All posts by Princess Sparkle

Back to the middle – Sarah Potter

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

There is always a beginning. A start of something. It can be hard to identify when it began.

They say that the beginning is the best place to start but who are they?

I want to start in the middle. At a time before it spiraled into darkness for my only brother.

Because it wasn’t always bad for him. It was bad when it began and at the end but it wasn’t always hard. Maybe it began around the time that I was born. Maybe it was when Mum became ill. I’m not sure, as I don’t remember. My perception is through other people’s memories and stories of that time. Memories that are warped by my mother’s self-preservation or my father’s inability to communicate emotions prior to my brother’s death.

Overnight my father aged 10 years, went grey and discovered his emotions. I guess the loss of a child will do that. For my mother she clings to a version of events that bridges the gap between reality and appeasing her guilt. I have found subtle amusement over the years in listening to her morph the truth to suit herself until I can see that she truly believes her own half-truths. I on the other hand wear my guilt like a veil that I know can only be lifted with time and self-forgiveness.

Back to the middle…..

My brother, Peter, was 9 years older than me. As adults the age gap was almost irrelevant.

The traveller from overseas had come home with an English girl to settle down in Melbourne. For a time, we were a normal family. A fractured version of a normal family with the past always in the background. For a moment, he was complete and we were happy as a united family. Something that I hadn’t really had growing up.

Even as a child, I didn’t quite understand why I went to private schools and lived at home with my parents while he was shuffled around boys’ homes.

There was a perfectly good bedroom next to mine after all. But my parents didn’t talk about it in front of me and I knew not to ask any questions.

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All children need is to know they are loved

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Repeat after me. All children need is to know that they are loved. Say it every day, have it tattooed on your forehead and write it in the sky. All children need is to know that they are loved.

I was reminded of this as I read a story about a Family Court judge in New Zealand who ruled that a girl named Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii could change her name. Her parents actually named her Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii. The judge then cited examples of children named Midnight Chardonnay, Number 16 Bus Shelter, Violence and twins called Benson and Hedges. Funny? Sure. A bit off topic? Absolutely. But it reminded me yet again that children do not need unusual names to make them special.

They are special. And all they need to know is that they are loved.

Kids don’t need an en suite, computer games, jumping castles, ukulele lessons, bandanas, ironed clothes, matching socks, fancy private schools, trophies, in-ground pools, electric toothbrushes and rooms full of toys.

They don’t need to have a bath every day. They don’t need their own room. It’s OK if they sleep in their clothes and have Weet-Bix for dinner in front of the telly every now and then. Lollies, plastic junk that gets broken underfoot, fancy renovations, junk food and outsourcing parenting are not good ways to love them. Loving them is the only way to love them.

It won’t spoil them. It won’t make them greedy. Loving them will teach them there’s enough to go round and there’s no need to be stingy. Loving children will teach them to love. Withholding love will teach them to withhold.

When I had my first child, I asked people what they did with their second child. There were a lot of uptight first children around and second and subsequent children generally seemed more relaxed. People said things such as happy parents equals happy baby, follow the child and don’t muck about with cloth nappies, just go the disposables. I thought to myself, I’m not going to treat this baby like he’s an only child. I’m going to treat him as if he’s got four brothers and sisters.

When my eldest was four days old, he wouldn’t stop crying. People were getting more and more anxious about trying to stop him crying. Pacing up and down the hall, patting, jiggling. The cries got louder and louder. I was lying on the bed and said: “Give him to me.” I held him and said: “You just cry as long as you want.” Calm descended. Instead of struggling with the reality (thanks to a few champagnes), I went with it. I used this technique many times and although it never stopped a baby from crying, a toddler from whinging, a child from nagging or a bunch of kids from squabbling, it stopped me from struggling with what was happening.

Around the age of 60, people seem to start looking back on their lives. Before then, they were too preoccupied living it. My new theory on parenting is to parent like a grandparent. All the grandparents I know look back on their parenting days and tell me they wish they’d been more relaxed and less controlling. They wish they’d enjoyed it more. Sure, get the homework done, teach them to be kind to each other, to help out and to wait their turn. It just means not going into conniptions when they leave their wet towels on the bathroom floor. It means stopping what you’re doing to give them a cuddle on the couch, tell them a story or lie together on the trampoline looking at the clouds. Just for a moment.

The wisest bloke I know is a cabinetmaker. His name is Michael Clarke. He’s 60 in January and has spent 45 years going into homes installing wardrobes, drawers and bookshelves to help people store their stuff. His wife’s a psychologist. The two of them have spent a great deal of time in other people’s lives and under their roofs. He told me they’ve come to the conclusion, with their vast and varied experience, that the only thing you can do for your kids is to get your own shit together.

When you were a kid isn’t that all you wanted? To know that you were loved and to feel that your parents were trying, and sometimes failing, but at least trying to get their shit together? Is it possible that it really is that simple?

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Part Six. South Of Fucken France Biarritz

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There is so little hoo haa about crossing borders in Europe. As an Australian we’re used to multiple hours of plane travel, airports, visas, injections, passport control and palaver as a part of being in another country. On the bus from San Sebastian to Biarritz we only knew we had crossed the boarder into France when our phones sent us updated roaming charges due to changing country. ‘Huh,’ said Bear, ‘We’re in France’.

Jesus fuck remember how incredible it seemed crossing the Murray River and seeing a sign telling us we were no longer in Victoria but now in fucking NEW SOUTH WALES? We’d peer around rubber necked and blinking noting the people looked the same but the licence plates on the cars, the flavored milk brands and the chemist names were different? I was 10 when we went on school camp to Swan Hill and crossed the border into NSW. It was like visiting Narnia. I was certain I ‘felt’ different and the people looked ‘not like us.’ We had to be super careful not to accidently leave an apple in our bags on the way back over the boarder to Victoria because we may inadvertently destroy the entire agricultural system of Australia. WHAT THE FUCK IS FRUIT FLY?

A mate has a story about being a young backpacker 25 years ago in Switzerland driving around with a group of yahoos trying to find a party. They were lost so went into a shop to ask directions only to be told they were actually in Italy not Switzerland. IMAGINE TAKING A WRONG TURN AND BEING IN ANOTHER COUNTRY! NO I FUCKING CAN’T.

We arrived in Biarritz 1ish. I’d never hear of Biarritz before, it was Jess’s idea and to be honest I just go along with anything she suggests because she is a fucking genius. Biarritz. I liked it because it was ‘It’s beer’ backwards. Kinda. Well it’s Biarritz in the way Yoda would say it.

I once spent a week with my mate Caitlin and our seven kids in a place called Toora simply because it was A Root spelled backwards. We spent a week in cabins at a holiday park with a jumping pillow. Every night we barbequed I wore a tee shirt that said I Love My Girlfriend. Towards the end of the trip I discovered if I wore it inside out it said I Hate My Girlfriend. Funny looks. Good times.

Biarritz is in The South Of France. When I think ‘The South Of France’ I immediately think ‘Playground Of The Rich And Famous’. It’s one of those things people drop into conversation and I think ‘They are rich, they are cool, they are cultured’. I had no idea about The South Of France but it sounded like something I was very keen to be able to drop into conversation. ‘Ah yes, South Of France. Bit of a fucking shithole if you ask me. Not as good as Australia FUCKEN LUCKY COUNTRY BEST PLACE IN THE WORLD CUNT’ etc…

So here we were in Biarritz. We wound through the hilly streets and found our Airbnb apartment block. It was old, dinky and the five flights of carpeted stairs had the smell of everyone’s nanas place in the best possible way. Old. Ancient. Full of history and secrets. The apartment was small but perfect. No wifi? No problem. It was just a place to recharge ourselves and our devices. We’re not here to fuck spiders.

We immediately headed down to the main drag for food and beach. We were looking for a joint someone had recommended called Blue something but couldn’t find it so ended up somewhere else. An outside bistro with a view of the beach, a building site and what appeared to be the French version of Cotton On, proof that every country has it’s bogans. We ordered some unmemorable but satisfactory food and I was mesmerized by two French women a few tables away.

They were well dressed women in their 60s out to lunch with their two little dogs. Dogs in restaurants in Europe? I fucking love it. Never understood why in Australia kids and Collingwood supported are allowed in cafes but dogs aren’t.

So these women ordered their food, a glass of wine and every time they put food on their forks both little dogs reached their front paws as closely as they could to their owners knees and stood on their back legs hustling for a morsel. It would have made a great photo but I wasn’t in the right position and I don’t bust my arse to take holiday snaps. There is a line between making an effort to take snaps to jolt your memories and share with your friends and being totally preoccupied with every photo op. I did think ‘Chances are if I’ve seen it once I’ll see it again.’ Didn’t.

After the women finished their lunch and their wine they ordered café gourmand. Café gourmand is your after meal coffee served with three small desserts. Something like a little cake, a mini crème brulee and a macaroon. It’s fucking brilliant. Of course it’s ‘controversial’ in France. Some say the food is poor quality because it’s leftovers; others say coffee should be a thing on it’s own and not diluted by anything else. I LOVE café gourmand because a) I am a guts and b) because I never want a dessert I just want to try everyone else’s. I think there’s a club for that called everyone.

After the French women had finished their lunch, wine and café gourmand (with none of this ‘oooooh I’ll be naughty’, ‘oh I really shouldn’t’, ‘lucky I wore stretchy pants’ annoying boring bullshit, they just ordered, got stuck in and enjoyed), you know what these old French dames did?

Lit up cigars.

Jesus I could have jumped the table and kissed them. Life goals.

We finished our lunch and wandered along the pier for an ice cream and as I licked it strolling along the promenade having a squiz I thought to myself ‘South Of France. I am on the beach in the South Of France’. The ice cream was great. Just the same as Australia but in the South Of France.

The beach with it’s regulation sand, water, sky and attractive nonchalant people reminded me a little of Bondi. As we lay our towels down there was a gorgeous toddler with her ridiculously beautiful parents who was whinging non-stop despite their efforts to appease her. I am not sure why this amused me but I kept thinking, ‘So you’re on a beach in the South Of France with not only perfect weather but your good looking doting parents and you’re still whinging. Fucking humans. AMIRITE?’

We lay our towels down and Bear immediately went to sleep as he does because he is gifted in many ways and the area he is most skilled in is napping. We call it The Austrian Sleeping Syndrome. Jess checked her social media and I read.

The book I was reading was I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O’Farrell. I met Maggie on the Trans Siberian Express when I was 25. She was clever and cute and had a ridiculously adorable boyfriend. They had both just graduated from Cambridge and were smart, funny, well-travelled Brits. I am not sure how I found this out but Maggie is now a brilliant and super famous writer. She generally writes fiction but her latest book is a memoir about the 17 times in her life she almost died inspired by her young daughters extreme allergies.

‘O’Farrell’s middle child is eight years old. Since birth, she has suffered extreme allergic reactions between 12 and 15 times a year, one or two of which will tip her into full-blown anaphylactic shock. This book is a literary exercise in normalising the near-death experience.’

Jess asked me what I was reading and I explained the book and how I knew Maggie. I asked if Jess wanted me to read her a chapter. ’That would be great’ she said ‘ I love being read to’ and about three pages in she began to snore.

So I lay soaking up the sun while Bear and Jess slept either side of me. I pondered the magic of reading a book by someone you met travelling while you are travelling and her book not only writes about travelling but mentions the ACTUAL trip where you met.

The toddler had stopped whinging and I watched three women around my age chat non-stop for an hour. They reminded me of my friend Marie-Louise and Genevieve. We holiday on the same beach every year and have made a sport from outstanding beach conversations.

We wandered back to the apartment, dressed for some dinner and headed out to a Basque place called Bar Jean for dinner.

We had only been in Biarritz for a few hours and all three of us had already become enamored with a giant bronze statue at the end of our street of a massive sheila we named Sheila. She was not some majestic or ethereal marble figure but a sturdy thick bare footed girl with hips, cankles and practical hair. We read the plaque. La femme Basque, Francisco Leiro. Call the whalers on stormy days.

So we passed Sheila on the way and posed for a snap.

The night was food, laughs and a wander in our new super comfortable Camper boots. At one point a marching band past with a crowd of 80 or so people following. We dawdled home through the town, up and down the hills and along the beach until we found ourselves climbing the five stories to our little apartment with the sea view that you could only see if you wedged yourself between the toilet and the wall and stood on one foot.

I love being five stories up in an apartment because of the views, the quiet and even the flights of stairs. After busy days walking or riding and almost in our bed I love to look up at the five story apartment block and think ‘Big day already and I have to climb a mountain before I go to bed. Game on.’

We woke and as expected the weather was cooler. We had three days in Biarritz. The first and last day of our trip had perfect beach weather and the middle day we knew was going to be mild and cloudy. Perfect slow day. I love a slow travel day. I find it impossible to carve out a slow travel day if the weather is brilliant. It’s always great when the weather is shit so I am forced to slow down. Otherwise I am FUCK LOOK AT THE WEATHER GET UP GET UP WE’RE IN A NEW PLACE!

We began the day with a bad American breakfast at Milwaukee, which according to our internet search seemed our best chance of a decent coffee. It wasn’t. Bear headed home to play guitar (he takes a Washburn travel bass for his medicinal need to do stuff with his hands, his guitar playing is often like his knitting). Jess and I wandered around the shops and I picked up a blue linen frock at a little market stall. As the northern hemisphere descended into winter I shoved my new dress into my bag smugly imagining myself of riding down the Merri Creek to the Coburg Pool wearing it while The South Of France was cold and dark.

The woman who sold me the dress said ‘Very nice. Good fit. And the price is very interesting!’

We kept wandering and I remarked that I do almost my shopping online in Australia. Jess was the same. We both only shop in actual stores when we are travelling. I went through everything I was wearing. All online purchases. Including my bag. We wandered into Galerie Lafayette (the French version of Myer) and each picked up a couple of scarves. I have always been a big scarf fan and Jess lives in Paris where EVERYONE wears scarves. The weather in Paris is quite mercurial and similar to Melbourne in that way. Most people do a lot of walking between home, work, socialising, subway and chores and scarves help regulate the constantly changing temperatures. Also chic. Jess and I found ourselves wandering around the department store chatting and holding things up against ourselves and looking in the mirror. We were having an incredibly relaxing time, neither had done this with a girlfriend for decades.

Jess suddenly remembered she was kind of interested in buying a new leather jacket. I told her she should buy one while I was in town so I could get the tax back at the airport. We tried on things, bought some bits and pieces and I said ‘Fucking hell look at us Jess we’re like a couple of surgeon’s wives out shopping while our husbands are at a conference.’ She couldn’t choose between a black motorbike jacket and a yellow bomber jacket with a fur collar. ‘Why not both?’ I said.

We hooked up with Bear around lunchtime and headed to a bar on the hill called Kostaldea. It was a lovely long walk where we got lost, got found and talked mainly Jess’s ‘visagiste’.

When we all met up in San Sebastian all three of us remarked on how good her hair looked ‘Who cut it?’ asked Em.

‘I don’t go to a hairdresser anymore I go to… a visagist.’

We all roared laughing and it became not only a running joke but a bit of an obsession for me. What was a visagist? Should I go? What would my hairdresser in Melbourne say? He’s a bit like a controlling boyfriend who watches me all the time and never lets me out of his sight.

‘A visagist,’ said Jess tossing her mane and theatrically fingering her curls, ‘is not just someone who simply cuts your hair. It’s someone who finds the essence of who you are and what your style is and sculpts your hair accordingly.

She too has a bit of a possessive hairdresser who has been known to COME TO PARIS FROM FRANKSTON to cut her hair.

I was tossing up a visit to the visagist purely for the story, (that’s how I make all my decisions in life, what would harvest the best anecdotes) but decided an afternoon in Paris sitting in a chair having my hair fondled by a wanker was not the best use of my time.

‘The style assessment and the haircut doesn’t take that long it’s the special drying technique where you sit under one of those old fashioned dryers that takes up all the time. Tell him to do the cut without the drying…’

We found the restaurant behind a golf course on top of the hill. It was more an open air bar than a restaurant so instead of a meal, a view and a glass of wine we ordered multiple serves of their one bar food platter (bread, ham, cheese and pickles) and got drunk on wheat beer while watching the surfers below and planning our next trip.

We rolled down the hill extolling the virtues of daytime drinking and arrived home around five o’clock. We promptly all feel asleep had a nap for an hour or so and then cleaned ourselves up for dinner.

It was a long lovely stroll down the street, paid homage to Sheila, then through the town, over the hill and down onto the beach to Le Surfing a funky casual bistro, more Australian in feel than heavy rich European. Another lovely night.

We did see surfers surfing in Biarritz. It was all a bit sad to be honest. A lot of people for a few shit waves. Despite the fact in France surfing is actually prescribed by doctors for depression.

We woke early keen to grab some gorgeous sun before our 2pm train to Paris. We packed up, had a quick coffee, pastry and juice at the boulangerie and hit the beach. Jess is from Frankston so she rented a wetsuit and a board and hit the waves showing those French cunts what for. Actually I don’t think she even caught a wave. We sucked up as much sun as we could before one by one we head back to the apartment. Bear went back to vacuum and clean the bathroom (this is the only Airbnb I have ever stayed in where you actually have to clean it and not just leave it tidy I mean who would want to stay in a place cleaned by the previous AirBnb visitors?). Jess went up to Galeries Lafayette to carpe diem and buy the two jackets she saw and use my travellers tax free exception and I stayed on the beach eking out the last minutes on the beach. It was much easier knowing I was heading home to warming temperatures. A lot of the Europeans on the beach had the grim look of people on the Titanic. I felt smug. Suffer in your jocks frogs.

Jess had taken my passport to get the tax free deducted from her jackets hoping to pass as me thinking something along the lines of ‘we all look the same to them’. Unfortunately they didn’t buy it and she texted me to meet her at Galeries Lafayette. No prob. I packed up my towel, had a quick dip and headed up the hill. I was wet so I walked along the beach drying off with my sarong around my waist and when I hit the shops, stalls and throngs of wandering I continued.

In Paris NO one wears active/sports/casual/mooching gear in the street. NO ONE. If you are going to the gym you wear your smart street clothes and when you arrive at the gym you changed into your sportswear then when you finish your work out you change back into your smart street gear and walk home. Jess has a mate who does Pilates everyday. The studio is around the corner from her house. Literally ONE BLOCK. Everyday she walks around tp the Pilates studio in her smart street clothes, gets changed, does her one-hour work out, gets changed again and then walks the block to home.

So I walked along in bathers and a sarong towards Galerie Lafayette and a man dressed in 50 shades of cerise and a panama hat loaded down with shopping bags waiting outside an expensive shop for what one assumes would be his partner gives me the biggest dirtiest look.

I just turned to him and said ‘Apres moi le deluge’ (after me, the flood).

I popped on a frock and sorted out Jess and her jackets, signed the forms and we headed back to the apartment for the final time via a place called Bali Bowl a hole in the wall that sold ‘superfood’ smoothie bowls (vomit) had good coffee that took a bizarrely long time to make.

As we turned up the hill to pay homage to Sheila for the final time I heard a voice from across the street ‘Catherine?’

I turned and it was Heide. A mate of Hugo (my 16 year old) on exchange in France. I’ve known this girl since she was in prep. I’d seen her recently at a do in Melbourne for a French exchange student being hosted by my mate Faith and I knew she’d left Melbourne a few weeks ago because I’d seen it on Facebook. I did not expect to run into her as I was wandering through the South Of France in my bathers.

I ran across the road and embraced her. “FUCK WE HAVE TO TAKE A PHOTO YOUR MUM WILL LOSE HER SHIT”. I then looked up and saw she was with her host family. A very French looking mother and a couple of teenage host siblings.

Heide said ‘I just walked passed Stephanie Alexander, now you!’

‘Who next?’ I said ‘Catriona Rowntree? Denise Drysdale?’

Here’s hoping her host family’s English isn’t that good. Jess joined us as I spoke bad French to her host mother and her host mother spoke bad English back to me. I introduced Jess and explained in English to Heide that Jess had been an exchange student too and not only is she now fluent in French but she lives in Paris and works as a manager in tourism.

I was so happy to bump into Heide. When I asked her how it was going she said ‘Up and down’. Being an exchange student is very hard. Not only are you a gangly awkward teenager but you are thrown into a new family, culture and school. My eldest son had a disastrous exchange experience and I have to say it’s the most stressful thing I have ever experienced. So much so the exchange company no longer sends students to that country. They’d had too many similar situations before. I would have loved for Dom to have bumped into a friendly face from home one of those days when things were tough.

(Re Dom’s exchange, he came home and hit the ground running, made sense of it in the way he does and in November is heading back on his own for a month to make peace with it.)

Jess and the host mother spoke in French. The mother had said ‘She came with nothing’ referring to Heide’s French. ‘Yep, that’s normal. That’s the Australian education system’ said Jess (who had also been a school teacher in Australia for eight years) ‘I was the same. Don’t speak any English to her. Only French.’ The mother also added that Heide had made massive progress in a very short time.

If things had been more down than up that day I hoped that little random interaction could help smooth and lubricate for both Heide and her host mother. Hats off to exchange students and their host families. It’s an incredibly valuable thing to do. After the war the all Germans children learned French at school and there were many exchange programmes between the countries to patch up the wounds.

When I posted the photo and reported the sighting to the mums from the primary school we all had a massive laugh ‘Those kid have to be very fucking careful. They never know when one of the school mums is watching them. EVEN if they are in another country!’

We grabbed the cases, dragged them down the five flights of stairs, caught a cab and pretty soon we found ourselves at the Biarritz train station. We stocked up with some assorted charcuterie and a few excellent baguettes from a vending machine and we were on schedule for dinner in Paris.

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COMING! Part Seven. Paris!  (there are 20 parts to total)
Did you know you can buy Gunnas Writing Masterclass VOUCHERS here?
 
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On Teenagers, ATAR Results And Young People

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On Teenagers

Adults need to stop asking young people what they want to do or be when they grow up or finish school, and instead, if they want to talk to a young person find our what they are doing or being NOW.

It’s lovely adults care but rather than focus on young people’s ‘future’ perhaps the best way adults could care is to let them know it’s normal not to know or be confused and not to worry about any of that stuff until they are 30.

This is not only because technology has us moving towards less jobs and a living wage.

Often adults ask young people about ‘what they are going to do’ in order to find a subject to talk about. The adult then goes on to approve or disapprove of the young person’s choice, to pigeonhole them or go into a rant about how the correct way the young person should go about their life.

This is not a conversation. This is a way adults create a social interaction so they can tell young people what to do and how to do it.

Teenagers need to focus on being teenagers. There is enough stuff to learn and to do than worry about the pressure to predict what a future self in a future world may want to do. I tell my sons 15, 17 and 20 everything I have needed to know I have learned from travel, living with people and working in hospitality. It’s important for boys and men in particular to be encouraged not to be defined by career or money.
I understand young people may have a desire to see themselves as something other than a kid or a student but I think it’s unwise for that definition to be a job, a profession, a course or a university. So many miserable grown ups have become that way because they have committed to a job/course/profession because of often well meaning people attempting to ‘encourage’ them. This usually manifests as the young person feeling pressure and not wanting to disappoint. Rather than demanding an answer from young people about what they want to do or be perhaps it’s wiser to focus on what they are doing and being and who they are and what they love.

When my kids fret about ‘the future’ I just say ‘You know what you have to focus on right now? Being a 14yo. That’s your only job. Be a 14yo.’

I understand the ‘Say something so adults will stop asking’ but I disagree strongly. There is nothing wrong with young people saying ‘no idea’, actually it’s a far better answer. Not only does a place holder answer put pressure on the young people to follow through but if they change their mind and don’t get the ATAR necessary it makes them feel even worse and as if they ‘failed’ seeing as though they ‘promised’. It also suggests that their present life is of no importance and just a holding pattern and the only thing worth having a conversation about is ‘the future’ when they are ‘an adult’.

It’s almost as if ‘well the only conversation worth having is with an adult or about being an adult’.

Focus on the sport they are into, their social lives, what music they’re listening to, what games they are playing, what YouTubes they are watching, who they are hanging out with, how they are finding their part time job etc. Most the young people I know are very, very interested in discussing politics and culture. They are often far more informed than I am about many things and it makes for a great chat.

Adults need to stop trying to help young people with their future and instead simply witness and encourage their present. Your ‘help’ often isn’t helping.

Another thing I have noticed is that almost all men and boys assume they are going to work full time for their entire lives, I assume to support a family and/or for status and identity. VERY FEW WOMEN HAVE EVER THOUGHT LIKE THIS. Women assume for many reasons they will work full time, part time and not at all due mostly to assuming they will have children and take time out of career to do that.

It’s bizarre that men and boys don’t think that way too. They should and it’s not only about encouraging men to be more involved in caring for their children it’s about encouraging boys and men to care for themselves and not simply see themselves as walking wallets or wage slaves. How many times have you heard women say they want ‘a rich man’ or men say ‘if I were wealthy that women would love me’?

Men need to have more balanced lives and be encouraged to be more rounded people. As men embrace this the added benefit will be giving women more flexibility and less excuses to be financially dependant on others and drop out of participation in and contributing to life outside their front door.

Women and girls need to stop thinking of themselves as being defined by their relationships with others but by who they themselves are, what they think and what they want.

‘What would you like to be when you grow up?’

‘An adult that can think of better things to ask teenagers ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’

On ATAR Results

‘Alan’s leaving’ said my youngest son, ‘His parents are sending him to some private school. How can they afford a private school when they own a $2 shop? If everything is so cheap how can they make any money?’

‘So Alan’s starting year 8 there?’ I said.

‘No they couldn’t get him in when they wanted so he’ll be repeating year 7 next year.’

‘Is this Alan who does two hours tutoring every night?’

‘Yeah and his parents give him $10 a day for lunch but he’s only allowed to play 30 minutes computer games between his tutor and all the homework he gets. The only fun he has is at our school. And now he’s going to some private school because his parents want him to be a doctor.’

‘What about his brother’s and sisters? Is it the same for them?’ I asked.

‘He’s an only child. His family came to Australia three years ago.’

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My eldest son got his VCE marks this time last year. It was a happy day. He was rapt with his ATAR score and delighted with his English mark. English was all he cared about. He’s dyslexic and wants to make a career from words, ideas and stories. Even though he wasn’t focused on a specific score, course or university he got well above the marks to enroll in the course he’s most likely to choose.

Watching my son go through the VCE experience made me understand why and precisely how our current year 12 system is unfair. The best we can hope for is that the VCErs are happy with their score and the felt it reflected their effort and/or ability.

I’ve always said to my kids ‘chose the subjects you love and your life will follow’. The ‘follow your passion’ and ‘do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life’ encouragement has embedded it another pressure. The pressure to ‘find your passion’. And what if they don’t want to make a living from their passion for the fear it will lose it’s sparkle?

I have no interest in any of my three son’s marks unless they want to share their delight or disappointment. If they walk through the door and said ‘Guess what I got 89% on the test last week!’ I’d say ‘Well done! You must be rapt!’. If they walk through the door and said ‘I’m really pissed off I thought I’d done really well and only got 62% on the humanities essay’ I’d say ‘Well that sucks. Can I make you a milkshake? Would you like me to organize you some extra help? Let me know.’

I have never been focused on my children’s marks, only their behavior, effort and happiness. My hopes have been for them to be resilient and well rounded.

On the day the year 12 results roll in there is always a non stop media stream of spectacular high achievers punctuated by messages of news of how my mates kids and my son’s friends went. The day my eldest son got his ATAR the day dislodged something in me and I reflected deeply and widely.

There were rolling stories about teenagers getting near perfect scores. I wondered how this was even possible. As a dyslexic it’s impossible to conceive how anyone can rote learn or remember even the simplest things. I am 49 and still can’t tell my left from my right.

It was even more difficult for me to imagine wanting those kinds of marks in order to be accepted into the type of courses that required those marks, or even just wanting high marks for the sake of high marks. I’m a completionist not a perfectionist. Ps get degrees and all that.

I was happy for high achieving kids and their teachers. Everybody deserves celebration and recognition. They worked hard and have marks to prove it. But working hard is not guarantee a person will get a result that reflects it.

There would be kids who worked as hard if not harder and received far lower marks on ATAR Monday. Some students work hard, some have huge support, some have a natural ability to find academia effortless, many are blessed with a few of these.

How much of a success is it for a clever kid who finds school work easy and enjoyable with amazing support at school and home to get an excellent ATAR?

I couldn’t help wondering what the costs and the pressures were of those marks for those kids who had done exceptionally well.

I wondered what the high achieving kid’s motivation were. The pressures they were under and the expectations the people around them had of them. I wondered what those kids missed out on. I wondered how they would feel when the thrill of the high mark they received and the prestigious course they were accepted into faded. Would they be happy, relieved and relaxed? Would they feel daunted? Would they feel the approval from their parents was love? Would they be excited about studying an area they were passionate in? Would they be grateful for the incredible sacrifices and investment their parents made and the opportunities afforded them?

Or would they do what was expected of them regardless of their own personal interests. They, their parents, their teachers and school had invested such a huge amount would it seem wrong to ‘waste’ the marks they got and the doors those marks opened?

On the day the scores came out I wondered about the kids with the super high scores. I kept thinking suddenly the bar had been lifted so high for those kids and it was all down hill from here.

When you get an average or above average mark there is plenty of room to surprise or impress. Under promise over deliver. When you score an ATAR of 99.9 and get into medicine or law at Melbourne Uni the only way is down.

Would the parents of students who receive close to perfect ATAR scores feel vindicated by the investment they made in expensive schools and tutors? I’m sure some kids would have enjoyed the challenging ride. Others would have been panicked by the fear of disappointing their parents who had so much hanging on their outcome. Other kids would have failed their parent’s expectations.

Mostly I wondered about the cost. Not financial but human and emotional. Yes they got high marks and no matter how much effort a student, their parents and their teachers put in not all kids would be able to achieve these marks.

Around the time the VCE results came out I joined the biggest VCE Facebook page and lurked a little. After not giving this particular juncture in time any real thought I was suddenly fascinated by what a strange day the ATAR result day is. It means nothing and everything. As I scanned the page there was a mix of students satisfied, thrilled and disappointed. There is so much leading up to this day but so much more ahead for these young people.

The page was full of selfie videos of people getting their results. Some reacting to getting the ATAR they hoped for, some being shocked at a score much lower than they expected and some in disbelief when their expectations were exceeded.

This post broke my heart.

‘For the people think the Asian stereotype is a joke:
I got an atar of 91.65 and my parents weren’t exactly the happiest parents in the world. The first question I got out of them was how come you got such a low atar? What I can’t tell them is that leaving you 8000 miles away in a foreign country with a sister who constantly fights with you, whilst battling depression and constant anxiety weren’t exactly the best of circumstances.’

As the day progressed I thought about the many hundreds of people I knew who’s life’s had not in any way shape or formed turned out the way you would have predicted if you had simply judged it on their year 12 results.

A girl who is also dyslexic received a score well below what she had expected and hoped for. According to her mum she was ‘in shock’. I wanted to run to where ever she was and hug her and tell her it is okay, it’s was okay and it will be okay. The education system is crazy and does not reflect a people’s ability or effort unless you are a particular kind of person with a particular set of genetic and socio economic advantages.

I wanted to tell her an amazing ATAR does not insulate you from unhappiness, failure, self-hatred, abuse, addiction, grief, envy, depression, anxiety, sickness, bad luck or a broken heart.

The girl is fabulous and I can’t wait to see how her story will end, I can’t wait to see the world recalibrate and when she gets her moment to shine that will put this tiny insignificant blip into perspective.

On ATAR results day Facebook threw two articles into my feed back to back. The first article was about parents of 24-year-old twins with severe disabilities. It was a sobering read as the media was constantly updating the perfect scores of perfect kids by the minute. These parents are still parenting their adult children as if they were three years old. I wondered what their expectations for their children were? What would these parents consider an extraordinary achievement. Their daughters showering themselves, catching a bus or getting dressed?

The next article was about a Syrian refugee, Saad Al-Kassab who despite missing out on several years of schooling and only beginning learning English in 2014 received an ATAR of 96.65. He was disappointed. He was hoping for an ATAR score of 98. Saad is going to study medicine his mum wants him to be a doctor.

I can’t stop thinking about Alan who’s starting at ‘some private school’ next year. His parents arrived in this country three years ago and are giving him what they see as the best chance in life. Private school, tutors, high expectations, limited free time and the chance of a better life they never had.

Alan’s parents want him to be a doctor.

I wonder what Alan wants.

Alan is 12 years old.

“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of its parents.” Carl Jung

On Young People

Son: Don’t cook dinner for me tonight
Me: Where you off to?
Son: You know Milo Yiannopoulos?
Me: *heart sinks*
Son: We’re going to the city for this thing
Me: This thing? You’re going to hear him speak?
Son: No way! The lads and I are going to the protest
Me: *heart restarts*

When you teach your kids how to think not what to think you have many moments like this. Sometimes they will be curious about views you don’t share or endorse. In that case I always a take a very relaxed stance and say ‘I’ll be interested to hear what you make of that.’ When they tell me their take on it I nod and make noises.

I never ever try and ‘talk them out of it’ or say ‘that’s stupid you’re an idiot’. I have a lot of faith in all young people. Love them with an open hand.

If you are attempting to raise your child to think for themselves how could you be get angry when they do? Surely you should think ‘Fantastic, they think something I disagree with, clearly they have learned to think and not just mimic their parents.’

Let their intellectual, creative, social and political curiosity do it’s own thing untethered. If you take them on and try to argue with them or change their mind it can pull their own perfectly accurate instinct and moral compass off course. Muddling through to find out what they think is a complicated process as they separate from their parents, find out who they are and become fine young adults.

Another thing we can provide is a soft landing for when they fuck up. A non-judgmental place where they can catch their breath and lick their wounds.

It’s a parents’ job to become redundant.

******

You may also like… Tips for parents of Year 12s

I got 51% for HSC English. These days my writing is used on year 12 exams.  I also run Gunnas Writing Masterclass all over Australia and have had 6000 people attend since 2014. Yes we do vouchers. Love to see you.

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Ode to a new school year – Heroic Jasmine

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

Ode to a new school year – a teacher’s work is never done

Here’s a ‘write out’ colleagues who aren’t overjoyed, happy excited to be beginning the new school year (yet again).

I’m not writing for the bright eyed and bushy tailed newly qualified youngsters or not so youngsters who anxious yet sooo happy to have a job and to be gearing up to be getting to to know their new companions over the next school year. Every year they get a guernsey. They get a greeting and a photo op in the local or even national papers. Their Australia Day is filled with optimism and anticipation as they look forward (finally) to the start of a new school year. They’re set, as far as they can be. ‘Smart not too casual’ clothes? Check. Plans for their classroom layout? Scope and sequence curriculum planning documents? Check. Check. Posters? Displays? Board work? Check. Check. Check.

No, those aren’t the colleagues I’m writing for.

I’m writing for all my teaching colleagues who spend Australia Day hoping the following week won’t be spent in a poorly furnished classroom which is boiling hot and without any form of functional cooling, I’m writing for those who hope that the ‘first day back meetings’ will allow for at least half an hour to find out where the new office is and what furniture, carpeting and other items need to be brought from home to make it habitable. Extra time to actually remove last year’s coffee, blood sweat and tearstains from a small patch of desk would be a bonus!

I’m writing for the ‘old teaching hands’ who will need to hunt for the set questions, assignments, rubrics, essay topics, list of ‘to dos’ and other essential materials they managed hurriedly to cobble together for Week One D-day before being the last to leave the building in a frazzled yet lethargic heap after the end of term ‘chicken and champers’ and congratulatory backslapping the night before last minute Christmas shopping.

I’m writing to encourage, commiserate with and salute all my colleagues who look and feel old before their time, especially after the habitual nightmare before term starts way too early yet again. Yes, that’s right, those who have been in the teaching and child and helicopter parent wrangling game far too long. Those who are over spending their hard earned holidays taken at the most expensive time of year in locations where they are still unable to avoid the “Hi Miiiis” and “Hey Sir” (of the unwanted yet still polite) cries of their inescapable charges.

I’m writing to wish all the best for the new school year to those who really deserve it and keep coming back, year after long school year because they are committed and do it in spite of the lack of acknowledgement. Good Luck and Happy New School Year!

*** Special Best wishes for those, like me celebrating their birthdays on the first day of the new school year when you really can’t come up with any believable or acceptable reason for celebrating they way you really want to…elsewhere.

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Limits – Sarah Nicole Sheldon

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

I am a single mum and I raise my two kids alone with very little help or support.  My kids have high needs. They both have disabilities, are both ASD (Autistic), are affected in different ways and I need to parent my kids differently.  This is not all of who I am, and it’s not all of who my kids are, but sometimes it can feel that that is all that is seen.

It can feel like my own individual identity gets eaten by my special needs parenting identity.  People’s perception of what that means can be exhausting. Their pity so strong it stinks.  Some days are hard.  Some days are hard for everyone.  Parenting in general can be hard and sometimes in our house, the days are endless and excruciating.  The pressure relentless, the loneliness overwhelming, my fear, stress and knowledge of my own inadequacy grows until it steals all the air in the room. 

And I can’t breathe. 

I can’t see.

I can’t speak. 

The space from where I am, and where I want to be, it grows too.

Grows into a thing with power and life, and takes up a space it doesn’t deserve.  A small part of me speaks the truth, that I am only one person, and what I am dealing with was never designed for only one person.  But the sharper truth is that I am the only person left.  Inadequate and all.  

That is the truth.

It is the truth, that I wish was a lie.

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Fear, my voice and sleep – Olivia Sayer

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

‘So where am I’ I hear you ask. Right now. Now. At just right now.

Well I’m stuck. Totally stuck. You could say I’m stuck in a rut, a loving rut, a cosy comfortable rut. Or perhaps I could say it’s a loud rut. A rut that would be nice if it was quieter. Less drama of a rut, a rut that I need to find my way out of. I must do something fast and just seriously stop listening to her talking in my head. You know, that annoying one. The one who never shuts up unless she is sleeping. The one who totally ruins my mood in the morning if I haven’t had enough sleep.

Sleep, ahhhh yes how powerful it is with its healing properties. I am not sorry to say this, sleep is not overrated. Out bodies begin to collapse if they don’t reboot. Our bodies heal when they rest while sleeping.  Even though she knows all of this, she resists sleeping enough in the hope she will reach to clarity.

I wish I just wish she would shut up. I wonder could I possibly turn her off? I wonder is she connected to wifi like everything else is these days? Turning her off would free me, would take off the reigns she has on me. She stops me, hinders me, annoys me, worries me for all her personal reasons justifications and excuses. I could get more sleep for starters, oh what I could do for more sleep.

Why is she so fearful? Do I really know? Yes, of course I do. She just doesn’t wanna get hurt again. She doesn’t want to be disappointed one more time.

She yearns for a sense of certainty for once in her life. It hasn’t existed for more than two decades. She put her life in a box and placed it on the shelf a decade ago to live someone else’s dreams and visions for the sake of love. Is that what you would call love?

Moving forwards without clarity cripples her. It’s horrifying for her to not know how things will unfold as she is a perfectionist and must get things right. Are these expectations of herself a little too much? Can’t she see how much she has accomplished all by her own accord.

She knows all she needs to do is surrender. Surrender to what is showing up right now in her life, which is easier said than done of course. She has got terabytes of knowledge and wisdom, which seems to be not enough. ‘Im so lost’ she says. ‘I don’t know what to do’ she gasps. ‘I just don’t know’ she cries.

How do we expect people to figure their life out on their own with the help of guidance or without the ear of an authentic listener? Do I know who I am? What my values are? What makes me want to fly out of bed? Getting to know yourself is a journey! Discovering aspects about yourself is about having the pieces of the puzzle finally fit with many aha moments.

This adventure ride is a totally unpredictable one which uncovers your deepest fears, self-doubts, limiting beliefs and vulnerabilities. You have to be willing to face the music and have the courage to allow yourself be scared.

Maybe that’s what she needs to do. Stop waiting for certainty and clarity. Do what she can today, no matter how small of a step towards her goal it may be and get enough sleep.

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Not a single sound – Pete Young

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

The first time I saw his face, I was terrified. It was a twisted maze of scars and stubble.

He leered at me.

I was frightened, more than I have ever been in my life, yet somewhere hidden amongst the fear, tucked away, perhaps between some two frantic beats, my heart had made room for empathy.

Given the situation, I wouldn’t have imagined there would be any room for it, but there it was.

What happened to you, mister? Did somebody hurt you once?

Is that why you are like this?

His yellow eyes never really saw me. They stared through me.

He picked up a stick and cracked it in half, so it had one sharp end. He drew a square in the dirt.

“Dish, esh my plot.” He said, his words slurred from the long scar that cut its way diagonally down his mouth. Perhaps the whiskey had a part to play in it as well.

He leaned closer, so close that I could feel his hot breath on my cheek. I flinched.

“Don be shcared, Don be shcared. Etsh alrye.” He said, his eyes still never really focusing on mine.

He reached under his shirt and withdrew an old tin. It was a dinged up old chocolate box. He cracked the lid. There were photographs that had been stained and weathered by time; an old sepia picture of a house, a young man, resting on a rifle. Beneath the memories, there were bits and pieces of stories that I don’t think I wanted to know, some wire, a gold ring, a pink ribbon.

Then, despite the heat, my body temperature dropped. Something heavy fell into the pit of my stomach. My hands went cold.

I had seen the brown-stained blade of a knife, an old hunting knife with a dried caking on its side that could have only been blood.

Next minute, he had it in his hand. I withdrew as much as I could. He raised it to his face, and began slowly shaving off a patch of hair from his cheek. The lines of hard, white scar-tissue stood out distinctly against the red of his face.

“Don be shcared, Don be shcared.” He repeated in a low gravelly voice, all the while shaving with the blade of the knife. He flicked a photograph on the ground in front of me. There was photo of a Belgian Shepherd sitting in what would have been the passenger seat of an old, burnt out VW Beetle. On the back there was a date and one sentence: “This is not my dog”.

I didn’t know what to make of it.

He went back to scratching around in the dirt. He scratched and scratched a series of straight lines, finishing it all off inside a circle. He was lost in his own dirt-world for a long time, shaking his head and muttering to himself. I prayed he would stay there for a while longer. I struggled in secret, twisting my wrists against the restraints whilst he was preoccupied, until finally he looked up.

“Dish esh my plot”, he said once more. “Dish esh my plot. My home. You come inner my home. I don lie vesetors. I can’ ‘ave yer on my plot.’

He winked, then carried on.

“Yer in my shquare. An my shircle. I can’ ‘ave dah.”

He took out a six-sided die from his top shirt pocket and shook it in his hands.

“We’ll let fate deshide what ‘appens nex.”

He flung it on the ground in front of me.

Six.

“Even Schteevens” He said.

His hand was wrapped around my hair before I knew what was happening. He’d moved much faster than I expected he could.

The back of my neck burned. He held my long hair and pressed my face hard into the dirt. I could taste the grit in my mouth.

Still holding my hair with one strong hand, he raised the hunting knife above me, and brought it down swiftly. My whole body clenched.

The sharpened blade met with the rough of the man’s cheek as he tore one more scar into his collection. He winced, and some saliva rolled out of his mouth onto the dirt. He hunched forward, his back heaving up and down under labouring breath.

Some time passed and he gathered his things, sorting them back into the tin with shaky hands. He stood up without a word and left me, wandering off into the distant trees, out of my field of vision.

I sank into the dirt with exhaustion, still bound by wrist and foot. Darkness began to close in, and I welcomed it. I greeted it calmly and allowed it to sweep me away until there was nothing.

Not a single sound.

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My dodgy dad – Nat Murray

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

The first time I crossed the road by myself was when I was 14 and a half. That seems pretty old for someone crossing the road for the first time, but when you realise I’m blind and the road outside my house was Hoddle Street in Richmond (which has cars buzzing past all day and night), well you might not think it was so strange after all.

What I remember while crossing that road is wearing my favourite pink bangle that my dad bought me at The Royal Melbourne Show the year before. I have small wrists and it was a little big on me. I wasn’t halfway across when it fell off. I cried out to mum, but she wouldn’t let me stop and pick it up. I felt so strange without it against my skin, and anxious that I’d lost it forever. I was so angry at mum for not acknowledging its importance, especially since dad had gone and I didn’t know if I would see him again.

Dad, and now the bangle.  What’s next?

It was 9 years later when I came home from a day of teaching and my girlfriend announced an airmail letter had arrived for me.  I’d been waiting for this day.  I knew it was him.  She handed me an open box of chocolates.  I took a sniff and grabbed two, hoping one was caramel.  I sat back on the sofa while she read the letter from my dad, postmarked from Moscow.  I felt frozen, my breath quickened.  My hands felt cold.  I hadn’t heard from him in 10 years.  As Charlotte read the letter, I could hear his voice.  His warm smile.  His tendency to exaggerate.  His arrogance.  His charm.  He had a new family – a six year old son and a wife called Katya.  I imagined she was beautiful, tall and blonde.

The next minute, a wave of nausea overtook me and I had to stand.  Charlotte asked if I was ok.  I didn’t answer.  Instead I stumbled to the bathroom and threw up.  It was just too much.  I stood at the sink and took a deep breath.  I was going to be ok.  I’ve lived without him for this long, I can keep going and be fine.

I heard a commotion at the front door, followed by a yelp. Charlotte’s voice yelled ‘that is not my dog!’ while a young man argued that it must be, as he found our address on its collar.

I laughed to myself and wandered back into the loungeroom. I sunk back onto the couch until finally heard Charlotte come back into the room, muttering to herself. I felt her stop and knew she was looking at me.  I felt her soften.  She asked me if I wanted her to keep reading.  I said no.

THE END

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Disappointment – Kathleen Mary

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER  

Disappointment. Sitting in a lump in my stomach like a heavy, undigested meal. That was the very last thing I had expected to feel, especially as this was an inspiring and motivating writing masterclass. But there it was – disappointment, sitting there and refusing to move.

The first thing I noticed when I came into the room was the crisp, white tablecloth – spotless in its whiteness – its brilliance providing the perfect backdrop. There it sat, like a promise. The deep purple and red tin of Cadbury Roses chocolates – “a delicious assortment of milk and dark chocolate”.

Yes, I thought. Someone who knows how to run a perfect workshop! Reward and encourage participants with regular injections of chocolate.

The six-hour workshop was filled with wonderful advice, anecdotes and strategies for the aspiring writer. But I could not get my eyes, or my mind, off that purple and red tin.
When was Catherine going to open the chocolates?

I started to drift off with my chocolate-covered thoughts. I recalled one of my favourite movies – Chocolat starring Johnny Depp and Juliet Binoche. I love the sensuality that the movie evoked, both implied and actual, of the taste of chocolate on your lips, your tongue and in your throat as the chocolate slides gently down. I love the way the chocolate changed the lives of the characters, from pedestrian to lives of fulfilment and purpose. I love the way that the chocolate was enhanced with a pinch of chilli and secret spices, which in turn added much needed spice to the lives of the small-town people.
Once, in a flash of brilliance, I bought the DVD of Chocolat for my best friend and I combined it with a tin of Roses chocolates, just like the one that sat temptingly before me.

The morning session of the workshop passed quickly, but Catherine neither touched nor referred to tantalising treasure in the purple and red tin.

Aaah, I thought. I know her plan! This is her secret weapon – the much-needed sugar rush in the afternoon when fatigue, both mental and physical, threaten to hijack the workshop. This is how she will keep us all on task!

Sure enough, when the afternoon session began Catherine rearranged the items in front of her, putting some to the side, others to the forefront. There in prime position sat the purple and red treasure chest.
Catherine moved as if in slow motion, and when she reached for the tin, I held my breath.

What would I choose?
I like dark chocolate best of all. Milk chocolate is fine, and white chocolate is better than no chocolate.
Caramel centre? No, strawberry I think. Perhaps a hard centre. Even a mint. It is the chocolate that is important.
Catherine seemed to struggle a little with the lid – naturally, I thought, because this was the first time the tin had been opened.

I allowed myself to breathe again as she removed the lid. I knew what I would choose. I knew that I would savour that chocolate, to its very last remnant.

I slid my tongue gently over my lips in anticipation, and I noticed an increase in saliva as my mouth prepared itself for the pleasure it was about to receive. Then my eyes widened in disbelief as Catherine reached into the tin and began to remove all manner of objects – a bangle, scissors, paper money of various currencies and denominations, key rings, a corkscrew, a screwdriver, nutcrackers, bottle tops, a pack of cards and other miscellany.

NO CHOCOLATES!
I felt my body droop in disappointment. My shoulders sagged, and my mouth instantly went dry. A loud groan of disappointment escaped my lips – much louder that I meant it to be. Catherine looked up at me quizzically.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Mmm” I murmured, not trusting myself to give utterance to anything more than this.
Inside my head I was screaming at her – “THERE ARE NO BLOODY CHOCOLATES! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT?”

For the rest of the day, that disappointment sat there, festering and eating away at my insides.
The workshop itself was brilliant, but the no-chocolates disappointment threatened to overwhelm me.

On my way home, I had to stop at the supermarket to buy a tin – a purple and red tin.
Then all was right with my world.

 

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