All posts by Princess Sparkle

That Dark Summer – Jane Crawford

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

The first time I wanted to run was not the first time i tried to. After hearing that wail I knew rationally that i had to get out of there but i couldn’t leave the people in the room as I had to know what happened next. “Theres been snake bite, his dad’s down”

Snake bite. Ticking over in my mind I had to think of what I knew. Don’t move , don’t move- I had to run and tell him cos he might not know that , not being from here.. The aboriginal people of Australia have a saying that if you get bit by a snake, you should wait to see two sunrises and two sunsets then it was fine; you could get up and walk away. Medically speaking the snake venom hits you in the lymphatic system and by  slow process  can remove the poison eventually itself. But this takes so long. I looked around a stared at at an orange ribbon on the floor that had fallen from my girl’s hair and that had twirled around the table leg somehow. Get outside. A small cup sat atop this table and teetered on its edge. Get outside.  I ran over the uneven floor and jumped  over the mussed carpet out to the path. “Where where?” “Near the lawnmower”.

Huh huh huh, puffing, feeling the slow pace of the fastest strides , i made my way across the lawn. A change in course could meant I get there faster so I cut through the laundry out house and saw  a maroon shirt distinctly in the green area  next to the sandpit, not far from the  lawnmower.” Stay still stay still, stay calm”- and James’ dad is one of the calmest people you could ever meet ( much like me, actually, but  I can’t meet myself) and  I puffed to him: “Remember, the thing I told you about the lying still…” and the next minute, to my fascination, he started a big slow breath that lasted longer than could actually be real. Was this a thing about the lungs and poison shifting gear? What did the guy on the course say? Couldn’t bloody remember.

I heard “Whats that smell?” It was my girl who had crept up behind me lifting her shoe and looking at a dog poo from that manic beast that ran about.

When was the ambulance is coming?There was only a landline here and John had been holding the reciever down at the hall.

I looked at James’ dad.The sunlight was disappearing down behind the hills and though his face was darkening, it was seemingly more pale. And  down from the front road I could hear the the sound of the ambulance turning  up the hill. This was our summer, this was hell, this will be OK.

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CLOSER – Julie Bignell

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

The first time he slipped the red sequinned garter onto his right leg it only made it as far as his knee. The bathroom door was closed, but that didn’t mean anything in this place. The other residents had a habit of thoughtlessly barging in without knocking or bothering to even consider someone else might be in the middle of a shit or, in his case, exploring how he felt about the memento from last night’s kill.

It wasn’t meant to be a kill. That’s just how it turned out. It was meant to be a date of sorts. He’d had her picked out for a while. She was always the last act at Jerry’s, and boy was she worth waiting for. He had looked forward to the moment for weeks, sitting up back where the lights were low, thinking about being alone with her. He knew she’d want to be with him, once she met him properly. Just a half an hour, maybe an hour, of talking about his life, his plans, and how she figured in them would be enough to win her over. He wouldn’t even touch her on their first date.

But when he’d stepped out of the shadows near her beaten up old Fiesta she’d jumped about a mile high and that was it. There was no talking to her. When she’d turned to run her ankle had twisted badly. Was she really planning to drive in those shoes anyway? She’d fallen, hit her head, and there was some blood. He figured it would only have been about a small cup worth. But there it was. There she was. Lying there on the sharp gravel of the car park and he had to do something because someone would come along at any minute.

A change in course was required, and he had heaved her up into the Fiesta’s back seat so at least it didn’t look like something bad was going on. And climbed in on top of her, just to see if she was still breathing. She wasn’t.

But then, she had looked kind of sexy just lying there. The intimacy was somehow more honest than being up close with other women he’d been with. Her eyelashes still had glitter on them. Her woollen coat was open, just a bit. Next minute, before he realised he was doing it, he’d taken a peek underneath. It wasn’t like that. He already knew what she looked like naked, he’d memorised it from the dozen or so shows he’d been to. But then he saw the garter and decided to slip it off and put it in his pocket, before carefully closing the car door and walking casually, as inconspicuously as possible, back to the nearby bus stop.

He guessed they’d find her in a day or two. Some kids doing that stupid parkour crap would be running through the car park and one would say to the other “What’s that smell?” And the friend would reply “is that a person in the back seat of the car? And he’d be like “Let me check.” And that would be that. They’d find her and she would be sans garter, not that they would know, because it was in his pocket and he hadn’t taken it out until now and started to think about her.

It was a pity really, because they would have been friends. Good friends, if she hadn’t been so damn panicky. Women were so hard to approach these days.

Now that he thought about it, he felt pretty sorry for himself. Every time he reckoned he found the right one, something problematic had intervened and he would have to start all over again. Maybe he really was the fuckup his mother had called him for years now. If he could find the right girl, she’d get off his back and be proud of him for a change.

…

About the same time a murderous psychopath was trying on the clothes of his victims, Claire Walton was wracking her brains about how she could stop him. No, catch him. There would be no stopping until this crazy bastard was in custody, and she was determined she was the detective to do it. Not only because the women in this city need to be safe, but also because she needed a big kill like this on her resume if she was going to make Senior-Sargeant by 30.

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Thank you – Barnaby Craig

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

The first time I needed to say this was as I felt your gaze like no one before. I could see deep into your soul and somehow feel you connect. I had never felt this before and it was all over too soon. But it needed it to be over because I needed to feel how I did after the blink. I needed to say thank you.

I have been saying thankyou ever since. You stood next to me at the kitchen bench of the old fisherman’s cottage, with no doors or windows until the sun shone through the palms. You had booked a flight out from Cairns that day.

My phone rang later that morning. “I would like to stop in on the way through to the airport. Is that OK?”. I barely managed to drink a small cup of coffee before you were there. Blue jeans, singlet and thongs. Your golden hair was flowing. “Isn’t it a bit warm for jeans?”. Oh yeah, you ares leaving. As you weaved out the window, backing out of the driveway, I wanted to say thank you again.

A change of course was awaiting the first time you called from Melbourne. There were many calls over the next couple of weeks. I paced the garden, a couple of times ankle deep in water from the storms. My phone boiled in my hand.

The next minute I was on the plane south. From the hut on Four Mile Beach to her parents’ unit on Queens’s Rd. “What’s that smell?” said your dad when I served up char-sui pork and vegetables. He managed to give it a go, which was good for his age and background. We were shacking up with your parents and I had bought a one-way ticket.

“let me check for jobs in the area” I said. There were not many jobs in hospitality going in the Melbourne autumn but I got lucky. Ten years down the track, we have two young boys and we have done well. Thank you to your mum and dad for their inspiration and support.

We moved out and back in again after your dad passed away. He won’t have to wonder what his dinner smells like anymore. Thank you for helping me get to where I am and for you letting me help you get to where you are.

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THE THING – RHONDA NADASDY

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

The first time I saw it, I was surprised. I mean I’d never seen one before. It was red and spotted and rather, well uninteresting. I guess it might say the same about me, except for the spots. I took it in my hand, rolled it around, tossed it from side to side. It was light, unassuming, rather nebulous, unlike me. I’m definitely not light!

I took it out from the shadows to look at it in the light. It made no difference. It was still dull. I tossed it and shook it and nothing happened. I threw it on the ground, rolled it around with my toes and looked at it from every side. Just the spots, that’s all, nothing remarkable.

It was smooth, and felt nice in my hand. I rolled it through my fingers, around and around. It seemed to reduce my tension. I breathed a little easier. I closed my eyes and wondered what I could do with it. I decided that I should slip it into my pocket where I could touch it, should I feel a little anxious.

And so I continued my walk around the park. It was a beautiful bright and sunny day, gentle breeze, children playing, flowers blooming, birds singing. I was at ease. Every now and then, I placed my hand into my pocket and touched the little red thing.

On the footpath ahead, I saw a small abandoned coffee cup. You know, those disposable ones. The ones you only use once and then throw away. I was cross. It should have gone into the recycle bin at the very least. I wondered about it. Could I reuse it in some way? Goodness, I didn’t drop it! How is this my responsibility? I started to feel cross and reached into my pocket to stroke the red thing. I calmed down a little, took the cup over to the fountain tap, and rinsed it out.

I took the red thing from my pocket and popped it into the cardboard cup. It clattered around making a rattling noise. It was quite funny. I took a change in course, across the soft green lawn and sat under a shady tree. It looked a little like one of Dr Suess’s illustrations straight form The Cat in the Hat. Awesome! I’ve always liked those drawings. I tossed the little red thing around and around in the cup still wondering what it was, but enjoying its company never the less.

A seagull set itself down not far from me. I think he was wondering whether I might throw him a chip or two. Of course I didn’t have any, but the seagull was optimistic. The next minute a dozen more landed down beside me calling out in their usual gawking ways. I was amused for several minutes, but they were getting a little fresh so I shooed them away. They alighted hesitantly. I’m sure they thought they were going to miss out on something, but I had nothing, just the red thing and a coffee cup.

What’s that smell? Ahhh, sausages. Over on the hill a group of scouts were cooking sausages to raise funds as they do. I think I’ll have myself one or two. The seagulls were onto me. They followed me across the green. I bought three sausages, two for me, because I was as hungry as a horse, and one that I shared with them. You should have seen the fight. Seagull everywhere!

I dropped my cup in all the commotion. Let me check, where is that red thing! Oh no! Where is it! I scrambled across the grass checking every blade. I started to panic. Down on my hands and knees. Then I saw it. A young scout had picked it up. He looked at me. I looked at him. I took it from his hand.

“Please Sir, can I have my dice back?

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Office Christmas Party Tips

COLUMNS

Tonight is my work office Christmas party and seeing as though I’m my own boss I’m going to tell myself to get fucked, photocopy my arse and leave it on my own desk and wake up in my own bed screaming ‘I SLEPT WITH MY BOSS!

The office Christmas party is officially an opportunity to boost morale and reward workers, but it’s generally the one night of the year it’s possible to tear your life a new one.

If you’re lucky, it’ll be an all-night backstab, but it’s more likely to be an evening spent engaged in the conversational equivalent of pulling teeth with people who perform the miracle of making your own family seem fun, warm and attractive. Despite what they say, ”getting to know each other” is not a good idea. See anyone you’re related to or involved in a long-term relationship with for details.

Because of this, a certain amount of social lubricant is involved. If you find yourself thinking, “I haven’t been this drunk for ages!” you should have left three Bacardi Breezers and eight highly offensive remarks ago. Chances are you’ll wake the next morning in a pool of your own self-hatred, paranoia and body fluids. If you can’t remember what happened, the photos uploaded to the website When Good Employees Go Bad should fill the gaps. Or Jim from marketing lying next to you wearing nothing but a lanyard may be able to help.

Some words of wisdom and warning on the office Christmas party. The three main dangers are getting drunk, committing career suicide and cracking on to workmates. The fourth is all the above. It’s a trifecta that nobody wins.

The people who leave early are the ones you should hang out with (and no, they don’t have another party, a migraine or a babysitter to relieve. They just have a life). But the ones keen to ”kick on” to the point of ”back to my place for a spliff and some home brew after the casino and karaoke” are the ones you will end up hanging out with. You. Have. Been. Warned.

Stay away from men in novelty ties, women in antlers and body glitter or anyone who has recently separated. Trust me.

“I used to think you were a wanker” is not a good conversation starter. Nor is, “If I was running the place” or “Sorry if I’m getting a bit rapey”. Particularly if you’re talking to your boss. Or her husband.

When photocopying your arse, it’s dishonest to use the reduce feature. And make sure it’s the photocopier – not the microwave. Best if all appliances, including the shredder and the sandwich maker are unplugged before the festivities begin.

”Kris Kringle” is German for ”shit present”.

If you know someone won’t be back next year but they don’t, DON’T tell them. Instead say: ”Don’t spend too much on presents,” “Make the most of your holiday” and ”Whatever happens, good luck with next year!” Don’t say, “Has Rod spoken to you yet?”

If you find people are saying to you, ”Don’t spend too much on presents,” “Make the most of your holiday,” ”Whatever happens, good luck with next year!” or “Has Rod spoken to you yet?” drink as much as you want and steal as much as you can.

Sitting the office atheist and the resident hardcore Christian together will be a welcome distraction from the office loser who’s elfed himself doing the Macarena three hours in.

Partners – yes or no? No. Lie if you have to.

Play boredom bingo. If in any one conversation you get asked, “So did you get here all right?” “What are you doing over Christmas?” and “You going away at all?” pull your shirt over your head and run round the room yelling, “Bingo! Bingo!”

And finally, a word to bosses: Don’t come. If you do, don’t make a speech. If you make a speech, make it short and funny or slurry and offensive. So not only can we take the piss when you go but so you give us the gift of making our behaviour seem tame by comparison. And so you know, nothing says ”job well done” and ”we appreciate you” like money. We don’t want a hamper. We want money.

Rule of thumb: ladies – never get your tits out. And fellas – cougars by night, dogs in the morning.

What happens at the Christmas Party should stay at the Christmas party.  But generally it doesn’t.


Looking for the perfect Christmas gift? Gunnas Writing Masterclass. Yes we do vouchers. Dates here. 

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A Christmas column. To say I love you.

COLUMNS

Just stop it okay? Listen to me. Christmas is fine as long as you take the position that it’s going to be shit. The motto should be Christmas! The perfect time to spend with family. Just not your own family.

And that’s the true beauty of Christmas. Be warm in the knowledge that as much as you’re dreading spending Christmas with someone, there’s someone out there dreading spending it with you! Yes, you! As you’re shuffling, long faced, hunched shoulders and full of oppressed rage around some soulless multiplex trying to work out what you can buy that looks more expensive than it is for someone you loathe, there’s someone picking through a discontinued, soiled or damaged table doing the same for you! Nothing says “I don’t like you or have any idea who you are but lack the creativity and courage to come up with an alternative” like a regifted box of broken Danish shortbread past its use by date, a calendar or a sports towel. Whatever that is. I think it’s a towel of hate.

Last minute Christmas idea? Euthanise yourself!

What makes Christmas jar so much is all the images of the perfect family, which confront the experience we have of our own families. The relentless assault of commercials of relations who appear genuinely joyful to see each other, clean houses and domestic bliss can’t help but make us come to the conclusion that we’re shit.

You’re not alone if your response to these images is “That’s not how it is at our place. By 2pm, Mum’s packing the dishwasher – with tears pouring down her face after receiving six books she already has. Dad’s collapsed in the Jason Recliner rocker wearing a paper crown after a pissing competition with Uncle Neville, who’s stormed off with his new Asian wife. Mum’s sister Nancy found texts on dad’s phone from some woman called Amber. Mum’s her other sister Rehab Shirley just called their 86 year old mother a cunt. Which she is. The sisters-in-law are all secretly texting each other about the quality of the desserts and the amount spent on gifts after they’ve taken snaps of them and posted them on eBay. The brothers are playing out their sibling rivalry and mummy issues with backyard cricket. “Over the fence is out. And why were you breastfed longer than me? Sorry, didn’t mean to knee your son in the nuts.” The brother-in -laws are huddled out near the shed, conflicted about all agreeing their 12 year niece is hot. Then they realize one of them is her father.” [ED: Note to self – must attend Deveny family Christmas before I die]

It’s worthwhile reminding ourselves that the happy families force fed to us by the media are actors. No one would do that for free. Those people who say, “I love Christmas!” You know what that makes me think? How shit the rest of their life must be.

But the images do make us think, “We must be the only family riddled with passive aggression, corrosion, disappointment, secrets and resentment.” Guess what? Good news! We’re all dysfunctional! And the more functional a family appears, the more dysfunctional they are! No, I’m not bitter. I am happy and released in the truth. Life is so much easier with realistic expectations. Come on board the sanity boat, there’s plenty of room. And heaps of grog.

I have for many years said having children and a vagina means December is spent being a slave and an emotional potty for most of the month. Yes that’s right. Christmas, turning back feminism 150 years.

(WARNING SALIENT POINT COMING. DON’T WORRY. IT’S ONLY A PARAGRAPH – THAT’S LIKE FOUR TWEETS – THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A FREE COLUMN)

The amount of unpaid labor done by women at this time of year is astonishing. The blokes may pick up the ice, mow the lawn and carve the ham but I challenge you to look around on Christmas day and seriously work out how much of the food, thought, purchasing, organizing, cleaning, wrapping and social lubricant is provided by the women. Take away the woman’s effort and then see what you’re left with. No wonder they all chuck barneys, do their block and double their medication. That’s my excuse anyway.

(THERE ENDETH THE PILL IN THE DOG FOOD)

Apropos Santa. Listen, he’s real, just ask my kids. As if I’d spend all that money and effort buying presents for my ungrateful whinging little maggots.

Small segueway here – what’s the difference between Santa and Tiger Woods? Santa stops after three hos.

The child psychology funbusters out there are now telling us parents that we should tell kids ‘the truth about Santa’ That’s right. According to them it’s ‘bad’ to ‘lie’ to our ‘children.’ Lying to our children? Back off. Parents do it all the time. It’s the only fun we have.

For example:

– “Mummy and Daddy love each other.” Crap.

– “The best presents are the made ones.” Wrong. The best presents are the large expensive ones that your father would have bought me if he wasn’t a bludging useless loser addicted to porn.

– “I love you kids all the same.” Not true. I’m a mother. I know. We have favorites. Get over it. And you know who my favorite is? The kid next door because he’s cute, he doesn’t have nits and he doesn’t call me a fat maggot.

– “Uncle Randy jumps out the window when Daddy comes home because he’s a kangaroo.” Not true. He jumps out of the window because he’s a root rat.

– “If the wind changes you’ll stay like that.” That is actually true. But there is no need to worry. You’re ugly anyway.

– “The gelati van plays the music when it runs our of ice cream.” Lie. Truth? Mummy is a mean tightarse who hates kids. Especially her own.

The truth about Santa? Santa is an anagram of Satan. Oh yeah, and if you play Rudolf The Red Nose Reindeer, it basically says “Satan is Lord, Satan is Lord.” It sounds exactly like Nickelback.

Merry Christmas

Perfect gift idea Gunnas Writing Masterclass. Awesome people, magnificent people, top day, beginners welcome. Melbourne, Sydney, Perth, Brisbane, Adelaide, Canberra, Yackandandah and Apollo Bay.  Also Gunnas Stand-Up Comedy With Nelly Thomas, Gunnas Journalism With Michael Lallo.  All info here. 

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Fuck off with the creepy braggy Christmas Cards

COLUMNS

A time for kids? Rubbish. They’re all just spoilt brats who want more crap.

CHRISTMAS? Kill me now. Season to be jolly? Not this little black duck. Wish I was Jewish. Or in jail. Or dead. I s’pose it could be worse. Come to think of it, no it couldn’t.

But seriously, you know what I want for Christmas? To be a kid or a bloke. Having children and a vagina basically means being a slave and an emotional potty for the last two weeks of December. If the silly season had a motto, it should be: Christmas: It’s the Reason Alcohol was Invented. Or Christmas: Turning Back Feminism 150 Years.

Don’t get me wrong, I love sitting around a table with family and slagging off relatives as soon as they leave. And I do enjoy giving people gifts. What I don’t like is the obligation of it all. Call me Aunty Funbuster but I just don’t find anything more depressing than dragging myself around the shops to buy crap for people who already have everything and are still miserable.

Surrounded by other people dragging themselves around the shops to buy crap for people who already have everything and are still miserable. But I do like to make people happy. Which is why I’ll be pulling a migraine this year and spending Christmas heavily sedated in a darkened room so my family can spend the entire day slagging me off.

‘Tis the season to strap on the fake smile and hang out with relations who say “we should see each other more often” despite the fact that they don’t get the hint they’ve been saying the same thing for 30 years and it is still not happening. In the social potpourri of passive/aggressive aunts, overbearing uncles, hypochondriac grandfathers and the bitter and twisted cousins who have recently divorced that bitch/that bastard, people in relationships are always guaranteed that one magical moment on Christmas Day. That moment you realise that your family gives your partner the shits even more than you do.

As far as the, “it’s for the kiddies” mantra. Stuff ’em. Kids? Bunch of spoilt brats. They’ve got rooms bursting with toys that they never play with, parents who don’t beat them and all they do is whinge. They need a bloody good war if you ask me. Which you didn’t, but that’s never stopped me before.

If we receive one more card with a picture of people’s kids’ faces in the baubles hanging on the Christmas tree, I will be forced to set myself alight in protest. Don’t try me, because I am more mental than Mark Latham and I will do it.

I must admit we have sent out a few Christmas cards in the past. Once we frocked up as Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus and had our photo taken with Santa at Northland. In another we dressed our 10-month-old half-Italian son up as a concreter, complete with hanky tied at each corner on his head, a blue tradie’s singlet, a moustache and bling. Inside was the greeting “Behold! The Son Of Wog!”

But spare me the nauseating circulars. The sight of a typed A4 page dropping out of a card fills me with fear. Someone had the brilliant suggestion that all these smug, loving-yourselves-stupid letters should be uploaded for our deconstructing pleasure at www.mykidsarebetterthanyours.blogspot.com.

“Harry got an A for his grade five violin exam, which is not surprising considering he’s a musical prodigy in the same league as Mozart. He’s been placed in the selected entry stream of the exclusive school he has been awarded a full scholarship to. He’s now the world chess champion despite spending last year travelling the world representing Australia in marathon running and debating. It’s hard to believe that he’s turning six next year!”

“Amelia has taken the recent independent assessment that she is highly gifted characteristically in her stride. She’s recently finished writing, producing, directing and starring in her third feature film for the year. She is also the Secretary-General of the United Nations, the president of MENSA, and she recently won the Nobel prize for literature with her stunning post-colonial deconstruction of the image of indigenous women from a Jungian perspective. She has been named one in the Top Ten Most Influential Three-Year-Olds in the world and she’s now out of night nappies!”

Pardon me while I spew. I don’t care. None of us do. And we all laugh at you. You haven’t seen us all year because we hate you. I want to send back an email: “My kids? One’s stupid, one’s ugly, one’s violent and they all have worms.”

Three days to go. But it’s not all gloom and doom, I just try to look on the bright side. Maybe I’ll be struck down with a brain-eating virus and end up in a coma. Here’s hoping.

 

*****

Perfect gift idea Gunnas Writing Masterclass. Awesome people, magnificent people, top day, beginners welcome. All here. 

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Christmas Shopping tips from Dev. You’re welcome.

COLUMNS

I hate Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my friends and family (individual results may vary), am delighted to cook for them or buy them things they need or desire and a simple glance at my reader’s physique will assure you I love to eat. It’s just the obligation and expectation that annoys me.

I particularly struggle with the present buying. I also struggle with the fact women do everything and if they didn’t there would be nothing organised, no plans, shopping not done, there would be no food on the table or presents under the tree but that, my friend is another column.

We are white middle class people who have everything we need. When my three boys were little the aftermath of unwrapping all their Christmas presents ( I am one of five children ) looked like a Malaysian rubbish heap. The paper, the packaging, the plastic choking hazards, the things with bits that will be lost tomorrow, trampled underfoot, eaten by the dog or sucked up the vacuum cleaner made me taste a little bit of sick in my mouth.

The  just ticking stuff off the list and buying the cheapest gift possible for people who don’t need or want for anything and it goes against everything I believe in.

Sure the boys loved the presents, but not all of them and not forever. The things they loved best were often not the gifts that were the big Christmas morning hits but the pyjamas, books and stuff like a new lunchbox. You know what I loved? Chucking the broken ones out and sending the unloved and unused ones off to new homes.

We spend so much of our lives trying to make ends meet and being environmentally friendly yet the week before Christmas we max out our credit cards on a sack of junk made from unsustainable products in unfair conditions in the developing world.

It would be ace if we could all spend a heap of money on sustainable gifts for everyone but the chances are you, like me, are not independently wealthy.

Every time you spend a dollar you are voting on how your want the world to be. Buy from local, independent, feminist businesses. Vouchers from a restaurant, bookshop, masseur or bath house, florist, clothes shop, nursery, hairdresser, or sport store are excellent. How about a bit of pampering with a mani pedi or a float in a floatation tank?   This will not only be a gift for your loved one but also for the local business. I was at our local farmers market the other day and the place was chockers with fab gifts; gourmet dark chocolate and orange Christmas puds, handmade organic fudge, boutique soap and locally brewed cider with no preservatives!

Everyone eats, everyone drinks! Buy them some consumables! Gourmet hampers are awesome but you can make your own with all your favourite things. If you can’t stretch to a hamper, some chocolate, sweets, cheese and crackers, tea or alcohol will work. You can also stock them up on something they use all the time. What brand of soap, coffee or shaving cream do they use? Get ‘em a six pack!

Better still, buy them a year’s worth of toilet paper. No one likes carting toilet paper home. And we do it almost every week. That family with babies, elderly relative or curmudgeon who says ‘I don’t need anything’ would love a big slab of 24 rolls! Imagine how much less they would have to lug home from the supermarket! Particularly when it helps build toilets in the developing world.

Guitar lessons, boot camp, a house spring clean, an oven clean, golf lessons, a session with a personal trainer, a car clean, window clean, a facial, a cooking course, a garden spruced up, movie tickets, theatre tickets, Melbourne International Comedy Festival tickets, a trip in a hot air balloon! Buy experiences! Buy your loved one a ticket or voucher to my Gunnas Writing Masterclass (dates here).  I developed the class precisely for Christmas. So people could give an unforgettable carbon neutral gift that supported the arts and local businesses! I pay the venue, food, graphic designer and now other sessional teachers so when you purchase a ticket you are supporting a bunch of other local independent businesses. Including the places I purchase my frocks.

Donations. These are my favourite gifts ever. And the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre and Domestic Violence Victoria my charity of choice. If you want to give many charity organisations have gift catalogues and some even make cards you can gift telling the recipient you have purchased a goat, vaccinations, a toilet or a well for some of our brothers and sisters in developing countries.

Plants, framed photos and good quality towels are always well received. When in doubt, give money. Especially to kids.

Big family? Presents are for kids. Kris Kringle for the grown ups. We do a $50 limit at ours. Everyone posts their list online, you get something you want and you buy one present instead of 20.

Finally, if you do have to spend money on someone who is hard to buy for (or hates everything) buy something not only for someone you love but FROM someone you love. I bet you have people around you who do things, make things or teach things who you would love to buy from and give money too. So even if the present isn’t a hit, you have given your business to someone you love to spend money with. It’ll make their Christmas. I guarantee it.

Christmas Eve. Carols By Candlelight. Mum’s Chucking Her Annual Christmas Eve Wobbly

Office Party Christmas Tips From Dev 

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A Dice and a Dollar – Tami Lou Castillo

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

I can barely remember the first time I gambled. I remember more clearly a time in my life when I went to Vegas a few times. It was almost like a routine with me and my mom. She lived in Needles, California. It’s a hoe-dunk town in the middle-of-a-nowhere desert on the border of California and Arizona. It suffers from the stifling heat that nothing grows under except the tan my mom had on the one arm closest to the driver’s window from her daily 15 minute drive back and forth to work. Mom took a supervisor’s position there. It’s hard for me to understand why she took this job, other than it would pay her more and she might get to retire early. She moved into a fifth-wheel trailer at a big camping park on the Colorado River to save even more money. And to live rent-free, she volunteered her time at night booking the in-coming campers in. So, whenever I came to town to hang out with Mom, we often scooted off to Vegas, a not-too-far drive away, and stayed in the traditional downtown Vegas at a casino called The Horseshoe. This was the home of cheaper rooms and two dollar steaks served from 11pm, a place we could afford and, with a little luck, we might come home with a few more bucks than what we started with. We usually played Blackjack. Mom liked Blackjack and we would often practice in our room and play during non-busy times, which were early mornings or early afternoons, when the locals and old-timers gambled at the two dollar tables. You had to know what you were doing or you messed up their odds and they would tell you so. Sometimes in the afternoons, after I’d had a couple of free drinks, I’d wander over to the Craps table, which was just a game of chance. You didn’t have to think. You’d pick a number and they rolled the dice. If you’re number came up, you won. If it didn’t, you lost. I liked playing Blackjack and games of chance, but if I ever got on a losing streak, I had a rule about how much money I was willing to lose. The minute I went over this amount, usually ten dollars, I would walk away. I couldn’t stand losing my hard-earned money, so I knew I never had to worry about a gambling addiction. The toss of a dice and the loss of a dollar together was too much to bear.

I’ve always liked spending time with my mom. We had always lived far apart since I was eighteen, so I would often plan a vacation with her or just come and hang out with her. I had no idea that my sister felt differently about spending time with my mom until a few years ago. Susan’s the type of person who holds everything in, quiet as a mouse in regards to important things, then will suddenly break, releasing an avalanche of hurtful truths, past regrets and anger…until recently. I noticed a change in her after we nursed our father through death; she began to open up. I think it was the passing of our father, of not having another family member she was close to, or maybe the mortality of our time left, but she began to tell her truths, to set things straight, to find her voice to the wrongs of her childhood. It wasn’t until now that I am able to see the start of her story. What was that sound? Was it the sound of silence that her heart could bear no more that prompted her to speak? At first it was light whisper, nothing you could actually make out as language, but I asked, “What did you say? Did you say something?” She spoke it so softly and then asked Mom to speak for her to the one who wronged her. When she told me that she asked Mom to speak for her, I called my sister, “Susan, you have to talk to him yourself. Don’t you see? He holds power over you until you find your voice. You must use your voice to take your power back.”

“You’re right Tami Lou! I’ve got to use my OWN voice….using my voice is taking my power back.”

It wasn’t much longer after that and Susan began to speak to us more, to share with us parts of herself that had remained hidden for too many years. She came around to Mom’s more often and did this and that for her. She often asked Mom if she could stay the night. The other day when I was talking to Mom and asked how Susan was doing, Mom said, “She’s an angel.”

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Prompts – Fiona Scott-Norman

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

Prompt No 1 – I can barely remember my childhood. It was a time of books and hiding. A lot of fear, a lot of coping. My first flash of consciousness: sitting on my potty at the bottom of a dark flight of stairs, while my parents argued in the kitchen. Shouting. Angry. This was not to be an unusual occurrence. Looking through a door which was a window of light, two people screaming.

Prompt No 2 – It’s hard to explain why two people stay together when they provoke each other so much. Mum said she almost left Dad twice, each time with me in tow. Talked out of it by her sister. It wasn’t the done thing, of course, back in that day, but I wish she had. What I learned about marriage and relationships was not how to break our and be free, but how to endure. How to stay regardless. I don’t tend to leave. I stay and will things to get better. There was a deal though, Mum signed up for adventure. At the end of the second world war in London there was not a lot going on. Rationing, a broken country trying to rebuild, it was entirely pants. I think Dad probably did love mum, in his way, but mum I suspect hopped on for the ride. A colonial life in a panoply of countries. Africa, Kenya, Singapore, Malaysia, always a drawer of different currency from exotic climes, a rand, a Canadian dollar, a 5000 Kyat note from Myanmar. As a child I was fascinated and envious.

Prompt No 3. “Next minute”, Mum said, “He’d be shouting at me. We’re at a dinner party for dignitaries in Kenya, and then I disagreed with him about something. He looked at me like I was dirt, and said ‘When I say ‘shovel shit’, you jump on the shovel”.

Prompt No 4. I had no idea what to do with mum’s story. I left home like a bullet when I was 18, in Perth, getting away from the egg-shell home atmosphere, leaving mum to deal with dad on her own. It was the 1980s, and Rubics cubes were all the fashion. They reminded me of their relationship, frustrating and unsolveable.

Prompt No 5. Until finally, when mum was dying, I had a revelation. It’s not my fault or responsibility. She was so much happier after dad died, after 61 years of marriage, but ultimately it was up to her. It was her bargain. Dad could be an arsehole, but he delivered on adventure. They lived a life, a great life. Sometimes she complained, “I never saw myself dying in Australia”, but I’d point out to her, “This is what happens to old colonials, they die in a far-flung corner of the British Empire”. She chose her life. She stayed. Not, as Joan Rivers would say, my aisle.

Prompt No 6. What was that sound? Mum’s death rattle was wet and vile, for certain her lungs were liquefying in a stew of their own tissues. I could hardly stand to be in the room. But I stayed, mostly, actually on the phone in the toilet to my cousin Debbie at the moment she passed. They say that people hang on until their loved ones leave before they die. Going to the loo, in the end, must have been enough of a window. She was a brilliant human, Norah, sticking with life with her fingernails, sucking the marrow from what she had. Did not want to go. I didn’t want her to go either. But then that’s what I learned from her. Endurance. How to stay regardless. And I didn’t leave.

Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

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