New Zealand, I’m So Sorry

Dear New Zealand,

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for all the times I’ve teased you, mocked you or in any other way treated you as the vast majority of Australians do. I’m sorry for all the times I’ve tried to get a New Zealander to say “six” or “fish and chips”. I’m sorry if I’ve ever made any sheep jokes (which, frankly, I have). I’m sorry if I’ve razzed friends who have outrageous Kiwi accents. I’m sorry, because you’re a beautiful country and you deserve enormous praise.

I’m sorry my country keeps stealing all your good actors and musicians and calling them ours. The Finn brothers are genius, but are very definitely Kiwi. Good job. Also, sorry we stole Russell Crowe, and only gave him back when he threw that phone.

I’m sorry Australia keeps stealing all your recipes. Any quintessentially Australian dish (excluding anything containing kangaroo, emu or crocodile) is probably from New Zealand. It’s treasonous to say this, but yes, you probably did invent the pavlova.

I’m sorry we haven’t legalised gay marriage yet. You guys are way ahead of us. We’re stuck in a bundle of red tape and bigotry, and for that I cannot apologise enough.

Your people are thus far lovely (well, except for some of your drivers). Your scenery is impeccable. I even love your weather. I’ve only been here a few days and I’ve already found several places I’d be ecstatic to live (it’s a toss up for first place between Wellington and Hobbiton). I love Australia, but I wish I’d visited you earlier. You’re a pretty rad neighbour.

Lots of love,

Nikita

Farewell Tour: the First Leg

Here goes guys. I’m off! I left my job two days ago, and now the mother of all farewell tours begins.

Right now I’m sitting in thee departure lounge at the Perth airport. This is actually my favourite place in the city. Before anyone gets angry at me for bagging out Perth, that’s not my reasoning. This place, full of tired, anxious and potentially dubious people, is wonderful just based on the promise it holds. I love it dearly.

Time to go. Yay.

Don’t Know, Can’t Remember

Today at around 8am, Kathleen Theresa Carmody passed away. She was my grandmother.

I never saw Grandma much when I was a child. Whether it came down to family feuds, distance between farms or people actually having lives to get on with, family catch ups just didn’t happen that much. They did happen occasionally, and I do remember some good things.

I remember going to the farm near Moora and asking during the whole trip “are we there yet?” I remember sitting at the old farm table and watching Grandma make lunch. She used to prepare cold meat and salad (iceberg lettuce, tomato, cheddar cheese, maybe some carrot). She’d make salad dressing using condensed milk, Keen’s mustard and white wine vinegar. When I was about five, she tried to show me how to knit. I learnt off my Mum and through school at some point around then, but I remember sitting down with a blue ball of yarn, and she critiqued my mess. I remember learning how to drive on the farm when I was far too young. I remember her laughing when she heard how I’d driven over Granddad’s new fence. I remember only receiving a couple of birthday or Christmas presents in my life (and they were matching track suits). I remember her no nonsense approach to things (do we blame the Wheatbelt Catholicism?). I remember her being dignified, a country lady.

I remember. I wonder how long it is since she did.

I remember her coming to stay for Christmas a few years ago. I remember her calling me Joanne as we set the table for lunch (Joanne is my mother, who, for the record, I don’t look that much like – more’s the pity). I remember sleeping on the lounge room floor, and being woken up by her coming out at five in the morning. She nearly stepped on me trying to get out the front door. She wanted to walk to my aunt’s house, because she needed to use the loo. I remember her being taken to the toilet, then back to bed by my Mum. I remember her coming out 30 minutes later asking where her bed was. I remember Mum watering down a supply of Scotch and dry, so Grandma didn’t get tanked.

I remember going to Albany for a visit. I took Archie with me. Grandma had just been put in a home. She needed care. I remember visiting with Archie. She didn’t know who I was, but I took her date cake to get her onside. She didn’t like small dogs, but I told her Archie was ok, because he was bred small to catch rats. She thought that was alright, but still looked confused. I remember wondering if she was scandalised by my short dress and tights. We talked for a while. She wanted to go outside to get a little sun. I took her out. After a while, we came back inside.

She died of complications from pneumonia. Frankly, I was relieved. She was a shell. I now don’t know how to feel. Am I sad? Happy? Scared? Grandma’s sister went the same way. What about Mum? My sisters? Me? What about all the other people out there suffering from dementia. I can remember. I can worry. They can’t.

Dementia is now the second leading cause of death in Australia. People who’s families are affected by this are often too busy and exhausted to campaign for fundraising for a cure. People who have it have bigger fish to fry. Dementia is a disease and can be cured. People are working on finding a cure.

For more information or to make a donation to Alzheimer’s research in Australia, visit the website: https://fightdementia.org.au. If you’re not in Australia, look up your local research and support group.

My Thanks to Sir Terry

For those who know me, the admission that I’m a huge Terry Pratchett will come as no surprise. When I heard he had passed away in March, I actually cried (not something I do all that often, and certainly not for popular culture figures). I love his fiction. The first book I read (Hogfather, for those who were wondering) shifted my appreciation of what fantasy could be like. I’ve spent the years since reading, collecting and loving his books.

Terry Pratchett’s final book, The Shepherd’s Crown, was release posthumously a couple of months back. I went out and bought it right away, but I couldn’t bring myself to read it until recently. How do you read the last book of a favourite author? Not only was it sad, but it was worrying. What if he hadn’t been happy with the book before he died? What if he’d really bollocksed up the characters (who are some of his best, in my opinion)?

I put off reading this book for a long time. I wanted to give it the reverence I feel it deserved. Well, I finally did it. I started reading on Monday, and finished that evening. I loved it. I may have given it too sentimental a reading for a decent review, so I won’t even try. I will say that being able to curl up with a good book, a pot of coffee and a snack (in this case an onion bagel) is one of the true pleasures in my life.

Thank you, Sir Terry.