Monthly Archives: September 2014

Befriending Loneliness

Last night I woke at 3 a.m. When you live on your own, 3 a.m. is about alone as alone gets. So I lay there, in my ‘aloneness’. At this point, staring into the darkness, the ‘lonely’ dog sat at the end of my bed. Would I feed it until it lay full and satisfied […]

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Memoir Monday

This week, as Scotland voted to remain a part of the (not so) United Kingdom I couldn’t help remembering my time living there. It seems almost an age ago that I lived on a terraced street in Glasgow. Not the sunniest of places, nor indeed the best place to be a broke Australian from the […]

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If I were here

If I were here. If I were here the morning light would be Marie-Antoinette-blue. I would push one of the cane chairs to face the other and I’d recline between them. My light grey linen dress would be trimmed in French lace and the fabric would gather around my ankles on the other chair like […]

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If I were here

If I were here. If I were here I would spend the morning steeping ground coffee over fireplace embers. I would sip a cup full of it by the window as I curled cat-like with my fingers slowly warming around the clay mug. I would open the door to let the first light in and […]

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Memoir Monday

What I have found most comforting about reading my diaries and journals from the past is that although it was originally childlike, my voice has never really changed. To know this is affirming. It’s reassuring. It’s comforting. It’s good to know that my desire to travel, to write and to romanticise have always been innate. Of course […]

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(Memoir Monday) Waiting for dawn; My first night in London

Fifteen years ago, at 24, I gathered all of my belongings into a bright purple backpack and flew to a new life in London. I wasn’t the first to do this and I definitely won’t be the last but when I look back upon that first evening it is no wonder I didn’t catch the […]

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Launching Memoir Mondays (rather obtusely on a Thursday)

From as early as the first time my scribbles made sense I have written. Actually, even before my scribbles made sense I have written. I distinctly remember preparing myself for Year One by etching pages of inching inky worms to which I rather hopefully asked my Mother… “So, is that writing? Can I write?” Since […]

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