The boys and I had mongrel dinner that first night back from The Barn. Mongrel meals consist of ‘any mongrel I find in the fridge’ and generally occurred the night before a big shop. The boys vacuumed up fish fingers, frozen peas, grilled halloumi, scrambled eggs, cut up apples, half a bag of mushrooms fried in garlic butter and some two-minute noodles – served on brightly coloured plastic Ikea plates. I wasn’t hungry, but suddenly, fuck, I was tired.
‘My nest!’ I thought, ‘I need to make my nest.’

Whenever I arrive somewhere new or land back home after a long trip, the first thing I do is sort out my bedding and make a nest to collapse in. I have learnt from experience that after a long day travelling at some point I will abruptly fall in a heap, without warning, as if I have been shot by a tranquilliser gun.

With my last skerrick of energy, I staggered past the boys watching television and muttered half-heartedly, ‘Put your pyjamas on, don’t worry about having a bath.’ I flicked on the light in the office at the front of the house, hauled the mattress off the floor and flipped it on its side, the sheets, doona and pillows falling to the floor, and dragged it through the doorway and into the bedroom next door. The room had been our room, then Marz’s room and now it was my room. I slid the mattress into the middle of the empty room and let it go. It made a satisfying thump and released the smallest puff of dust. I lurched back to my office, picked the bedclothes up off the floor in one big armful, holding the pillow under my chin, hobbled back into the bedroom and dumped them on my mattress. I spread them around just enough to make the roughest semblance of a bed. Sheet on the mattress, pillow where the head goes, doona cover opening at the foot end. That’ll do. Perfect is the enemy of good enough.

Since I’d been sleeping in the office, I’d had a colourful patchwork quilt on the bed. I’d bought it from Ishka just after I’d decamped from the bedroom, along with a bouncy pot plant, and a candle with the scent of balmy summer nights, in an attempt to cheer myself up. The quilt now smelled like dog. I extracted it from the bedclothes, took it out into the living room and threw it on the couch. Archie stood up from Charlie’s lap, stretched, shook, jumped up onto the patchwork pile, circled around a spot, carved out his own nest and lay down.

‘You sleep out here now, Archie,’ I told him. ‘I don’t want my bedroom smelling like a kennel anymore. But thank you for your service.’

In September 2009, a year earlier, I’d set up this makeshift bedroom in my office. Marz had returned after having moved out for six months; things had improved enough for us to decide to give it another go.

We decided to try being single people living under the same roof parenting together. Marz wanted me to stay in our bedroom and offered to clear out his darkroom and make himself a bed there. But I was very happy making a little nest on the floor in the room where I worked. And it made sense. It meant our bedrooms were next door to each other so the boys could easily get to us if they needed. I hated the idea of Marz sleeping in the darkroom: it was cold and there were no windows.

I bought a cheap recycled mattress from the op shop, which did the trick. I liked sleeping on the floor; it reminded me of sleepovers at friends’ places during high school or waking up in share houses next to boys I’d picked up the night before at the Punters Club, the Espy or The Standard, and of bedding down in Japan on futons and tatami mats in my twenties when I lived in Tokyo working as an English teacher.

Often, when I’d arrive home late at night after a gig, an opening night, or a dinner with the dollies, I’d find either Charlie or Hugo asleep in my bed alongside Archie the dog. It was the dog who was there most often.

Archie had never slept on the bed Marz and I shared. He’d slept on the couch or with the boys. But when I moved to sleeping on the mattress in the office, the low rise and the common presence of the boys resulted in the dog inveigling himself into the sleeping love tangle.

I’d drive slowly down our dark street and park outside the quiet house guarded by a protective Silver Princess eucalyptus in the front yard. Her strong trunk and sturdy limbs towered over our home and she was adorned with bright pink gum-nuts dancers swaying next to slender silver-green leaves the shape of daggers, ready to launch into action at the first hint of danger.

I’d turn the engine off, slip the key out of the ignition, grab my bag, step out of the car, lean against the door, look up at the sky and inhale the stillness. It was always a sweet moment. A portal between my two worlds. For that one peaceful exhale there was balance, and all was well. I had one foot in each world.

I’d sleepily walk down the side path, damp tendrils from the passionfruit vine grasping at me as I passed, and through the back door. The dishes would be done but there’d be traces of post-dinner snacking on the benches. I’d slip off my shoes before passing the schoolbags, lunchboxes, folded washing and notes to be signed as I headed off to bed. I’d peel off my clothes in the dark as quietly as I could and slip in under the quilt to join whichever creatures or kids were already there and watch the moonlight through the window as I fitfully drifted off to sleep.

Archie was a Jack-Russell-Staffy cross I bought from the Trading Post as a puppy for Hugo’s eighth birthday. Hugo had nagged for a dog for years and it finally paid off with the arrival of a white and brown fur-ball. As my relationship with Marz deteriorated, I started to regard the dog more and more as a good idea. The fluffy little thing was both a distraction and an incredible source of comfort and focus for the boys.

I’d always known dogs were healing, but I experienced that on a much deeper level in those few months on the mattress on the floor. I sleep on my side with bent knees. I’d wake during the night and feel Archie pressing himself against the back of my legs, snuggling in, sometimes with a paw proprietorially over my thigh or calf. I struggle to explain or even fully comprehend the deep comfort I got from his warmth and presence. He asked for nothing. He was blissfully unaware of everything that was going on. Waking in the middle of the night and feeling this dear little warm lump, like a furry hot water bottle pressed up against me, was a balm.

Over the years since, I’ve had regular flashbacks of waking in my default panic default setting at 4 am and being instantly soothed by the feeling of a sleeping pup cuddled in the crook of the back of my knee. Those moments made me realise dogs have the power to repair people.

Someone once told me ‘All animals are service animals, most are just freelancing.’

From my memoir True North published by Black Inc Books

____

Archie died on May 17 2023

Archie died a beautiful death yesterday. He was 14. We thank the staff at Heritage Veterinary Clinic Sydney Rd Coburg for his swift and gentle send off. Special love to our darling friend Dr. Darrell Gust from Brimbank Veterinary Clinic who regularly took a break from fisting rottweilers, coping with the Chernobyl strength halitosis of Maltese Shitzus with underbites and being savaged by ferrets to care for Archie his entire life.

Archie is survived by Hugo, Charlie and Dom, his dogfather Ian Dowsett and a garbage bag of medication with a street value of $2.4 million. (If you are in the market for some Viagra, Prozac, Malaseb, Pyohex, Furosemide, Vetmedin or Apoquel hit me up.)
Archie was rarely alone for his 14 years and, although It’s fair to say he wasn’t everyone’s favourite dog, (hello to Sam and Helen if you are reading) he was our leg humping, fear biting, face licker and you could not find a dog who was a better friend and ally to cats and kittens.
Archie was an excellent guard dog (apart from that one time five menacing drunk blokes in a ute turned up Anzac Day night looking for me. Luckily the sound of their mate Moisty playing The Last Post on our front nature strip on a trumpet didn’t interrupt his evening of doing fuck all while waiting for the occasional sound of a piece of bacon to ‘accidentally’ fall on the kitchen floor.) On the upside he was vigilant protecting us from the danger of a garage door opening a few suburbs away, that one leaf on the magnolia tree that looked like it might rustle, and the visitors to The Chuff Bunker he had met hundreds and hundreds of times.
No pity or sympathy necessary. It’s not a loss , it was a privilege.
Job well done, mission complete. Thank you for your love Archie. You were, indeed, a very good boy.

 

Go Back

 

T’WAS THE NIGHT  before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring,  because mum was chucking her annual Christmas Eve wobbly. “You lazy,  useless, selfish kids. Oh no, don’t get up. Don’t get off your fat,  ungrateful backsides and help your mother wrap the presents, peel the  vegetables, vacuum the house, mop the floor, clean the windows, fold the  clothes and set the table. You just sit there watching television while I  slave my guts out so you can all have your fancy day tomorrow. Don’t worry  about your mother and her bad back, gammy leg, dodgy hip, splitting  headache and (slightly louder) inoperable brain tumour the size of an  eight-year-old child. I’ll eat the burnt chop, sit on the broken chair in  the draught. God forbid you think of anyone else but yourselves.”

So  there we’d sit, in front of the Rank Arena, paralysed with fear because  not only was she wearing an apron but she was also wielding a knife. As we  smelt the pork cooking and heard the Kenwood Mixmaster whipping up yet  another pav, Karen Knowles sang Silent Night. Well that’s what we think  she was singing. We had to lip-read, what with mum slamming things and  swearing. Because what else would we be watching on Christmas Eve but  Carols By Candlelight? Church? If you feel like it. But watching Carols By  Candlelight? It’s the law.

Where would we be without Carols By  Candlelight? Probably somewhere in the Bagel Belt spinning a dreidel or in  a cafe in Sydney Road sucking on a hookah.

The subject line of a recent  email sent to me read: “Delta Goodrem headlines Vision Australia’s Carols  by Candlelight.” The most over-rated performer in Australia will lead a  “spectacular line-up of entertainers” in this year’s concert, to be hosted  by Ray Martin. Delta and Ray are joined by other people with nice hair and  fake smiles, including Bert’n’Patti, Marina Prior, Anthony Callea and  Dannii Minogue.

I find an evening full of old songs, fake breasts and  small children holding candles while wearing highly flammable pyjamas  deeply comforting. It’s a couple of hours of harmless karaoke to get us in  the mood for spending an entire day turning passive aggression into an  extreme sport. But I can’t bear the soap-stars’ versions of the Christmas  classics, complete with Mariah Carey vocal gymnastics, putting an entire scale where just a simple note will do. I like my carols like the Lord  meant them to be, drawn-out, turgid and flat as a tack.

Every year one  of the “artists” says, “I wish you could see what I see” and they cut to  the swaying crowd holding their candles, reminding us of the importance of  family, love and giving. When I was young I would think, “I wish you could  see what I see. Mum has just thrown a pav at the television and now Grand Denyer looks like Father Christmas. And now she’s screaming at us to put  the washing in the car boot because Nana and Pop are coming over  tomorrow.”

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Go Back

Last November someone messaged me to tell me something I wrote was part of the year 12  HSC English exam. Which I found hilarious. I almost failed HSC English. Got 51%. Now I’m part of the exam.

I’m also dyslexic. Like 10% of the population. Fun fact, 60% of Nobel Prize winners are dyslexic. We’re also 50% of the prison population. I could go either way.

Not what you would consider a typical writer’s pedigree.

The function of freedom is to free someone else ~ Toni Morrison.

I have authored seven books, published over 1000 columns, performed hundreds of stand up shows, and delivered dozens of keynote addresses blah, blah, blah. To be honest, whatever it is that I had to prove to whoever it was for whatever reason it’s done.

I am free.

Writing saves peoples lives. Writing your own words and reading other people’s words.

Words, stories and writing saved my life. I created my Gunnas Writer’s Masterclass to save people from dying with their music inside them. I thought I would run two masterclasses. I’ve run 68 in a little under two years.

This is what I have learned from my 1000 or so Gunnas so far.

1. There are three things all writers from professional to novices deal with constantly.

Procrastination, thinking your work is crap and worrying about what other people think.

These feelings are normal and to be expected. Just push them aside and move on. They are like traffic lights. They’ll change. You expect traffic lights when drive don’t you? You don’t think OMG! What is that stop sign doing there? I should never have gotten in the car! I new this was a bad idea. Feelings are not fact. Emotions change. The dog barks but the caravan moves on.

2. Writing is horrible.

Seriously. It’s not all sitting under a Weeping Willow with a fountain pen and a moleskin notebook. Writing is like pulling teeth. I once asked a very well known internationally acclaimed writer if he would prefer to read or write. “Write?” he said glaring at me in horror, “Like writing? I would prefer to dig a six-foot trench through turds with my tongue than write. Like writing? Are you serious?” Expect to hate it. It’s like exercise. We don’t write because we like it, we write because of how it makes us feel. Better.

Sometimes it’s just ‘hate writing’.  You have to force yourself and think ‘I’m just going to have to hate write this’.

3. Motivation follows action.

Ever heard that saying ‘inspiration is for amateurs? It’s true. If writers only wrote when they just felt like writing they would never write. Just start. And then you will feel like it. Sometime when I don’t feel like running I say ‘Just put your runners on and run to the end of the street.’

4 None of us knows how the story is going to end.

That’s the reason writers write. To find out how the story ends.

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” 
E L Doctorow.

I would add you can only ever see as far as the headlights. There has never been a time that I have written something and not been amazed by what what came out. I had no idea that was in there. You can’t get that fourth packet of Twisties out of the vending machine with out getting the first three out first.

5. Do less.

The biggest mistake writers make is to set goals that are too big.

“I’ll get home from work and write for five hours”. No you won’t. You have failed before you have even begun. So you give up. You know that very well know internationally acclaimed writer I was talking about? A dozen books, sold millions of copies, translated into 16 different languages. You know how much he writes? Four hours a day, four days a week. Monday Tuesday Thursday Friday 10am-2pm Wednesday off for paperwork and admin and he never works weekends.

Simple. Small. Just set yourself very simple and small goals. I’m just going to write a word, a sentence. WHOO HOO! You did it. The buzz you get from that will give you a sense of achievement and the amazing thing is that you will do more saying ‘I am going to write for ten minutes three times a week than if you promise to yourself you will write ten hours ever weekend.

6. 4 billion years 1% inspiration.

Human beings are the product of four billion years of evolutionary success. Writing has been the same until the last 15 years. Since the year dot it was 1% inspiration 99% perspiration. Now it’s 1% inspiration 99% not being distracted by the Internet. Being on Facebook, twitter, comment threads makes you feel as if you are writing. You’re not. You’re mucking around. It’s a bit like being at a cocktail party. Picking at food and drink all day. Never building up a hunger and sitting down and having a good satisfying feed. The good brain chemicals we get from achieving a goal, like writing undistracted for an hour or getting down 500 words are dissipated over the day of digital snacking. You never get hungry, you never feel saited. Be honest with yourself. Use Freedom app to block the internet and used your digital snacking you as reward.

7. Actions speak louder than coffee chats.

Don’t talk about it. The more people talk about writing the less they are writing. That goes for tweeting and facebooking about it. Love the book Working On My Novel. A book full of tweets with people talking about writing about their novel. Don’t tell. Show. The talking about it dissipates the head of steam needed to force you to sit down, get over yourself and write. When you talk about your writing you feel like you’ve been writing. You haven’t. You’ve been talking.

8. Where it wires it fires.

The more you do it, the more you do. The more a pathway in the brain is used the better and faster it gets. Writing is a muscle. The more you work it out, the better it gets. The more it fires (gets used) the more wires (the more brain synapses connect) When you set a goal the brains expectation system sends you good feeling hormones in expectation of reaching it. The more you do, the more you do.

9. You are not trying to kill anyone.

When I was 24 I thought I might want to do stand-up comedy so I went to a little stand-up tafe course. During the course I met comedian Rachel Burger. She said ‘You should do stand-up’. I said. ‘But I’m scared.’ She said ‘You are not trying to kill anyone you are just trying to make a few people laugh.’

I can’t tell you how helpful that little reframing has been. Remember, you’re not trying to kill anyone; you’re just trying to write some words, that turn into sentences that turn into stories. This platitude has helped too ‘It doesn’t matter how slow you go, you’re lapping everyone on the couch’.

10. Who cares what people think? They’re all wrong.

I went out with two other mates and we ordered a jug of Moscow mule, a cocktail made with vodka, ginger beer, and lime. I poured three glasses. First mate said ‘Wow, heaps of ginger beer in this’, the second said ‘No way! All I can taste is lime’. I looked at them and said ‘Are you serious? This just tastes like a jug of vodka.’

Same thing. Three different opinions.

You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches ~Dita Von Teese

You don’t write to be paid, praised, published or win prizes. We write to prove that you can. We write because it makes us feel good.

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Go Back

Last weekend we went hiking. 27 kms over two days.
30% was invigorating.
30% moderately difficult.
30% we thought we were going to die.
10% would be best described as bush walking/snacking/telling each other how awesome we were.

So much pain. So much pleasure. Such satisfaction. Monday morning we were walking like 90 year olds but loving ourselves sick.

Last year I spent my birthday hiking and made a pact to do ten hikes over the year. I had been inspired by hiking snaps on Facebook. ‘Bear, we are into physical shit, when ever we gone hiking we have really loved it. Why don’t we do it more? We should.’

There is a very good reason we don’t do it more. For us fun always starts in one of two ways, on a bike, or in an Uber to the airport. We don’t drive much. Neither of us really like cars. The idea of driving to fun is weird and antisocial. The reality is hiking in Victoria requires time in the car. Sitting passively as our metal box on wheels is active takes the jam out of our donut. But you need to break an egg to make an omelette.

I’d marked two hikes in the Cathedral Ranges and booked a fantastic Airbnb in Marysville for the weekend. The Airbnb had everything we needed and nothing we didn’t. Open fire, gorgeous view, cosy beds, birds on the verandah and a big snuggly couch. It was owned by Europeans so the choices in decor and furnishings made us feel we were not just 90 minutes from home but in another country. The place felt lived in and loved. It absorbed us effortlessly. Bear describes the perfect Airbnb hosts as the ones who ‘give you the wifi password and fuck off’. I’m not a fan of the needy hosts after constant affirmation.

Marysville and surrounds were burned down during The Black Saturday fires.

‘The Black Saturday fires started on 7 February 2009. Approximately 400 fires were recorded across Victoria, affecting 78 communities. A total of 173 people died in the fires, and 2029 houses were lost.’

I had forgotten all of this until we began our hike on the Saturday morning.

It wasn’t until we began the assent through wooded gullies that I noticed the blackened trunks and remembered the fires.

February 2009 I was in a terrible place emotionally. The worst place I have ever been in my life. I remember the fires and how it affected even those of us who didn’t live there and had no personal connection to the area or the people. I remember being at the Coburg Outdoor Pool and feeling the mood shift as the smoke covered the sun and gave our oasis the filter of a sepia toned dystopia. The smell of peoples lives, loves and work burning lasted a week. It didn’t matter if we knew the people. People are people and fires don’t care who you are or how much you love some thing, some one or some place. They don’t give a fuck.

It’s difficult to imagine the velocity and magnitude of a bush fire. Reading descriptions of five metre flames moving at 20 kilometres an hour at 1,000 degrees Celsius are unfathomable. I would hear Black Saturday witnesses describe their experience and even though we both speak English I would be unable to comprehend it as much as I wanted to truly understand what they had been through, what nature can dish out, and what humans can endure.

Last weekend as we hiked through the varying terrain; dirt paths, rocky scrambles, steep assents, easy walking and talking, straight lines, complicated zig zags on uneven and unpredictable surfaces, parts where we were puffing and sweating and other parts where our muscles were copping it, I kept marvelling at the drive and desire for nature to keep growing no matter what. Sometimes we were just putting one foot in front of the other not sure where we were going or why. At other times we were standing on the top of the peak or clambering along the ridge awestruck by the view. Basking in our feeling of accomplishment we conveniently forgot the 15 minutes before when we were hoping our phones were in range in case we had to be rescued by helicopter, and wondering how many days we could survive on our trail mix.

A week after the 2009 fires (was it that soon? I recall it being a ridiculously short amount of time) I saw a photo of a new green bud growing out of one of the burned trees. I was shocked and amazed at the speed of moving on.

It hit me how nature and we humans recover from huge disasters. We begin recovering immediately even though we may not be aware of it. We are growing even when we are repairing and healing after enormous loss and tragedy.

You talk to anyone who’s endured unimaginable loss and they will tell you of kind words, a warm blanket or hot drink they remember being given even moments after an life changing tragedy.

Human relationships are all about rupture and repair. It’s what builds the scar tissue that in turn forms muscle that makes us strong. Enduring these missions and challenges with people you love and the knowledge others before have gotten through this same terrain is what keeps us going.

When times have been rough for me my mantra has always been ‘Every second that passes you are getting closer to a place that makes more sense.’

If you are there right now, just keep going.

*********

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Go Back

When in a position of privilege and authority, it pays to watch your grammar.

PRIVATE SCHOOL VALUES NUMBER ONE

Did you read about the boy who may lose hearing in one ear because a Melbourne Grammar boy threw an egg at him during a muck-up prank gone wrong? Did anyone else feel sickened but at the same time not at all surprised when the principal of Melbourne Grammar said in an interview: “[The injured boy’s mother] asked for help because . . . her son was not able to gain access to a surgeon. I was able to, through contacts, get him an appointment with a surgeon the very next day.”

Through contacts — those were the words that made me sick. Through contacts. How kind and noble it was for the important man from the privileged school to help the boy less fortunate through contacts.

What’s astonishing is the stunning lack of insight those two little words revealed. What does it say about a school when the principal brags about queue-jumping? Through contacts. Celebrating a two-tiered health system that leaves one person to wait in pain simply because they have less money.

What kind of values does a school have to acknowledge an inherently unjust system and brag they can rort it? What’s the school motto? “Who you know. Through contacts”, “Meeting the right people. Not those wrong people.” Perhaps its mission statement is: “It’s not through merit people will be rewarded, nor the society being one of equity we want to promote. We are committed to reinforcing discriminatory hereditary privilege and attracting insecure parents who tragically use the school their child attends as social currency. We suck in parents with fear, dazzle them with hype and comfort them with social apartheid, gender segregation and elitism.”

PRIVATE SCHOOL VALUES TWO

Last year I wrote about a private school contacting me to mentor one of its year nine students for its “year nines are privately mentored by professional writers” part of its sales platform.

When I asked what the fee was, they said I was the first to ask and they hadn’t thought about payment. (Their school values did not extend to paying people to increase their company’s profitability but did extend to attempting to covertly shame people for asking to be paid for what they do.) I explained I was happy to do charity for charities, but I couldn’t afford to work free for businesses. Long story, but in short I suggested a $200 donation to the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre as payment.

I mentored a student and it was fabulous.

The school approached me again this year and I agreed to the same terms. I had contact with the young lad, he was bright and keen, and we were looking forward to working together. Before we got down to work, I asked the school to send me confirmation of last year’s donation.

The contact stopped dead. Countless emails and phone calls and I haven’t heard from the school or the student since. That was three months ago. I called the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre. It had received no donation from the school. Ever. The school is now building a new wing that looks like a project by Denton Corker Marshall.

A high-profile Australian writer told me he was approached via his publisher by the same private school. When the publicist asked about a fee, the English co-ordinator responded: “I’ve not considered a payment, to be honest. The only person who has asked for payment in the past has been Catherine Deveny (GREEDY BITCH) and we (WE? YOU MEAN I) managed to come to a settlement involving a donation to charity.”

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Go Back

HERE I was, the girl who went to Reservoir High, at the opening of the Melbourne Writers Festival, glass of champagne in hand, chatting to a couple of mates (one went to Croydon High, the other to Frankston High) about privilege. One of my mates reminded me of the email exchange that follows. This is a true story, although some of the names have been changed.

To: Catherine Deveny

From: Humphries, Henry

My name is Henry Humphries and I am the Head of English at Kingsley Methodist Grammar School, Melbourne. I’m looking for a group of professional writers to act as mentors for a class of year 10 students doing a writing course and I would love you to be one. Each student will have their own private mentor. Are you interested?

Regards, Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

Hey, Henry! Good to hear from you. Happy to mentor. What’s the fee? C

From: Humphries, Henry

Hi Catherine, Thanks for your enthusiasm. You’re the first person to ask about a fee. Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

Well, I can’t afford to work for free. Particularly for a business. C

From: Humphries, Henry

I think we can all afford to work for free when the aim is to help people. I’d like the students to see that writing can be inspirational, confrontational and thought-provoking and that it could one day lead to a professional career. Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

I agree! Tonight I am emceeing a free gig to help clothe disadvantaged women attempting to get back into the workforce. Next week I am doing a free debate for a non-profit magazine that raises issues about social justice and the plight of victims of war and discrimination. And I’m paying for a babysitter. Kingsley Grammar is not a charity. It’s a business. C

From: Humphries, Henry

Catherine, You seem to be missing my point. I’m asking you to help one kid get better at writing by offering some advice on one piece of their writing. I don’t see how this will help fill the coffers of Kingsley Methodist Grammar School. It’s one person helping another person. Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

I see exactly how it will help the coffers of Kingsley Grammar. “We have a pool, state of the art entertainment complex, manicured grounds and professional writers to personal mentor. That’s why you should spend your money at Kingsley Grammar.” It may not be on the website or in the pamphlets, but it’ll certainly get bragged about at the dinner parties and sleepover drop-offs. Pretty simple really.

I mentor plenty of secondary students, from both public and private schools. Ones who contact me. Passionate writers. Individuals. Not businesses. I have three little kids and, at the moment, I’m the primary earner for my family. I happily do charity work. For charity. C

From: Humphries, Henry

Wow! You really have thought about this a lot. What would you consider to be a reasonable fee? Henry

From: Catherine Deveny

My fee would be a $200 donation to the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre. C

THAT exchange happened over about 30 minutes. Contrary to what Henry writes, I hadn’t thought about it at all. I was just quickly responding to another request. What struck me was the extraordinary sense of entitlement. You scratch my back and — I’m sorry, what’s in it for me?

I get asked to speak at private and government schools regularly and I enjoy it. Almost every time I speak at a private school the head girl or boy presents me with flowers or a bottle of wine and a handwritten card at the end of my talk. I always say to the class, “What? So I’m not getting paid?” The kids and the teachers laugh. Then I say, “Seriously. Does this mean I’m not getting paid?” It’s very clear they want to give the students the illusion that I’m doing it for free. Because they are just so special. When I mentioned this bizarre practice to one of the private school teachers, she snipped: “It’s just good manners.”

I said: “So you present the gardener, the cleaner and the plumber that comes in to unblock the toilets a bottle of wine and a handwritten card when they’ve finished their work?”

PART TWO

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Go Back

I never wanted to ‘become a mother’ I decided to have a child.

It was 1994. I’d been living with Marz for a few years and someone asked if we were going to have children.

I was 26. It had never dawned on me.

So I said to him ‘We’ve been together for a few years but we’ve never discussed children.’

He said ‘I assume if you want one you’ll tell me.’

The subject didn’t come up again for another few years.

I was a comedian and writer home in Melbourne with our ridiculously huge dog Gus watching telly and eating cheese on toast for dinner. (I have a vague memory I’d watched ‘Evil Angels’, the biopic about Lindy Chamberlin starring Meryl Streep, the night before.) He was a photographer away interstate shooting on a job in Lightning Ridge.

We were on the phone downloading our day to each other the way people did before mobile phones, the internet, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and texting.

These days if you talk to people you haven’t seen for five hours as soon as you start talking they say ‘I already know. I saw it on Facebook.’

Mid sentence, unplanned, not at all pre meditated, I said ‘I think I’m ready to have a baby.

His immediate response was ‘Does that mean we have to buy a four door car?’

(He had a two door Alfa Romeo convertible and I had a two door mustard color Toyota Corolla.)

‘I suppose so.’

‘Where did that come from?’ he asked.

‘No idea’ I said far more surprised by what had come out of my mouth than he seemed.

I was unsettlingly calm.

Looking back now, our purchasing of a pup and a house, discussions with people I knew with babies and pondering with girlfriends the stability and enduring potential of the relationship I was in and the financial viability of my career clearly illustrates my sub conscious had been doing research for a while in an attempt to know as much as I could before the next adventure/project/journey/experiment; having a child.

It was not a romantic, spur of the moment in the heat of passion conception of a love child.

It was simply the next logical step that I went into hopefully, happily, knowingly, willingly and pragmatically.

My emotionally chaotic and financially stressed childhood taught me you should never have more children than you could raise on your own nor should you ever take on a mortgage you could not service solo.

A man is not a financial plan. Nor is the assumption of a happy ever after simply ‘because you deserve it’.

I needed to be sure I wanted to have children and wasn’t feeling forced or pressured.

I wanted to be certain I was having children not because I thought I should, or simply because I could or because it would please anyone but because I chose to.

I needed to be positive that what was informing my choice was my own desire. To please myself.

None of the mothers from my childhood saw having children as an option. They just did it because it was what you do. It was the done thing. It was seen as a sign of success (in the same way marriage (vomit) is still seen as a sign of success for many women. You know it is.)

In the early 70s if you couldn’t have children you adopted them and if you didn’t want to have children you became a nun or were labeled a freak. Or both.

You get married, you have children and you give up any independent life you may have had before that. That was how it appeared to me. Actually looking back that’s exactly how it was.

Like every default setting rite of passage and expectation of being female I’d encountered since I was 14, I examined having a child critically and rigorously. I put it under a microscope held it to the light and then dissected it in an attempt to work out what it was and whether it was what I wanted or what society manipulated me to think I wanted to keep me out of the way. Was having a child simply a rouse to occupy me with ‘women’s work’ so the men could have priority access to power, control, decision making leisure and money? Would pregnancy and childrearing result in me becoming a covert handmaiden of patriarchy? Did being female and having a baby result in me contributing to a world order that promoted and rewarded a certain construct of masculinity? A construct of masculinity that was homophobic, racist, misogynist, controlling, punishing and shaming. Would having a baby result in me being patted on the head for being a good girl to distract me from having my future career and financial rug being pulled out from under me at the same time?

No. I did not over think it. I thought it through. Most people, particularly women, under think having children. They make the decision emotionally and back it up rationally. Because cute! Because romance! Because happy families!

Having a baby is not rational.

I had children for the same reason every other woman with access to fertility control does. Selfish narcissism.

Yep. I wanted to have children for no other reason than I wanted to have children. Because I wanted to go on the ‘I am having a baby’ ride. The same reason everyone else has children. Despite what they may attempt to convince you and themselves of, that they have selfishlessly volunteered for some noble public service that they deserve a medal for.

Fuck that. No gun to your head love.

I didn’t know if I would like being a parent, or even like my child or children or like what my partner ‘turned into’ when he became a parent or whether he would like me as a parent. Or if I would like myself as a parent.

No one does.

This is the ultimate narcissism. “I will unconditionally love whatever I make purely and solely because I made it. Despite having no idea what this beast may be or how it corrodes my life in ways I could never expect.”

No one knows what being a parent is or having a child is until you have done it. In the same way you cannot know what running a marathon is like until you have done it. I’m not sure you ever really know what being a parent is because it keeps changing. Newborns to babies to toddlers to little kids to school kids to teens to young adults. You have one, two then three children and the parenting changes every time with the new addition. And again depending on the constantly changing dynamic between them. And you change, your partner changes, your relationship changes, the circumstances change.

Myself. A parent? Are they the same thing?

Or different?

Or a hybrid?

I was not one of those young women who always planned to have children and was looking for a Baby Daddy. Nor was I outspoken and bolshie about never wanting to have children.

I knew women who were adamant they were never having children. Staunch, vocal and bombastic. (All of them have since had children and fallen into very 1950s relationships. Beware Little Miss She Protesteth Too Much.)

I was less interested. I never declared proudly I refused to have children. Nor did I swear black and blue to never become a parent or have a baby.

The truth is, I didn’t think about it at all.

Which reminds me of that saying ‘the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.’

I was indifferent.

Having children was something my mother, aunts and various grown up ladies did. Babies and children belonged to other people. I was their sister or cousin or baby sitter.

I have three children now. 12, 13 and 16 and still feel like that.

As a child I loved playing dolls, and adored having a baby brother and sister. I loved cuddling them and playing with them. I found them fascinating and hilarious and thought they were incredibly cute. I still do. Despite my sister having four children of her own and my brother being 36.

I wanted to experience what it was like to be pregnant, give birth and be part of the science project that is caring for a child from baby to independence. I want to eat up life and I don’t want to miss out on anything I consider important, meaningful or a rite of passage.

Fuck the rest of you.

I wanted to go back into a parent child relationship albeit in another role and see if I could experience it without the bad stuff, the wrong stuff, the mistakes, the things that had made my childhood unhappy. And re experience the parts of childhood I had loved. The things that had comforted me, made me happy.

I wanted to become a parent to see what was real. The confected Disney Sunday Night Movie, Partridge Family, Brady Bunch, Little House On The Prairie, Eight Is Enough families I had seen on television? The mythical perfect loving forgiving family? Or the broken, flawed, secretive, dysfunctional, bitter, exhausted examples I was surrounded by growing up.

There is an excessive narcissism in motherhood I find repellant. You know what I’m talking about. The competition and judging each other from labor to year 12 results to grandchildren.

I don’t find it all the time. But when I find it, it’s only between mothers.

And this assumption kids only want to be with their mum. Any other care or company is inferior.

Hello, setting up co dependence to deal with the mother’s abandonment issues!

(And don’t start me on attachment parenting…)

‘What fucking ego confusion,’ I constantly think as I hear mothers spend hours talking about their children in a way which is clearly in an attempt to win some non existent competition. Their children’s marks, their abilities, their achievements, their popularity, their looks, how much better their children are than their sister’s children. Blergh.

Feel free to get a life at any stage ladies.

I’m gob smacked by the breathtaking lack of insight some mothers have that as perfect and gifted and special they believe their own children are they have no inkling other parents could feel the same way about their own offspring. Nor can these sad insecure mothers who have nothing in their life to assert their success with comprehend others do not want to listen to them bang on about their sprog for hours on end.

It’s so revealing. You regularly see clumps of Mumzillas sitting around in coffee shops and if you listen in you will hear them comparing notes and competing about not only their own children but their sibling’s or friend’s children.

You know what I’m talking about.

Never ever do I hear men doing this.

I was listening to a podcast of This American Life and the host Ira Glass was talking to actress Molly Ringwald. She was discussing growing up in a family where her sister was considered the beautiful one, she was the creative one and her brother was the smart one.

When she was 10 years old or so she asked her mother if she was pretty. Her mother responded ‘You’re cute.’

Host Ira Glass, who is Jewish, was shocked. He said growing up he had a friend whose mum would tell her and her sister they were average.

‘You girls are average. Average, you know– like, you’re smart, but you’re average smart. And I was like, wow, you were not raised by Jews, man! That is not the message you get. I mean, in my experience, there’s a lot of, like, you’re so special. You’re the most special….”

Adequate. That’s what I am going to tell my children from now on they are. Good enough. Inspired by my 12 year old who refers to my food as ‘edible’.

I tell you what weirds me out.

This.

Me “I just had a great chat with your daughter. She’s an interesting kid.”

The Mum “Thank-you.”

Me “Wh…at? Why are you thanking me? I am talking about your daughter not you.”

That’s when I back away and talk to an actual grown up. Someone who does not think they are the same person as their child.

When people say positive things about my kids you know what I say? ‘I’ll tell them.’

(Actually, that’s not what I always say. If someone is blowing smoke up my children’s arse in an attempt to flatter I respond ‘My children are hideous’ or ‘actually, if you got to know him better you would find out he’s a bit of a cunt.’)

 I have never once told my children I am proud of them.

Am I the ONLY person who has a problem with people saying they are ‘proud’ of other people? Particularly their children. It infers a sense of ownership and propriety which exposes a feeding off other’s achievement and the bestowing of approval suggesting an inflated idea of what their opinion is worth.

This ‘proud of you’ thing has always given me the ick. ‘You are living your life in a way I approve of and I will award you by bestowing my blessing’. What is inferred is and ‘if you don’t live your life in a way I approve I won’t. And you will be sad. Because my approval and blessing is worth a great deal.’ The clutchy assertion of ownership is revolting too.

I never tell my kids I’m proud of them. If they achieve something I say I am thrilled their hard work has paid off. You can only be proud of yourself.

Embedded in the sentence ‘I am proud’ of you is a vanity and desire for behavioral control that is unhealthy. It’s social pressure to conform to ideas of what people should do and be delivered via carrot as opposed to stick.

Why do so many people confuse approval with love?

So often movies and narratives hinge on the ‘all I ever wanted was for my parents to tell me they were proud of me’. FUCKING WHY? Who cares? Live your life how you choose. If people live their lives hungering for approval from withholding parents they are not living their lives. They are living a life in a way they hope will get The Magical Tick Of Approval.

Based on what? What are these people’s credentials other than being the approval wanters parents.

People will often moan to me that they wished their parents approved of them or their choices. More often than not their parents are failures with rotten lives. I say ‘Why do you give a shit? Your parent’s life and choices are terrible. They have lived a horrible life and made bad choices. How is their opinion worth anything?’

The other side of the ‘I’m proud of you’ coin is this; when people say you’ve changed it means you are no longer living life their way.

The ‘proud’ thing is simply control. Praise trolling.

Here’s something else I don’t get.

Why do people call childless women selfish?

Seriously? How can you call not having children selfish? Having children is the most selfish thing you can possibly do. ‘I am going to inflict miniature versions of myself onto this already over populated world.’

And here’s the funny thing. They never call childless men selfish. I never see childless men being cornered at parties being told they are selfish, they are missing out or will regret it later.

I never hear men being asked how they expect to manage to balance children and a career. Men are never asked when they go to work ‘who’s looking after your children’. It is only men I hear respond to the question ‘What are you up to on Saturday?’ with ‘babysitting’ when they referring to CARING FOR THEIR OWN CHILDREN.

What’s with the group chanting to shame women who have chosen not to have children. Why? Simply because many parents feel they were sucked into/pressured/tricked or manipulated into having children. They resent it now and can’t bear to see others living a life that looks happier and more fun than their’s do.

There’s a kind of ‘if I had to, you have to to. So we are all the same and no one is happier than anyone else’ that comes from these chant groups.

Another thing I find repellant and oppressive is this ‘Being a mother is the most important job in the world’ bullshit.

It’s not. Being a mother is not the most important job in the world.

Firstly being a mother is not a job. It’s a relationship.

Secondly subscribing to this false and manipulative platitude oppresses women by appealing to their narcissism and internalized misogyny. It disregards the role and impact we all have caring for the youngsters around us. Whether we gave birth to them or not.

Thirdly if being a mother is that important, why aren’t all the highly paid men with stellar careers who keep telling us the job is so important not devoting their lives to raising children?

For any woman who uses ‘being a mother is the most important job in the world’ as a way to establish credibility, consider this: if this is meant to exalt motherhood, then why is it always being used to sell toilet cleaner?

The deification of mothers not only delegitimizes the relationship fathers, neighbors, friends, grand parents, partners, teachers, carers etc have with children but diminishes the immense worth and value of these relationships. (It also encourages co dependency and discourages independence. ‘You need your mum. Only your mum will do’) It also discourages other adults from being actively involved in children’s lives. Because, you know, it’s not as good as being a mother. Bollocks.

I’m also confused as to what makes you a mother. Is it the actual birth? Then foster, adoptive, stepmothers and full time grand mothers don’t count. Or if it’s the amount of time you spend with them why do childless women who work full time in childcare not get this honor bestowed on them?

Or is ‘a mother’ simply a term to describe an obligation and expectation to care for children without payment. Is this token, empty slogan used to compensate women for gouging holes from potential careers by spending years out of the workplace without recognition?

Buying into and enabling the ‘being a mother is the most important job in the world’ dogma devalues the unpaid labor of rearing children and other unpaid caring and domestic tasks almost as much as is strategically devalues women’s worth in the work place.

Being a mother is not a job. If it were a job there’d be a selection process, pay, holidays, a superior to report to, performance assessments, Friday drinks, meetings and you could resign from your job and get another one because you didn’t like the people you were working with.

Even if it were a job there is no way being a professional mother could be the hardest when compared to working 16 hours a day in a clothing factory in Bangladesh, making bricks in an Indian kiln, or being a Chinese miner. Nor could it ever be considered the most important job in comparison with a surgeon who saves lives, anyone running a nation or a judge deciding on people’s destinies.

If you believe the manipulative slogan and that mothers are better, smarter and more compassionate people for having children, all of them, you clearly haven’t met many mothers. Or met many extraordinary humans who have not made a human themselves.

People’s opinions and perspective on things change over the years. Mothers may have insight they didn’t have not because they’ve had children but because they’ve been around longer. This doesn’t make their insight more right or valid than anyone else’s – mother or not. Correlation does not equal causation.

Is the only way you can have the deepest most meaningful connection with life and humanity is to have a baby? Do I too have a unique and more profound understanding of everything in the entire world because I have given birth and care for children. No.

There is also a curious sliding scale to this ‘Being a mother is the most important job in the world.’ ‘Working’ ‘career’ mums are at the lower end and single stay at home mothers are highest echelons. With ascending increments for each child you have. The more hours of drudgery you endure the more of a mother you are and, therefore, the more important your job is. The more you outsource domestic labor and childcare and participate in the workforce the less of a mother you are and the less important your job is.

Wow! What a coincidence! The less agency you have and more undervalued your contribution is the more of a mother you are. And the more you enable the patriarchal structure via unpaid domestic labor the more ‘important’ your job is. Stockholm syndrome anyone?

This empty token slogan encourages mothers to stay socially and financially hobbled, alienates fathers, discourages other significant relationships between children and adults and allows men to continue to enjoy the privilege of heteronormative nuclear family roles (despite men sucked into this having their choices limited as well).

I have always said ‘anyone who starts a sentence with ‘as a mother’ is immediately disqualified from being taken seriously. On anything.’

‘As a mother’ is in the same basket as ‘I’m not a racist but’ ‘I can’t be misogynist I have daughters’ and ‘some of my best friends are gay’.

It’s fine to use “motherhood” as a credential if you’re talking about something related to actual motherhood (like vaginal tearing during birth-or breast feeding despite not all mothers experiencing either). But if you’re using “motherhood” to assert that someone cares more about humanity than the next person, if you’re using it as a shorthand to imply that a mother is a more compassionate person than the women and men standing around her, then I call bullshit.

I love having children. I love children in general and am lucky that I love mine. What makes me happy is not so much that I love my sons but that I like them so much. They are lovely people and a lot of fun. But sometimes cunts.

To be honest, having children has been much easier than I thought it would be. I had very low expectations and they have been well surpassed.

There’s a book called The Good Enough Parent.

I have never read the book but the title sums up my philosophy perfectly.

I will get things wrong, I will get things right. I will do my best, and sometimes that best is pretty shit. Sometimes it’s magnificent.

I want to set an example of a real life. I do not shield them from my sadness, grief, depression, sex, drugs, heartache or anger but try and explain it to them and talk about how I and other manage emotions that may pollute the communal space. I say ‘Your behavior is not your fault, but it is your responsibility. If someone smacks you in the face, that’s their responsibility, how you respond, that’s your’s.’

I never withhold either. I do not withold love, gratitude, praise or amazement.

But I never tell them that I am proud of them.

I do occasionally say ‘Wow! Are you proud of yourself? I would be.’

My parenting philosophy is simply this. All children need is to know that they are loved and all they want is to see their parents trying, not always succeeding but trying to get their shit together.

And it may surprise you to find that the only thing I would like to be remembered, as is a good mum. And the only people who decide that are my sons. And that is not what they say to others or attempt to flatter me with but what they feel in their hearts.

The heaviest burden a child carries is the unlived life of their parent – Carl Jung

You may also like Why I Am Against Step-Parenting  and Mothers Day Is Bullshit

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Don’t take anything seriously.

This year is NOT about you, it’s about them.

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 On Teenagers, ATAR Results And Young People

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IT’S 9.45am and I’m drinking champagne, eating muesli and crying alone in my house. Big, fat, salty, wet tears rise up from a place in my belly. I feel another wave of emotion envelop me. Embrace me. Slowly. Will I dive under this one or will I ride it? Can’t stop the waves. Better try surfing. Where’s my emotional Boogie board? Pass me that champagne and I’ll hang on for dear life. Now I’m elated. Like I’ve just run through a crepe paper banner. Some weird sense of achievement about something I didn’t achieve. It’s just a scientific experiment I’ve been observing for what seemed, at the time, to be a hundred years. But what now feels like a blink of an eye.

I feel lighter. But kind of emptier too. A burden lifted. A milestone reached. A millstone lifted. “I’ll probably be a bit emotional today,” I said as I cut fruit, wrapped cheese and slapped together sandwiches. “What do you mean emotional?” asked the 10-year-old. “Not sad, not happy, just open. Your heart’s open and your emotions are going in and out at the same time. Don’t be surprised if I cry.” “Don’t be such a wuss, Mum.”

My dear little Charlie, six years old, the monkey in a boy suit, started school an hour ago. And I can’t stop crying. The youngest of my three boys is now one of them. A member of Club School. Where things are gross or fully sick. Three kids, three lunch boxes, one drop off. Almost 11 years it’s taken, but we made it.

Dear little Charlie. Our third, just for spare parts we’d say. More like a pet than a child. Our mascot. The boy who once told me when he grew up he wanted to be flour. “A flower do you mean?” “No,” he said, “Flour, so you can make me into a cake.” The boy who wore a Spiderman suit for an entire year when he was three. He didn’t walk to school, he ran the first bit, got piggy-backed for the middle and ran the last bit. He’s not here covering the cat in stickers, digging worms out of the ground with a fork or asking me for more “staple ammo” to finish stapling the extension cord. Long story.

All at school. They’re all at school. I thought it’d never happen. The elders would say, “They grow up so fast, just enjoy them” but how can you when it’s so intense at times. So relentless. It doesn’t seem like a part of your life, when you’re in it, it is your life. It goes so slowly, at times you feel as if you are standing still, going backwards almost. But you are moving. In the tiniest increments. Invisible to the naked eye.

I realised this when I saw a mum down at the school yesterday with her newborn. The youngest of three boys. Yes, we should, but no, we can’t always enjoy it because we’re more than our children. But that shouldn’t stop us from trying.

I didn’t burst open when I expected. Parents and grandparents bumped up against each other in the prep room and bystanders wafted in for a gawk at the emotional roadkill. But everything was cool. No clinging kids. Just shaky parents.

“This is your last one isn’t it?” they’d ask, “How are you feeling?” I was pretty stoic. “OK actually. Maybe it’ll hit me later.”

We got to the staff room and the champagne was brown, warm and served in tea cups with milk and sugar so I decided to mark the occasion on my front deck with my friend spumante.

I thought it would be a big bang. But the sound of emotional tectonic plates shifting is quiet. It’s not the way I expected but when is it ever?

I never understood these “Oh God, my baby started school and I can’t stop crying” rants. I would think, “Get over yourself, read a book, get a job or go help migrants learn to read.” I’d tell people: “Cry when the last one starts school? Are you serious? Mate I’ll be dropping them off at the pick up-zone the night before and heading to the pub to celebrate.” Now I get it. But I still can’t explain.

We’ve made it. Where? I’m not sure. But somewhere. It’s not success or achievement but a rite of passage I am privileged to have experienced. I’m mindful of those who didn’t. The disabled kids who’ll never start school. The parents who died before tearing up at the sight of their child in an oversized uniform, carrying a gigantic backpack. And the ones, like my niece, who never made it to school age.

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Charlie’s last day at primary school

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When diarising anything in September you first consult the footy fixture.

You were shocked when you found out not all street directories are called Melway.

When everyone knows where a bar, cafe or restaurant is you no longer want to go there.

You’ve read The Slap and you hate all the characters despite the fact they remind you of all your friends. And you would have slapped the kid too.

You know Sunshine, Rosebud and the Caribbean Gardens are not as good as they sound.

You consider yourself a socialist yet you drive a European car and have a cleaner.

You’d rather sit next to Guy Rundle on a plane than Guy Pearce.

You’ve attended a children’s party that had rice-paper rolls, cous cous salad, croquembouche and a pinata.

You or someone you know has received a grant.

It’s not Noosa, it’s Noysa. And it’s not snow it’s the snoy. And it’s Malvern now, not Chadstone, thanks to rezoning.

You refer to rococo furniture as ‘Very Franco Cozzo’.

You felt betrayed when you discovered Melbourne was not the only place in the world with trams.

If I say Jennifer Kyte and Johnny Diesel you know exactly what I’m talking about.

You think the slogan on our licence plates should be ‘Melbourne. The Coffee Is Shit Anywhere Else’, ‘Melbourne. Go To Sydney. We Hate Tourists’ or ‘Melbourne. What School Did You Go To?’

You know the word “Moomba” means Up Your Bum, White Man.

You’re not happy Melbourne has been voted the World’s Most Liveable City. You’d prefer it was voted ‘Most Enigmatic, Tortured And Slightly Dangerous City’.

You think the only person who looks good with a moustache is Ron Barassi.

You’ve looked out the window of Puffing Billy and waved like an idiot at the cars at the railway crossing. And you’ve watched Puffing Billy pass as you sat in a car at the railway crossing, and waved like an idiot.

You think beyondblue does great work but you hate the way it makes Jeff Kennett look good. Which is depressing.

Any music by Paul Kelly makes you suddenly think of the Nylex sign and something about making gravy.

When you meet someone from Kew, you always ask ‘Near Kew?’

Jon Faine shits you but you can’t switch him off.

You’ve been to the Royal Melbourne Show and the scariest ride is the train home.

You don’t get the jokes about the Yarra. Or Melbourne weather.

When you hear the word “Bougainville” you think of Northland.

You don’t judge people on their looks, wealth or status but on the bread they buy, the coffee they serve and the newspaper they read.

You know a kid with two mummies. Both called Roz.  Who live in Northcote.

You pretend the Sydney-Melbourne rivalry doesn’t exist. Which it doesn’t. Because Sydney doesn’t care. And that really shits you.

You brag Melbourne is the creative capital of Australia, but your walls are full of signed football jumpers.

When someone says thanks you say, ‘No Dromanas.’

When you hear the word “Easter” the first thing you think of is the Royal Children’s Hospital Appeal and Zig and Zag. And then you quickly think of something else.

If someone is referred to as a “showbag” you know it means they’re cheap and full of shit.

Your kid’s favourite foods are sushi, spanakopita and felafel. Which are also the names of the three kids they sit next to at school.

If a friend gets a new boyfriend or girlfriend, your first question is, “Who do they barrack for?”

You think if we all ignore Federation Square, Docklands and Robert Doyle they’ll go away.

You can list all the ingredients in pesto. And you’re three years old.

Cup Day. Gambling at 9am. Drunk by noon. Broke at 3.20pm. Asleep by 4pm. Hungover at 5pm. All while at work.

You think Aberfeldie is a tartan, Coonan’s Hill is a wine and South Wharf is in Sydney.

Chopper Read, Ned Kelly, Squizzy Taylor, the Morans and the Williamses. Sure they’re crims, but we all agree they’ve given the place colour.

You lose respect for friends if they move over the other side of the river.

When holding a dinner party, you know the point is to serve food no one has ever heard of, from a country people didn’t know existed, bought from a little shop they’ll never be able to find.

You were against the casino but, you have to admit, it does keep the bogans out of the city.

Pot, cantaloupe, potato cake and hook turn. Build a bridge and get over it.

… you really know you’re if Melbourne if….

You’ve never been to Adelaide yet you make jokes about their tap water, serial killers and Rundle Mall.

You think the Queen Vic Market opening hours are normal.

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You assume flavoured milk is called BIG M everywhere.

You know what the words apropos, gentrification and barista mean. 

You or someone you know has been to or plans to go to a concert of a washed out Rock Legend at a winery in the Yarra Valley.

You feel sorry for Geelong

You think nothing of calling your son Hugo, Elliot or Atticus. Or your daughter Scout, Joss or Maeve. 

You’ve stepped on an emo walking into Flinders Street station.

At some point you have enlisted the services of The Tint Professor, The Dashboard Doctor or The Swagman  been to Car City, Pick a Part or Doors Galore  and consider Whelan the Wrecker, Harry The Hirer and Peter the Possom Man members of the family.

You grow the hair under your arms but wax your growler.

You think a CBD street map laid out like tartan and lanes full of people eating breakfast while sitting on milk crates at 3pm is normal.

The sight of drunk women staggering around the city wearing short strappy dresses  and facinators with their shoes slung over their shoulder at 5pm means only one thing. It’s Oaks Day.

You claim to have lived in one of the houses from Helen Garner’s Monkey Grip, next to Frank Thring or across the road from the guy who made Harvey Crumpet.

You know blondes don’t have more fun, because Shane Warne dyes his hair.

You’ve lived in London, been to conferences in Paris, holidayed in Rome and know New York like the back of your hand but you’ve never seen the penguins at Phillip Island.

 A suburb is defined as cool when it has junkies and Pilates.  And the appearance of a juice bar means the real estate is out of your budget.

You love that Nick Cave, Barry Humphres and Rachel Griffiths are ours but you don’t like owning up to Kylie Minogue or Daryl Somers.

You think a massage with a happy ending means when you’re finished they give you a café latte and a Readings voucher.

Unless you have cousins who live there it’s only because of the Trading Post that you know where Diggers Rest, Chirnside Park and Niddrie are. 

You only have two colours in your wardrobe black and the new black.

You hope the Eureka Tower loses it’s claim as the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere and that the Southern Star Wheel never gets fixed because we don’t want Melbourne showing off like Sydney.  And if it stays broken we can call it an installation.

You don’t think there’s anything strange about the fact there’s a South Morang but no Morang, Moonee Ponds with no ponds and that Bayswater has no bay and no water.

You take Japanese students to the Coburg Drive-in for the cultural experience.

You don’t mind graffiti as long as it’s spelt correctly and uses appropriate grammar while sticking it to the man and written by a woman.

Bacchus Marsh Lion Safari, Kryal Castle, Soveriegn Hill, Wobbies World, Gumbaya Park; ah, school holidays in the 70s. 

Your husband wears a sarong, is in a book group and you think nothing of buying him moisturizer. But you call him your partner, not your husband. Either because you’re not married or because you don’t want people to think you are.

South Melbourne Market means only one thing. Giant chicken dim sims.

The only street you know in Richmond is Bendigo Street. And you know the postcode is 3121

You hate it when they’ve shot a car chase in Melbourne and Sydney and the editing jumps between the two cities.  Like we won’t notice.

You’ve never solved the mystery of how WEG always correctly predicted who would win the Grand Final when he drew his Grand Final souvenir poster.

You have a friend in a band. Or says they’re in a band.

You know the difference between Carlton and North Carlton, Heidleberg and West Heidleberg and Mallvern and East Malvern is about $120,000.

You don’t think it at all strange that you know where all your friends went to school and you still refer to it even though you’re 60.

Your favorite joke is Pakenham upper.

You’re proud the Melbourne word bogan has finanally officially taken over as the Australian definaition of bevans, westies, yobbos and white trash. 

You only buy The Big Issue if other people are watching.

You love that only Melbourne people will get this quiz.

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