This is a sharp departure from my usual posts. No drawings. No jokes.
It’s a tribute to one of my favourite writers – Australian author Gillian Mears – who died this week, aged 51.
Now that Christmas is in sight, I am once again readying myself for The Conversation.
It won’t be the first time I’ve had to do it, but it never gets any easier.
Each year they ask me about it, but no-one actually wants to hear the answer. As soon as the first sentence leaves my mouth, they swell with outrage, they call me a Grinch, they tell me I’m No Fun At All.
Image from http://www.zazzle.com.au
Mind you, these aren’t my kids we’re talking about – these are my friends and acquaintances. Typically they’re people with younger children, and they’re weighing up the best time and way to break the news about Santa in their household.
They ask: “When did you tell your kids?”, “What did you say?”, “How did they react?”
But I’m no help whatsoever, because I’ve never been in that situation.
Damnit! I should never have written that story about 3D glasses. Now Cyclops, the god of corneas, has vehemently expressed his displeasure.
You see, I used to wear glasses of the Extremely Correctional kind. But three years ago I had laser surgery, and bingo! My naked eyes could suddenly make out individual leaves on trees that were way over there.
So when I went to a 3D movie the other week, I slid the cinema glasses onto my nose easily and contentedly watched the movie in sharp resolution.
The simplicity of it reminded me of all the times I used to struggle with half-an-octopus worth of glasses arms at the cinema.
So that’s what I wrote about.
A couple of years ago, I had to wear a branded t-shirt for a work event and my choice was limited to an extra-small or an extra-large.
Since I’m neither of these sizes, I tried them both on. I planned to choose the shirt that looked least terrible and, more importantly, the one that was easiest to move in – since it would be a busy, running-around kind of day.
That turned out to be the extra-small one.
I have a friend who no longer reads novels.
She used to, but that was before we knew each other. When we met, she had a pile of books stacked next to her coffee table, up to the height of my thigh. She’d read all of them, except the one on top, which she’d gotten partway through and stopped reading – not only it, but all fiction, altogether.
A few months back she did a spring clean and the books disappeared along with the expired cans of food, obsolete paperwork and an incredible array of shoes that were easy on the eye but extremely unkind on the feet.
Back in the days Before Technology, when I was growing up, we entertained ourselves by interacting with other kids.
This usually involved riding bikes or climbing trees, making up games or going to imaginary places. But sometimes we’d talk about Really Important Stuff like –
I would nearly always answer –
Or sometimes –
Keep in mind, it was the 80s.
As a child, I had the misfortune of being labelled the brainy one. My younger brother scored the accolade of being sporty.
Don’t get me wrong, I saw my smartitude as a wonderful thing. When I grew up, I wanted to become a doctor and get a PhD and end world poverty. But I was less thrilled that braininess seemed to rule out the possibility of having any sporting prowess whatsoever.
While we were in Ho Chi Minh, I visited a brothel for the first in time my life. With my 13-year-old daughter in tow.
At least, I think that’s what happened.
We’d been walking for hours in the stupefying heat – first to Saigon Square, a shopping centre my daughter wanted to visit, then on a circuitous route down to the harbour. We planned to check out our options for a family boat trip, taking in the sights of the city along the way.
We spent a bit less than two days in Ho Chi Minh, arriving on Sunday evening and leaving late on Tuesday morning: two teenagers and two adults who hadn’t travelled together before.
Taking a spin in a cyclo (one of Vietnam’s three-wheeled bicycle taxis) was high on my wishlist. But given the short timeframe and challenging dynamic, I knew we’d have to be opportunistic; grabbing the chances that came our way and abandoning the ones that didn’t, without regret.
Photo from virtualtourist.com
So I kept the wishlist loose.
On the Monday morning, we visited Ho Chi Minh’s largest markets – Ben Thanh – whose narrow aisles were a dense coagulate of people, noise and humidity. Pretty much as expected.
How the light gets in 