:00am the next morning. I could still feel the exhaustion and effects of the previous day all throughout my body, but other than that I felt surprisingly refreshed. I got up, went to work and had another day of training.

I got home Tuesday night, but my body has a cruel sense of humour and I didn’t sleep the whole night again. The next morning, I felt even worse than I felt on Monday morning and I realised that I would have to quit the job because under no circumstances could I repeat Monday. I simply did not have it in me. I physically could not do it.

So, it wasn’t the criminal conviction that got me in the end, it was my sleep. I called the call centre and told them I had a family emergency the night before, and I have since spoken to them again. I told them I was unable to continue with the training, and they are working out whether they can hold a place for me for the next intake. But the thing is, it’s going to be the same again. I have had this sleep issue for nearly ten years. I have been able to work and study with it, but somehow being a bit older, it is affecting me so much more than it used to.

I feel like, having told the story of how my sleep ruined my employment prospects, it might seem like I am weak or irresponsible to allow this to happen. Maybe the average person could get by allowing their body and mind to be in such a vulnerable state, but for me I’m secretly proud of myself for walking away. I think I have the sheer determination to overcome the physical effects of such deep sleep deprivation, but I also think there is only so much a person can take.

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.