The Pyjama/Pajama Game.

When I was younger I always used to stay in my clothes until bed time. Jeans, jumper, skirt, tights, frock, whatever. I don’t even think I was the proud owner of a pair of track pants until I’d hit 30 clicks. Clothes were for wearing. Night attire was for sleeping. Slippers were for nannas. Dressing gowns solely served the purpose of a quick cover up in the morning. Not scaring any unsuspecting humans you opened the door to in your nightie being the general aim.

Ah, but then. Then something odd happened as I hurtled towards 40. I discovered the appeal of wandering about the house for extended hours in my PJ’s. Not just the jammies; but also a variety of dressing gowns of different weights. And slippers. Nice, fluffy slippers. Then I was given a pair of house socks as a birthday gift. You know the ones with the rubber dots on the bottom so you don’t slip over? Sweet fancy Moses. Like a wooly sock and slipper in one. Sheer genius.

Now I am of a particular age, the pyjama obsession is complete. I am dedicated to the jim-jam. I have been known to wear them all day if I’m not going out. This doesn’t mean there’s a non shower situation going on. Gracious no. You discard one set of night attire at around lunch time, have a shower and climb into a fresh lot. If it’s also a day you changed the bed linen, we’re talking an outstanding pyjama day. Twenty-something me would be utterly disdainful of older me.

Having already confessed to an impressive shoe stash, I’ve subsequently examined my jammies stash. Not bad. We have … very-hot weather, hot weather, mid-season, normal winter and extra-cold winter varieties. Four dressing gowns of various weights, 3 pairs of slippers and a drawer of house socks. In 2002 Elizabeth Taylor penned her book, “My Love Affair With Jewelery”. I could substitute the word “Pyjamas” for my masterpiece I think. Not as good a read or photographic content, but it’d have a quaint appeal.

The term pyjama was borrowed from a Hindustani word pay-jama. The style of clothing was adopted by Europeans during British East India Company rule in India (Wikipedia). At first only the European fellas ‘lounged’ in a nice cotton draw string pant. We ladies joined the craze a lot later. As time has passed it’s become accepted sleep wear, with a huge variety to choose from. Americans spell it pajama and the Brits spell it pyjama. Just as awesome either way.

Muslim girl in India wearing payjamas and kuriti (lithograph from Emily Eden’s ‘Portraits of the Princes and People of India’, 1844).

In the U.S.A. there is a ‘National Wear Your Pajamas To Work Day’ on April 16. True story. How bloody fabulous is that? April 15 is the day everyone’s taxes are due in America. I’m guessing they figure citizens have been up half the night cooking the books; the next day dressing oneself will just all be a bit too hard. I’m not really impressed with The States just now, but reading that gave me a rush of affection for the place. Mind you, a mental image of Trump in Summer shortie PJ’s talking a lot of crap at a press conference is a tad off putting. If we bring in an equivalent on July first here; ScoMo in his Winter flannies during Question Time is also somewhat stomach churning.

I have spoken to several friends on the pyjama topic in recent weeks, and we’re all at it. One works from home and her beloved calls it her ‘Corporate Uniform’. She’s busily emailing important clients in her Snoopy onesie at 2pm. You go girlie. It’s clearly not just an isolated pod of pyjama fanatics I’ve surveyed. I have seen people wearing them in the street in recent times. A dash to the letterbox is one thing. Even a secretive expedition to Maccas drive through in a nugget and fries emergency gets a pass. However. Strolling about a Westfield in your Garfield antique jammy bottoms – is pushing the envelope. If I reach that stage give me a stern talking to.

I’m still a high heel wearing, fashion obsessed chick. But really, for all its downsides, age is a marvellous thing. You reach that level of self acceptance where it becomes pleasurable to be in your home dagging about in whatever you desire. It’s Prada pumps off and pyjamas on when the day is done. Today’s PJ’s dress down commenced at 4pm. I am not ashamed. Get in the pyjama game people. If you haven’t already….. you know you want to. 😉 Sweet dreams all. xx

My Love Affair With Jewelery.
Elizabeth Taylor (2002)

Pajamas – Wikipedia
<https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/pajamas>

National Pajama Day
<https://nationaldaycalendar.com>

Step back in time.

1982. We shall never speak of this again.

I was scrolling through Facebook today when I saw a school friend had posted her favourite U2 song. “With Or Without You”. https://youtu.be/6DeDzsCGbsQ (Bono – you Irish hunk of spunk). She remarked the song has always resonated with her, and had been rather a theme tune of her adult years. She remembered going to see the band in the mid 80’s and how fabulous that moment was. I hit ‘play’, and I too immediately shot back to my memories of that song. We’re the same era, so it makes sense. It seems the pop tunes of our youth form part of the soundtrack of our future lives. They remain with us. Sounds of early years have a powerful memory trigger, and most of us tend to experience the phenomenon. It got me thinking about my own memories and why this is so.

Research indicates that music from our formative years is linked to brand new emotions and feelings of independence. This link tends to be from the early teenage years until the late 20’s. It follows then that as we age, the music from each decade that passes becomes less memorable. The links to life events blur unless they are particularly cataclysmic. Finally, you become your father sitting in the car saying, “God, I hate all that modern rubbish they play” when the top ten is blaring.

For me the significant year was 1982, and I had a VERY special look underway. Princess Di fringe with quite long hair. Unmentionably daggy clothes. I was so invested in rediscovering the memory, I foraged and exhumed an image of my 1982 self. You’ve now seen it. People improve with time and I was a late bloomer. That’s my excuse anyway.

My childhood home was strict and pop music was not played. ABC’s ‘Countdown’ was forbidden. The cool kids at school listened to all kinds of stuff. I didn’t fit in with that demographic. #poorlittlenerd #iblamethefringe. Those factors aside, in 1982 I was on a lawn outside a school building and somehow or other “Just Can’t Get Enough” by Depeche Mode was played. MAJOR REVELATION. I thought this was the most amazing thing EVER. For a moment I had a mild sensation of being cool. That song went round and round in my head for days. That is the sound of 1982.

Memory works on a number of levels, which is a concept we easily grasp. Conscious memory is the deliberate retrieval of the past. You might say to yourself…. “What was I doing in 1984?”. Implicit memory is the mechanism where the songs of our youth come into play. It is a reactive, unconscious form of recall. Psychologists have labelled our visceral response to these kinds of stimuli the ‘Reminiscence Bump’. Here’s a good explanation of such a fancy term….. https://www.google.com.au/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=4&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwj6jJun497iAhXCdysKHTuqBn4QFjADegQIBhAB&url=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FReminiscence_bump&usg=AOvVaw3gzqq467P4xHUfU99Va7pv (Wikipedia).

As you’ve stuck it out thus far, I think it’s time for another dreadful photo. Mustn’t disappoint. I give you…… Reminiscence Bump 1986. First year University. Actually, the hair is worse than it was in 1982 if that’s possible. I was still in the family home where fun went to die; but I now had a WALKMAN. A Walkman and blue eyeshadow. The strains of “Kyrie” by Mr. Mister and “We Built This City” by Starship propelled me through that year. All that, and I caught the bus to town each day all on my own. Heady times.

1986. Fake pearls and hairspray for days.

I think the music and memories thing is rather wonderful. Like some form of highly pleasurable rewind mechanism.

At my last school reunion they played the songs of our era. It was an important part of the event.

*Disclaimer. School reunions are weird. You get all nervous, turn up, don’t remember people who remember you and vice versa.*
That aside, it was a great night. Not all of the memories were good, but they were very defining. The sound track of those school years seemed part of the glue that held us together under such an odd, once a decade circumstance. When we assemble again in 2025 we won’t remember what’s on the charts now; but we’ll know all the words to Bruce Springsteen’s “Dancing In The Dark”. (I still won’t look anything less than a nerd if I attempt to dance to it).

“Identity is an internalised life story” (Dan McAdams, 2001). The music of our youth is part of that story. Sometimes it’s just magical to crank up ‘Culture Club’ and revisit an era where you didn’t need eye cream, you wore a big lace bow in your hair and you hadn’t made too many huge life screw ups just yet. The songs of that life soundtrack were still to come.

Here’s to the sounds of 1982. Boogie around that quadrangle in your school uniform.
Take it away 80’s dudes.
CICK HERE AND RELIVE THE MAGIC………. 😉
https://youtu.be/_6FBfAQ-NDE

Reminiscence Bump
<https://en.wikipedia.ora/wiki/reminiscence_bump>

With Or Without You
<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6DeDzsCGbsQ>

Just Can’t Get Enough
<https://youtube?-6FBfAQ-NDE>

My First Love.

My first love wasn’t the boy I had a crush on at school, or Michael J. Fox (although that phase was pretty intense in 1984). It wasn’t my former husband.. or even my first pair of designer shoes.

My first real love was just over a foot tall, orange sable with four legs and a very big personality. His name was ‘Samsonne’. Once we met everything was different and that little, orange, opinionated fluff ball changed my life forever.

‘Samsonne P. Fox’ was his full name. He was of course a Pomeranian dog.

Samsonne, Sammy or Sam as he was sometimes called came into my life in the early 1990’s. I had moved out of home and was presented with the opportunity to have a new housemate. This very nice young cohabitant came with a dog. Now, I loved dogs so I was pretty chuffed. I had no idea what the arrival of Samsonne P. Fox would immediately bring to my life. Sammy and his dad Michael duly moved in, and Samsonne took up residence. He was an obscenely handsome pooch. At first he wasn’t interested in me and for the first few days (when Michael went to work) he’d lie by the front door looking bereft. The house was new, I was new and he wasn’t greatly impressed. He’d let me pat him but was somewhat disinterested in my attentions. I hadn’t yet learned that Pomeranians are fiercely loyal to their owners. Just because a girl was patting him on the head and cooing sweet nothings didn’t mean he was going to be distracted from his post.

As the days passed and it all became a bit more familiar, Sammy started to warm to my loving ministrations. He’d leave the front door for a while and follow me about. I was ecstatic. After about two weeks he threw in the towel and stood on his hind legs, ‘paddling’ at me to be picked up. The freezing out was over and we were friends. Due to a patchy work schedule, Samsonne and I spent a lot of time together. Michael would leave for work and if I were still in bed, a little orange face would appear within seconds. I’d lift him up beside me and we’d both get some more quality shut eye. I only had a single bed and despite his diminutive size, he took up most of it. I didn’t care. I had a best friend. I adored him and he showered me with love. In a life that was a tad fraught at the time…. Samsonne was my greatest joy. He was the greatest fur person I had ever met.

I was very ignorant about the breed at that time. (In the early 1990’s they did not have the popularity they now enjoy). Samsonne was rather a force to be reckoned with and I took that to be just him. Nope, that’s Pomeranians. He was opinionated, bossy, manipulative, vocal and disobedient. He’d sulk if you gave him the wrong dinner, go on hunger strikes until the right meals appeared, yell at you for human food and pee under the coffee table if you displeased him. He was a tyrant who was so adorable those things made him even more loveable. My days revolved around Sammy. From the moment he asked me to pick him up and kissed my face, I have been dedicated to Pomeranians. For all their faults their loyalty is second to none. Huge personalities in tiny bodies. That, and they’re exquisite.

Samsonne as ‘Toto’ to my ‘Dorothy’ at a fancy dress night, 1994.

Michael, Sammy and I happily cohabited for about three years until work commitments pulled us in different directions. They stayed in Adelaide and I moved to Sydney. Leaving Samsonne was incredibly difficult. He wasn’t my dog, but he was the most important thing in my world. Any time I went back to South Australia I’d be straight there, wanting to see him. He never forgot me for a second and would be ecstatic. I had become one of his people. In time he moved to Melbourne with his human daddy and we’d catch up there if work took me in that direction. The years passed, he became more grizzled and deaf but he knew who I was the moment I appeared.

In 1999 I was settled into my Sydney life and got my own little Pomeranian. Naturally she was called ‘Delilah’. She went on to spend nearly sixteen years by my side until her passing in 2014. Without Sammy she would never have come into being and defined a large slab of my life. She was like Samsonne in some respects, but not nearly as wilful. He remains one of the bossiest Poms I have ever encountered; and I have now been a Pommy Mommy of four thus far.

Samsonne lived until very close to his seventeenth birthday. He was as tyrannical at his end as in his youth. I will always remember the day the call came from Michael, telling me he was failing and he was going to have to let him go. We both sobbed uncontrollably down the phone and he let me know the time he would go to sleep. On the day he passed I was at work and I watched the clock go past the nominated hour. I cried all afternoon for the loss of such a wonderful little animal who had been ‘mine’…. even for quite a short time. I was told later that in true style, having been on his last legs with heart failure, Sammy rallied on his final evening and stacked on a turn for some chicken breast. By the next morning there was no going back as he was so ill; but he had one last crack at garnering his human slaves into action. After all, he was a Pomeranian.

A favourite photo of Sammy is taken in Melbourne just over a year before he died. I was put up in a building on a work trip that didn’t allow pets. Samsonne was duly smuggled past Concierge in a sports bag. He was the centre of attention as always that night. Much of his sight had gone due to cataracts, but when he smelled my hands his happy response was instantaneous. At the end of the visit he hopped back in his bag, got zipped up and his human companions nonchalantly strolled through the foyer.

Michael has gone on to be a loved ‘uncle’ to all my little Pomeranians. We’re forever bound by one small, orange, determined little dog who has left us in body but never in spirit.

Master Samsonne P. Fox Esquire. ❤

Size Matters.

No. I’m not talking about what you think I’m talking about. But we love the use of an attention seeking header……

Being a writer comes with a variety of challenges. Not the least of which is finding someone to pay you for what you create. (Feel free to inbox).

The popular image of a writer is someone sitting holding a pen and paper, or at their laptop; effortlessly churning out brilliant prose. The genius flows, they send off a manuscript and boom. They’re the next Charlotte Bronte. Or Bryce Courtnay. Or Stephen King if you have that kind of bent.

In reality, there are so many kinds of writing and so many options for people in the field. A good writer can pen a novel and have a day job creating a newspaper column, web content for a clothing company or corporate policies. Writing talent is somewhat instinctive in many ways, and can be utilised in a variety of directions. However, you can’t just sit down and punch stuff out without time spent looking at a variety of factors that a publisher or day-to-day employer will require.

A major frustration can be word count if you are only provided with a certain amount of space. 1200 words means 1200 words. ‘Size matters’. Being naturally verbose I always go over… and then have to trim things back. It seems I have a lot to say. (Art imitates life).

When I was in Year Eleven, Thomas Keneally came to my school to give a lecture. We had been studying ‘The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith’ and he had kindly agreed to come and speak to us. This was exciting stuff for a book nerd. I was in the front row. Pen poised, spectacles glistening, waiting to be told how to be a famous novelist. Keneally was humorous, generous of spirit and very candid. He also gave an unexpected answer to a question from one of our English teachers. The teacher asked him how he pitched and planned his novels prior to commencing the actual writing process. As someone who personally despised essay plans (and always constructed one after the actual essay was written … oops) … I keenly waited for the reply. To our teacher’s chagrin, Keneally smiled and said something along the lines of, “I don’t. I don’t know what will happen to the characters until I have met them and their story happens”. I thought this the most wonderful answer.

I had often sat down to write something (and still do) and wasn’t quite sure what would happen to the characters until I created them. I’d also wing it when it came to the narrative structure, tone and style of the writing until the whole thing began to take shape. Thomas was instantly my writing hero!!!! Alas for my teenage self, I hadn’t quite comprehended that Mr. Keneally was an extremely famous author and publishers would happily offer him a book deal without hammering him for the minute details. He wasn’t creating content to a brief. He was writing masterpieces on his own terms. A privilege he had most certainly earned over years of proving his worth as an impressive author.

For the less lauded of us, we need a plan. So : you have an idea for a fictional article or book. Who is the protagonist? What are their strengths and weaknesses? Who is the antagonist? What is the plot outline? What is the world in which the tale is set? What is the narrative structure? And horror of horrors….. how many words?

Although writing whatever comes into my head is still a favourite quirk, I have wisely learned to embrace a good story plan. Quite often something that sounds like genius in one’s brain does not translate seamlessly to paper. Better to iron out the kinks before you spend hours realising it’s not going to be the next ‘Rebecca’ or ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. More pedestrian writing tasks than planning your life’s literary masterpiece also need orderly thought.

If you are asked to complete a job you should always stick to the brief. Tempting as it may be to channel Tolstoy whilst creating a corporate Code of Conduct, the mark of a good writer is being easily understood. Know your audience. Make sure they will comprehend and enjoy what you are telling them. Most of us aren’t Keneally; we don’t have an editor on hand to double check our work. Self editing needs to be the go before someone of importance sees your product. Check and re check. All spelling and grammar. Remove unnecessary wordiness and try to read what you have written with ‘fresh eyes’ several times. If you need to re read a sentence….. it’s not the correct way to impart that information. If you’re like me, you’ll need to reduce your word count to fit the job at hand, and trim back some of the padding.

I’m sure various people wish they could do that with me in real life. Starts out telling a story and an hour later she’s still going. Note to self. Must self-edit long, rambling conversations. 😉

‘Size’ does matter. Good planning is never wasted. Nothing is more satisfying than a positive response from a reader to something worthy that came from your pen. Whatever that creation may be.

The other satisfying thing about writing is some of it can happen in pyjamas with a glass of wine. Hiding inside your house with the heating on. A personal favourite. That’s a happy place, with or without an essay plan. 🙂

Shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes. SHOES.

It’s time to write about something VERY important. This article strives to answer an age old question, and it is being penned by one who is in the know. What is it with women and shoes?

I can only speak for myself when I say I have loved shoes since I was a little girl. At the age I realised I was obsessed with mugging neighbourhood dogs for pats; I copped my first whiff of a shiny leather pump. I was about three or four and I was a goner. I loved my mother’s shoes and my ballet shoes and my teacher’s shoes and any shoe I could see……. It had begun.

When I was seven I was bought a pair of black, patent leather Mary Janes. (For the footwear ignorant, basically that’s a shoe with a strap across the arch of the foot). I wore them obsessively. To school, to church… I would have worn them to bed if I’d been allowed. They are forever immortalised in a black and white photo I still have. As well as the beloved shoes I was clad in my favourite dress. In hindsight, it is clear I was doomed to a life of footwear shopping and an overstuffed closet.

1975. Pose nicely displays knobbly knees.

When I outgrew the Mary Janes I was crushed. I wasn’t bought another equivalent pair but, along came some white patent wedges with coloured flowers on them. I chose them at the shoe shop in a lather of excitement. By this time I was ten. They were groovy man! Brady Bunch worthy. I’d sit with them peeking out from under the hem of my flared pants and admire them. These loved favourites met an unfortunate end when I was running in the playground and face planted. They got wrecked (and it didn’t do much for the palms of my hands or my knees either). A strong lesson in why physical exertion can never come to any good.

I was not a confident child, although I attempted to portray myself as such. Looking at that B&W shot reminds me of how awkward I really was. I also believed myself to be rather plain and, truth be told, I did go through a protracted FLK stage. That was the magic of the shoes. Didn’t matter what was going on at the head end, the foot end looked great. My first school dance I went with the group of ‘dateless girls’. Actually let’s get on track. Every school dance I was one of the dateless girls. I was fifteen and I had a pretty dress, questionable hair and no confidence. BUT…. I had been given new red, shiny, high heeled shoes. I looked down at those shoes every time I wasn’t sure what to do or say. (ie : all evening). It’s about the only thing I remember about the formal, apart from having a crack at dancing to Kenny Loggins and realising I did not have the moves.

A beautiful pair of shoes is beautiful whoever wears them. Good day, bad day or fat day the shoes still fit and they’re still beautiful. Just slipping on a pair of heels changes my psyche. They’re like a form of armour. They make me taller. (Very important at my altitude). They are visible to me as I wear them. As women we know our legs look longer, butt looks higher, clothes look more stylish in a heel. I think for me, the bit of confidence I gleaned from the pretty shoes of my youth has translated into a sort of mental trademark. If I have on great heels I am fortified to face the world. Ready for battle. A designer high heel equals a readiness to deal with the day. Louboutined up and not to be messed with.

Red soles. You know what that means people.
Do they hurt? Who cares. They’re fab -u -lous.

I do have girlfriends who are not shoe obsessed, but I have to say I think more of us ladies are shoe oriented than not. It is often the lament of a woman who has an injury or whose feet have hit their lifetime limit that she cannot wear high heels. I dread the day my arches give up the ghost. I’ll be one trademark down and gazing morosely at quite an admirable stash. (I’ll never be Imelda but I can hold my own).

The day I visited Manolo Blahnik in NYC was a landmark moment in my life as a shoeaholic. It was like being a kid in a candy store. An expensive candy store mind you. The thing that struck me was how exquisite the shoes were. Shamelessly so. You weren’t just buying something to walk around in. You were buying something that defined who you were from the ankles down. Therefore vastly improving what the world perceives from the ankles up. “There is an element of seduction in shoes that doesn’t exist for men. A woman can be sexy, charming, witty or shy with her shoes.” (Christian Louboutin).

In the end, asking what is it with women and shoes is a little like asking what is it with boys and cars. It seems to be innate in many of us from an early age. For me it’s a little bit of armour and a little bit of owning something beautiful. Beautiful heels have most certainly been a rite of passage from awkward girl to polished woman. In the words of Manolo Blahnik. “You put high heels on and you change”. I for one can’t argue with that. 🙂

End of an era.

Paul Darrow as ‘Kerr Avon’. credit : tvforum.uk

When I was about ten years old something exciting happened. I lived in Adelaide, South Australia and, with respect to my origins, excitement was a bit thin on the ground. However, something momentous was about to take place in our lounge room one Saturday night as I was perched in front of the Rank Arena telly.

A new sci-fi series was starting. Now, what is remarkable in hindsight is that my parents tuned in. The genre was not at all their thing. But for some reason, that evening the channel stayed switched to the appropriate number on the dial. A symphonic version of ‘It’s Impossible’ came out of the speaker and we were off. Off on a visit to a world I subsequently loved to visit every week. It was my ‘happy place’ for four years; I was glued to each instalment of the entire four series.

The programme was ‘Blake’s 7’. British 1970’s science fiction.

It was rather forward thinking for its time. A commentary on the politics of the era and plots revolved around veiled themes of communism, mind control, oppression and freedom fighting. That was all marvellous of course, as was the fact it was set in other galaxies. The space ship it revolved around was impossibly cool to a ten year old and people could even teleport. But that wasn’t the real draw card. The real draw card was the anti hero of the vagabond crew. He was dashing, he was sarcastic, he was self centred.. yet still fought for the good guys. I had my first little version of a ten year old’s crush.

The character’s name was ‘Kerr Avon’, and he was subsequently to become synonymous with the ‘anti hero’ identity of science fiction of that era. He grew to be the focus of the series (possibly fuelled by so many crushes from young ladies around the globe such as my little self). He was played by Paul Darrow. And sadly Paul Darrow passed away today at the age of 78.

Oddly, apart from a slight focus on the ‘Alien’ movies because Sigourney Weaver kicked such awesome alien butt, I have not gone on to be a science fiction person. That said, I belong to a facebook ‘Blake’s 7’ fan group and I have followed the fates of all the actors in the series. It remains one of my favourite childhood memories. Darrow’s persona had a big impact on me; there is a particular sadness when a childhood hero leaves us. You come to terms with the fact mortality is inescapable. Even to the guy who wore leather pants, wielded a laser gun with incredible skill and made your ten year old heart go pitter pat. He was the first man that I now recognise, in my adult mind, I thought had sex appeal. (Although I didn’t know what that was at the time). He was also a damned fine actor and by all accounts a very nice chap. Many people have mourned him online today.

Many, many years after the crew met an ambiguous fate in 1982, (the bad guys won after all…. or did they?), ‘Blake’s 7’ was released on DVD. I bought them all with vast enthusiasm and revisited every episode with relish. Was it great television? Yes and no I suppose. But it’s interesting what emotions you re experience watching something iconic from your early years. I will quite often pour a glass of wine and sit down to revisit the ‘Liberator’ surging through space fighting ‘The Federation’. It’s always a good night on my couch.

Blake’s 7 and other British classics ready for viewing with a nice bevy.

Today another actor has teleported away. It’s always sad when you hear of one passing but today is a little bit more so. My childhood crush has officially gone.

Vale Paul Darrow. You were pretty fabulous. Thanks for making a little girl’s Saturday nights exciting in Adelaide, South Australia sitting on the orange velour sofa. I still smile when you come on the screen and I think I always will.

“Take us out of here Zen. Standard by six”.

Attention please.

My dad told me a story recently about when he was courting my mother in the 1950’s. (Mum passed away in 2017). They’d go to the movies, the lights would go down and by the end of the newsreel she’d be fast asleep just as the Queen was riding across the screen on her white horse, the National Anthem had blared and it was time for James Stuart or Cary Grant to do their thing. Mum would wake up as the credits were playing at the end of the film and pretend she’d seen the movie. Dad would pretend she hadn’t slumbered throughout the entire thing. It was a Saturday night ritual. Westerns occasionally brought her to for a moment during a gun battle, but she’d be in the Land of Nod again by the time John Wayne was back on his horse. My mother could be extremely difficult, but it’s a very cute story. Dad spent many shillings over the years for her to have a nice kip at the Tivoli.

Apart from my father’s bottomless patience with my mother (which was to span nearly 60 years), what struck me in his telling of the tale was the significance of the newsreel. You could, in fact, pay a few bob to go into designated movie theatres JUST to see the newsreels. In the day-to-day of the era, the majority of facts about world happenings came to people through newspapers and radio. That paper landing on the front porch was a lifeline to local and world events.

the conversation.com Photo credit AAP/Alan Porritt

Not only did people rely on the paper for their news. They relied on the written word for entertainment. If Grace Kelly or Elizabeth Taylor weren’t starring on the silver screen on date night (or there wasn’t a great radio play scheduled on the ‘wireless’) people read…… BOOKS. Sometimes big thick ones with lots and lots of words. Even in 1956, with the advent of early television in Australia, there were a mere four channels on offer. For those that remember, until the mid to late 1970’s the test pattern turned up around midnight. If you couldn’t sleep it was time to whip out a novel.

Things have progressed, but I still like a good book. Because I am old.

I am elderly and read things with no pictures.
(Slow clap for the nerd in the glasses).

Journalists from back in the day to now have always faced the challenge of how to grab their audience. Once grabbing them, the next hurdle is to keep the reader engaged until the end of the piece. What do we first see as readers? A headline, and possibly an image that punctuates that headline. If we’re attracted by that, we will scan down and read the first few lines (or lede). Then we either stick with it or we don’t. Do we WANT to know what ScoMo said today? Is climate change a reality? And in hard hitting news…. can we be lured to spend three minutes reading about how Jen Anniston still loves Brad?

The basic technique of article structure is generally referred to as the ‘Inverted Pyramid’. An academic way of saying upside down triangle, but that is somewhat less impressive sounding. ‘I wrote this great piece on Brexit. Of course I employed the use of the upside down triangle’. Not as convincing.

conversation uplift.com Neal Cole credit : IPTC

It is fairly self explanatory. The important, attention grabbing stuff comes first; followed by other not quite as important bits and then filler at the end. This becomes vital in the editing process, as editing happens from the bottom up. If the article is too long it’s chopped in an ascending fashion.

The history behind the Inverted Pyramid is slightly unclear. Some believe it came into being with the invention of the telegraph, as sending things by wire was costly and information was prioritised depending on budget. Others believe it began during the Civil War; when there was no guarantee information would get back to the journalists waiting at home. Wires could fail and things could be intercepted. So text was sent in instalments with the most important going out first to guarantee the news arrived and the story was written.

The science of editing aside, the upside down triangle … (pardon me, ‘Inverted Pyramid’) ……. faces new challenges in 2019. In the days of my mother snoring through ‘North by Northwest’, the population mostly devoured what they were given. Newspapers, magazines, books. They were read cover to cover, and interesting parts were re read over the dinner table. In ye olden days what we had was ATTENTION SPAN. When Dickens wrote “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…..”, he fully expected his readers to stick at it for another 135,408 words. A well written, thick book meant disappearing into an exciting world via those pages for a satisfying amount of time.

These days we barely make it through a two minute read. Movies are getting shorter, television series episodes and segments are trimming down. Short, sharp and shiny entertainment is flooding our world. If we’re not immediately gripped we simply flick to another Netflix option, a different internet article or turn to the next page of the paper or magazine. I should probably say scroll rather than turn. (My joy at holding a paper or mag in my hands is making me somewhat of a dinosaur with every passing day).
I am determined not to conclude here by saying, ‘it was better in the old days’. I do deplore the lack of attention span of the young; but then I also deplore the use of the word ‘peeps’ and want to tell teenagers to actually converse with one another instead of staring at their smartphones.

It’s not just later generations. We’re all getting less and less adept at being held by anything. When was the last time I read Dickens???? The challenge for writers today is to create content that will hold their reader from the top of that upside down triangle to the pointy bottom. What we can hope is that, along with the disadvantages, we’ll be extra motivated. Inspired to create articles and pieces that will draw in an audience that is hard to hold. As a result, we’ll be better writers.

Naturally you’ll all read every word I ever write from opening sentence to conclusion. Because you love me. 😉

Four years of fur baby.

Four years ago today I was all ready for a new chapter. I had bowls, beds, collar, leads and kibble. I was about to pick up my new fur baby from the home where she was being fostered. It was also the day I was going to try and move on from being totally heartbroken after the loss of my last little pomeranian. I’d had a doted on fur ball called ‘Delilah’ for nearly sixteen years. Six months earlier she’d passed away. The world had tipped on its axis in a way that is difficult to put into words. For those of us who have fur family, the death of a loved cat or doggo is an absolutely gutting event. It can be quite hard to come back from. Delilah could never be replaced (and never has been), but I’d come to the conclusion the best way forward was to love another pup.

Some weeks earlier I’d been told of a little pomeranian cross who’d been left at a shelter and fostered by a rescue group as she wasn’t coping. I was sent the facebook link. Such a scared little face staring at me from my computer screen. The shelter had called her ‘Diva’. She’d been fostered for about 24 hours when I messaged the organisation and was subsequently sent a form. The communication regarding Diva was that she was rather traumatised and would need time to settle with her foster. She would also be a very popular dog as far as adoption went, as she wasn’t even a year old. I dutifully filled out the form, pressed send and left it to fate.

I will qualify that my application was ……. enthusiastic. A subheading of ‘I’m really desperate and will spoil a dog to death and have heaps of doggie stuff and knowledge and can you pleeeeez let me have her pleeeeeeeeeeeez’, would not have been inappropriate.

To my surprise the phone rang a mere 48 hours later and it was Diva’s foster carer inviting me to come and meet her. I was there faster than you can say, ‘I really want a dog’. She opened the door and I was greeted by a lovely greyhound, a foxy type terrier and my fur child to be. I walked into the kitchen area and this little, skinny, insane pup danced around my legs. I knelt down and she climbed into my arms. I will always remember the familiarity from having held Delilah for so many years, yet the strangeness of her different little body.

“She’s not toilet trained”, said lovely Cathy her foster carer. Diva quickly illustrated this by peeing all over the kitchen floor. “She also barks a lot”, which Diva eagerly demonstrated by having a nice yell on the back porch. “I don’t think she’s been trained at all…..”, as Diva clambered up on chairs, scratched at my legs, pooped under a table and generally wrecked the joint. “You can adopt her as you seem like the right person”. Magic words. Those papers were signed in a heart beat.

This small, peeing, squealing, neurotic pup was mine. All mine. Cathy was later to tell me that, unless there was a disaster, Diva was allocated to me when they received my application. I desperately needed a dog and she desperately needed a momma. Diva stayed with Cathy for a few more weeks. Then the momentous day came for hand over. June 1st, 2015.

1.6.15.. Driving home.
(My ears are still ringing).

The first lesson I learned on day one was that Diva objects to cars. LOUDLY. She objected without drawing breath from Wollongong to Inner Western Sydney in peak hour traffic. She also objected to a bed on the floor; spending the first night screaming her nut off to sleep next to me in the human bed. She was difficult to housetrain, yelled at every dog she met on lead and was extremely demanding. If you are waiting for me to continue on and say all that resolved you’ll be disappointed. She’s now beautifully housetrained but the rest of it is a bit of a fail. I’d put it more in terms of we have an understanding. I understand what she wants and she gets it. Of my three fur kids she is certainly the most difficult.

I’ll never know exactly what happened to Diva before she landed at that shelter, but it’s easy to deduce it wasn’t good. Perhaps it’s better not to know. In her nearly five years of life, four have been under my wing and I accept she is a bit of a damaged doggie. She sleeps jammed next to me, snores outrageously, demands food and attention and is a slight liability on walks. Heartbreakingly, it has also transpired she has a damaged lower jaw which has probably happened in circumstances I don’t wish to imagine. As years have passed (and after some necessary tooth removal) that’s resulted in some serious tongue leakage.

She does make valiant attempts to be a guard dog. She seems impressed with her own ferocity, which is rather endearing. She’d never hurt a fly but I appreciate the effort she goes to if nothing else.

Halt. Who goes there? I am guarding my domain
from this impressive vantage point.

This is an opportunity to thank Wollongong Animal Rescue Network (WARN) for bringing Diva into my life. http://www.warn.org.au/ So many dogs need a family to call their own and they do a wonderful job. This was very much a happily ever after.

Happy ‘Gotchya’ day little Diva. Mummy loves you very much. xoxoxoxox

Slow down…. it’s fast food.

It’s a fact of life we like things that are bad for us. Multiple bottles of wine. High heels that hurt. Colin Firth movies where we know he’ll never be ours but we yearn anyway. (They’re the worst. Colin is my dream boy).

And fast food. It’s a bad dietary choice but you’re in that food court and……..

….. there it is. Calling you from behind the Golden Arches or Colonel Sander’s Emporium of incredible tasting chicken. Yes there’s sushi and some form of salad bar. But the big queues are at Maccas and KFC. Future visions of blocked arteries and an increasing girth flash before your eyes. Then you join that line for a cheeseburger because let’s face it, that’s what you want. Otherwise you’ll end up perched at a table with a California roll; suffering from chronic food envy for fifteen solid minutes every time someone walks past with chips.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Chips.

I’m a tad infamous for my fast food habit. Donuts are my sweet poison of choice. For a food court lunch I head for chicken nuggets and chips like a moth to a flame. “6 chicken McNuggets, medium Diet Coke and fries please”.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Fries.

I read the other day about a young lady who had only eaten chicken nuggets from the age of two to seventeen. I was filled with a moment of extreme optimism. But no. To see her dietary fate……

Stacey Irvine, 17, collapses.
https://www.google.com.au/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=4&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwiJhKPl-8XiAhVLWisKHbtTDhsQFjADegQIABAB&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.dailymail.co.uk%2Fhealth%2Farticle-2092071%2FStacey-Irvine-17-collapses-eating-McDonalds-chicken-nuggets-age-2.html&usg=AOvVaw0dVl_RozuUzOchHts5eOCn

Poor Stacey wasn’t at all well, but after being patched up she’s back on the nuggets again. Girlie, I get the appeal but for the love of God eat something green. Even I’m not that nutritionally reckless. I’ve also read several times about a woman who is nearly one hundred and eats Maccas every day. She’s like a Disney character only non fictional. The princess who ate crap and lived forever. There’s hope yet.

In the end it seems to be about balance and the luck of inherited metabolism. By now I should probably have a big butt and a touch of diabetes. So far so good, but I’m avoiding getting my cholesterol tested because I think that’s when I’ll be having my Stacey Irvine moment. The beginning of a semi fast food retirement. Time to hang up the Happy Meals and head to the sushi joint and salad bar.

‘Would you like quinoa with that?’ just doesn’t have the same comforting ring to it. Growing up can be so disappointing whatever age you are. Another vice gone as the ravages of time take over. I’m not done yet, but like a heavy smoker I fear the moment to cut back is fast approaching. I found myself glancing at the Healthy Options section of a menu the other day and felt a mixture of self pride and dismay. (Still ordered the six nugget combo though. A momentary glitch).

The chips and donuts may get cut back as the years go on. But I’m never giving up on Colin Firth. Hope springs eternal. ❤

Stacey Irvine, 17 collapses. UK Daily Mail.
<https://www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Stacey-Irvine-17>

An ode to vodka

A blonde woman walks into a bar.

‘I’ll have cosmopolitan’, she says.
‘We have a two for one daiquiris tonight’, the bartender replies.
‘I’ll have a cosmopolitan’, blondie says in an anxious tone.
‘We also have a great version of an Espresso Martini. It’s our signature cocktail’.
‘I’LL HAVE A COSMOPOLITAN’.

That’s two nips vodka, one nip cointreau, cranberry and a dash of lime. Served in a cocktail glass. It’s a pretty colour and I don’t care how trendy an Espresso Martini is right now. I WANNA COSMO.

You see, eighteen years ago someone bought me my very first cocktail. My good friend Jane. She was (and still is) an outstanding friend. Jane became an even better gal pal after shouting me 2 nips vodka, 1 nip cointreau, cranberry and lime…… The grand occasion is even marked with a photograph. Yes, I have red hair and yes, I thought that was a good idea at the time.

We were at ‘Doyles’. The fish and chips were somewhat average, but it was a momentous day. Jane had started something big. I’d discovered my favourite drink and there was no stopping me now.

The love affair with this SATC liquid icon continued. Jane (clearly pleased with her handiwork) and I were still chug-a-lugging two years on. The camera came out again. Her cocktail acolyte was now fully fledged and forever grateful. I’d also improved the hair somewhat.

Inspired, I began to teach others the way of the Cosmo. The pupil was now becoming the master. My bestie Lisa was reticent to join the cult, but here she is in 2003 being initiated into the sisterhood of 2 nips vodka, 1 slug cointreau, cranberry and lime. She has remained with us. (Although she does occasionally transgress and imbibe Midori and lemonade #thehorror).

I have remained faithful to my New York icon drink of choice. I sometimes wonder why I can’t be lured away from what is now a little old fashioned in the cocktail department. I think it’s because we like to cling to something that is a happy memory. Something a special friend bought us, feeling ‘grown up’, an association with something iconic, a signature stamp people link to our identity. That, and the indisputable fact that Cosmopolitans taste delish.

I went to the Mecca of Cosmo in 2013 when I visited The Big Apple. It was the grand finale of the ‘Sex and the City’ tour. Well duh. I won the trivia contest on the tour bus. Again…. duh. SATC watchers will know that Steve and Aiden go into business together and own a bar named ‘Scout’. The name is fictional but the bar exists. At the end of said tour everyone piles off the bus and gets a Cosmo. My word I was happy that day. I had worshipped at the shrine. A blatantly excited tourist and I couldn’t have cared less.

O’Neals Grand Street Bar. Used as the set of ‘Scout’ in SATC.
Photo of the production line of Cosmopolitans taken on my enthusiastic visit.

Other bevies will come and go, but the Cosmopolitan will always be a classic. It remains an eternally happy memory for me. Such little things are special markers in our lives. If you come to my place, and you’re not the designated driver, odds are I’ll have the cocktail shaker out. The vodka will be in the freezer, cranberry will be in the fridge and the cointreau and limes will be ready to go on the kitchen bench.

Cheers sweetie. xxxx

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