This is the true story of a unique animal. Dog came into my life in the 1970s.He wasn't much to look at - a street dog, black, lean, probably a cross between a Kelpie and a Doberman. Very smart, and if he decided he didn't like you, then you found out quickly.A handbag dog he was not. Neither was he an extrovert, or a seeker of pats. He was a loner, but he chose me and my hubby to spend his life with. So that made the relationship special.It was 1971 and I was in my first year at the UNSW, fresh out of high school. Naive and filled with excitement and optimism. The times worldwide were shifting and changing.The Vietnam War was still on, and students like myself were voicing opinions and spasmodically demonstrating against just about everything. UNSW was an exciting place to be, and to my youthful self, every day presented something new and interesting - more often than not totally unrelated to the pursuit of academic excellence.Including a scrawny black dog that I saw wandering around the campus regularly.This dog appeared to have freedom to roam the uni grounds. There were security guards, colloquially known as Grey Men - due to the colour of their uniforms. They were stationed everywhere on campus but collectively turned a blind eye to this animal, who was a regular, curled up outside lecture halls, waiting patiently for his owner. Or following said hippy-looking owner around the campus. I was enthralled, then captivated. Nature took its course, and the dog owner became my boyfriend.Meeting this dog up close for the very first time was something I'll never forget.I attempted to get into my new boyfriend's car, where Dog was relaxing, languidly stretched out on the back seat.I had no idea he was in the car.Loyal companions - Boyfriend with Dog. Photo: Carol GoddardBoyfriend knew what was about to happen, he'd seen it before and was chortling inwardly. It was a baptism of fire for our infant relationship. Boyfriend knew Dog was harmless, and I was safe. I, however, did not.I was greeted by the dog's red gummed, bared fangs at the car window, accompanied soon after by a bloodcurdling growl. Followed by a full-on, theatrical display of canine savagery for my benefit. How dare I try and enter that car!Thankfully, it proved to be all show, because after my initial shock, and full-bellied laughter from Boyfriend, along with pats and an ear scratch for the perpetrator, all was well. I was accepted. I had permission to be the girlfriend, and share the car.Dog had actually come into Boyfriend's life a few months before, by arriving at the front gate of the family home, then staying overnight. No such thing as microchips in those days, and the animal wasn't wearing a tag or collar. Boyfriend saw he was a bit scrawny, gave him some food and water, and then went off to Uni for the day. Dog stayed, was still there that night, which was a problem as boyfriend already had a Labrador living in the backyard. The two dogs had eyed each other off at a gate down the side of the house, and took an instant, hostile and hair-raisingly noisy dislike to one another. It was an irreconcilable situation.And so there was only one thing to do. Dog had to go.Boyfriend, nagged by his now unhappy parents, drove Dog to another suburb, gave him a last feed, and regretfully drove off.A day later, this intrepid animal was back at the front gate. Fate had intervened. It was obvious the hound, now named Dog, was in need of a family to love him. And he'd chosen Boyfriend. Dog had won.Boyfriend kept him in the frontyard and Whiskers the fat Lab still resided in the backyard, and the parents conceded. Dog could stay. There was one condition though: he had to go with Boyfriend in the daylight hours. Which meant taking him to Uni.And this is how we three became an item.Dog lived with us for 10 years and we had many adventures together. He loved us unconditionally, and went to great lengths to protect us from the world. In his doggy mind everyone was a prospective enemy, and his shows of fake savagery were enigmatic.Boyfriend became Hubby, and Dog slept in our garage of an evening, and in the car with Hubby during the day. Woe betide anyone walking past the garage or the car.Dog was responsible for us getting our first house, because a neighbour in our apartment building complained of the savage dog being kept in the garage. The RSPCA paid us a courtesy visit, and discovered we were model dog lovers. But we had to get a backyard for Dog, and so we did.I was still a student, and Dog went to work with Hubby, who in those days had a fruit juice delivery job. On one memorable occasion, Hubby left his van with Dog inside, while in a queue at factory juice pick-up. One of the other drivers went to move the van, as Hubby was holding the line up. Dog did his thing. That poor driver went white as a sheet. It was the stuff of legend and laughter for many a long day.And then there were the camping holidays.Still owning our van, we would take Dog everywhere. Three incidents remain etched in my memory.Potato Point camping area on the NSW South Coast was pretty isolated and rough in those days, with the only facility a drop toilet, and cold showers. We slept in the van, used a canvas lean-to for shade, and when we went off fishing or surfing, Gog would stay at the tent, chained by a long lead to a spare tyre.Imagine our dismay when we turned to see him dragging the tyre behind him down the beach towards us. With a southerly change about to hit, we scurried back to the camp to discover he'd also chewed through three of the four ropes and the tent was flapping wildly by one flimsy rope in the increasing wind. On that same trip, when we'd left him a little too long in the van, he'd chewed through a seatbelt. That'd teach us not to leave him.A trip to Burrowa to visit country relatives, this time in the parents’ station wagon, saw Dog run off into the night when we let him out for a comfort stop. He was investigating the howling of possums. That one took a while to resolve. Hours in fact. But he finally returned, I'm sure much to the disappointment of the parents.Visiting the Snow Country in winter was also challenging. Dog found himself enjoying this wet white stuff he'd never seen before. Returning soaked to the back of our vehicle which we were all sleeping in didn't endear him to us that night, and oh, the wet dog smell!By far the best punishment Dog ever meted out to us as wayward dog owners was after we had taken him with us on a trip to Canberra, and I unwittingly chose the wrong road from Braidwood, miles of dirt, winding and bumping mercilessly in our little van.By the time we got to Canberra we needed to eat, so we gave Dog a break in a carpark, then left him in the vehicle while we quickly found a pizza. On returning I opened the passenger door to an odour like no other. Poor Dog had been momentously, gloriously carsick. And rolled in it, all over the floor and front seat. Oh joy.Fortunately, we had a bucket with us, found a tap, then started the very unpleasant, long, tiring clean-up.Writing this story, the memories of this amazing animal, and how much he meant to us, has been joyous. Our life together was immensely rewarding. Dog was the smartest, most affectionate, most interesting of all my life pets, a streetwise mutt who chose his own humans, and guarded us with his life. In return he got our total love, care and companionship, and to this day, he is remembered by us with reverence, and also a lot of laughter.

Libraries today are nothing like they used to be. They are truly a trove of treasures.No one is shushing us as we talk but the atmosphere is still relaxed and a pleasant place to spend some time.The late author Ray Bradbury was once quoted as saying: “Libraries raised me … when I graduated from high school, it was during the Depression and we had no money. I couldn’t go to College so I went to the library three days a week for 10 years.” I often think libraries raised me too. I can’t estimate the number of hours I have spent in libraries. Our local libraries now offer internet, free WiFi and e-reader workshops, access to digital magazines and digital audio books. I think the best digital innovation is being able to access the library catalogue from home, reserving it with a click and picking it up knowing it is waiting for you. And, if you enjoy researching online, with a few more clicks you can access the State Library or National Library’s digital collection of books, magazines and newspapers. Although there is still something delightful in browsing the shelves and randomly selecting titles that capture your attention in the moment.Local libraries are fast becoming acknowledged for their active role in community building. Kiama Council’s two local libraries host free reading groups, knitting groups, school holiday craft workshops, study sessions, author talks and movie nights. They even have a huge stash of jigsaw puzzles and offer a home library service. So, if you are not already a member, join up now and subscribe to their newsletters to keep up-to-date with all that happens there.Then there are the local street libraries where dedicated volunteers keep them well stocked for people to borrow and return books in their own time. Kiama Unplugged recently put together a list and took some great photos of our local ones. They were found in Newling Circuit, Cunningham Street, Duguid Way, Meehan Drive, Charles Ave, near the IGA in Jamberoo, Dido Street, Brighton Street, Girraween Ave, Elimatta Place and at Bluehaven. We even have one in the basement of our unit block.

It never occurred to me at the time. I thought I was set, knew it all. There was no need to change anything in my life, I was doing just fine.I was drifting along, healthy, happy and enjoying the delights and the challenges of grandparenthood which for us had just begun. I believed that, at my age and stage, I'd learned everything I needed to know to make the most of my cruisy life by the sea in Cronulla.How wrong I was.Hubby was champing at the bit to get out of Sydney, after a lifetime of living there. Retirement wasn't shaping up to be all that exciting. The plan in his mind took shape: let's sell up and move to the country. Or at least, to a semi-rural place, with a bit of land to play with.I wasn't keen. I felt that we had a great lifestyle. Besides, what would our children think of this? They'd lose their babysitters for one thing.Compromise was the answer. I decided to give it a go, and if it didn't work, well, we'd move back to Sydney.From the day we left Cronulla to start life again on a six-acre property on Berry Mountain, I learned so much.I had never driven on country, or mountain roads. Ever. I'd always let hubby do that sort of driving, and yet here I was taking on Kangaroo Valley, Moss Vale and Jamberoo roads, without a care in the world. My caution in the early days saw me driving at snail pace, irritating the local tradies no end if they happened to be stuck behind me. I did pull over when I could to let them pass.The learning curve in the garden was the next adventure. I was previously a potted colour sort of gardener. Pots and annuals were the length and breadth of my gardening, no lifting, no digging, not much of any skill required. We had lived in an apartment in Cronulla and most of my time was spent in the surf, not our postage stamp sized garden.The property we moved into had obviously been landscaped many years ago, but the gardens had been long neglected. I learned how to use a mattock, and a whippersnipper, build garden beds, ride on an ATV, trim hedges and trees, grow an almost industrial-sized veggie garden, build a pile burn, plant, weed, and raise my own plants from seeds. We also joined Berry Garden Club and attended Garden Festivals with relish.Because of the isolation of living up on the escarpment, I started to bake as a bit of a hobby. This led me to try my hand at cheese making, yoghurt making, bread making. I had never done anything like this in my life, and how rewarding it was. Fortunately, the effort of daily labouring on the property allowed us to eat all these baked and homemade goodies without the results showing on the hips and thighs.And this particular learning curve led me to start entering local annual agricultural shows. Which I am still doing , here in Kiama. What joy it brings to enter a cake or a bloom into your local Show, and wait excitedly to see if you won a prize! I love it.One of the most interesting things I learned in this period was how to cohabit with animals that were there living on my property much earlier than me. Wombats, snakes, king parrots and rats.Wombats are delightful, seemingly slow moving until you actually see them running, and they take a path which does not divert. If something is in their path, they trample it. At least the veggie patch was safeguarded behind timber and wire walls.Pete the python lived under our elevated bedroom, and regularly dropped his skin around the place. He kept down the mice for us, and got quite plump. One day he was curled up in an ivy hedge surrounding our little decorative pond. He looked for all the world like an old discarded tyre just lying there. You should have heard the screams when my granddaughter went to investigate! Poor Pete, we didn't see him sun baking there again.The front step was also a favoured place for a large red-bellied black snake to enjoy some warmth. It lived in the drain close by, and emerged whenever he needed some rays. We simply put closer-knit wire over the drain, which encouraged him to sun himself further away from the front door.Red and green king parrots regularly frequented our deck and window ledges. I suspect the previous owner had fed them, and so seed bells became an edible adornment.The parrots were so much fun , so enjoyable. Unlike our crazy magpie from my earlier story, who lived down the paddock in a gnarled old tree and used me for target practice three months of the year.Probably the most enriching and heartwarming thing I learned in these four years was horse and donkey behaviour. Our property was adjoining one homing a very elderly ex showjumper named Cherry, a pony called Boston, and four donkeys, (a mum, twin girls, and a boy). We left our paddock gates open on request so these adorable creatures had more room to roam and graze.We then added a rescue horse called Nina, a 19-year-old beauty, also an ex-showjumper. I found out horses are just giant sized dogs. Nina would loyally follow me around the paddock as I pulled fireweed, and she loved a good pat and a scratch behind her ears. She was so elegant, so graceful.Just watching these magical animals in their frolicking was a delight. When they galloped in the paddock, it was hypnotising to me, a city girl who'd always wanted to ride but never did. Nina couldn't be ridden due to a back injury which had happened many years ago. But she could run like the wind.Feeding the donkeys, which we often did as a favour when our neighbours were away, was a military operation. Mumma was a viper who greedily ate her hay, then kicked and bit her children in order to eat their hay. And so strategy was required, using timing and multiple buckets. We won, but it took a lot of planning.Those years on the mountain were a time of immense pleasure and learning. We had sought out and tried a completely different type of living, and much to my surprise, found we absolutely loved it. We achieved so much in those years, learned so much, provided our children and grandchildren with a taste of country living, which they love as well, although we don't live there any longer.The most interesting thing to me in looking back to that time is that my whole outlook on life changed for the better. I never thought it possible, but leaving the Big Smoke was the best thing we did. And I had to be cajoled into doing it. Clever hubby!I now know that every day brings the possibility of adventure, and there is always something new to learn.

We humans share this planet with an immense array of creatures. On a daily basis, whether consciously or not, we interact with a variety of living organisms, some of which are welcome in our space, and some which are definitely not.Let's start with the insect. The brazen mosquito mercilessly irritating you with its buzz at night whil you're trying to sleep; that plump and shiny black cockroach scurrying across your kitchen floor and suddenly darting under the fridge before you can thwack it; the pesky fly which relentlessly bombards you, but only when your hands are full; the beetle, the ant, the bee, the spider all have a reason for being, and have been eminently successful at it. They are true survivors.Humble dogs and cats, our beloved pets, give us unconditional love, loyalty and companionship. We sometimes affectionately call them our fur babies and they are a treasured part of family life. Humans develop deep and loving relationships with these creatures, and it is always a two-way street. As it is with pet horses and ponies.We depend on farm animals in a different way - we raise them for their meat, milk, eggs and wool.Then there are pet birds, snakes, mice and reptiles. Humans interact with and care for these creatures, as we do for those that are free and wild, both on land, and in the sea.Over many years travelling extensively in Australia, and then in other parts of the world, I have had the good fortune of many encounters with a variety of these animals, sometimes planned, sometimes by chance.Living in Kiama is such a blessing for a sea-loving person - our town is on the coast, our waters are clear, we can boast of octopuses being born in our rockpool, of pods of dolphins surfing in the waves of our beaches, of whales visiting annually as they head north to give birth, and then south again along the whale trail.I was at Kiama's round rockpool one very wet day last year during whale season. It was icy cold, the wind was howling and pushing the waves violently onto the surrounding rocks.There was not another soul there. I was standing at the top of the stairs looking south, watching the huge sudsy surf swirling, crashing and launching spumes of brown froth skyward.Suddenly, a hill appeared to slowly raise itself out of the water. It looked as if the sea bottom had risen. It was only after it dived again and then resurfaced that I realised what it was. If I'd been crazy enough in those conditions to stand on the pool wall, I could have reached out and touched a whale. I stood, totally awestruck, waiting for it to rise again. But no more, it had gone.On another occasion, this time in Monkey Mia in Western Australia quite a few years ago, I came even closer to another beloved sea creature.I had for years wanted to interact with dolphins, and apart from seeing them from afar while I was in the surf, or from even further on land, this bucket list desire of mine hadn't eventuated.Until we were in Monkey Mia. Handfeeding of dolphins was offered as a must do for tourists, and I bought my ticket.But it wasn't to be.Unlike years ago, there are restrictions now put in place when it comes to animal welfare. Today, the rangers quite rightly, strictly control dolphin feeding, to maintain their wellbeing. If we feed them too much, they won't hunt their own food. They become reliant on humans, to their own detriment.These days, at each daily feeding session, with hundreds of onlookers, four or five children are given a tiny bucket each with one or two fish, which they feed to the few dolphins on show.This was the delightful, caring and correct way to interact, but nevertheless I was a bit dejected. I'd not achieved what I came to Monkey Mia to do. So, behaving like an overgrown sulky toddler, I headed for the nearby beach and its warm, comforting water, lilo under arm, to ponder what might have been. Within a few minutes of luxuriating on my lilo, spirits now uplifted as I bobbed around lazily on top of the water with the sun shining down on me, I happened to turn my head slightly, and saw a dark shape pacing through the water, headed my way, and it definitely wasn't human. In that instant, my worst fear made its way into my disbelieving mind. This couldn't be happening to me. I was about to be attacked by a shark.In another instant, the creature was there, and then it was under me. It had dived under me on my lilo!It was a dolphin. A gorgeous, glistening, graceful creature of the sea, gliding so smoothly through the water, and it had found an unexpected toy floating along on top, with a human attached.For only a minute or two it stayed to play, and then just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. It felt surreal - had that just happened? By sheer wonderful chance, I'd had my dolphin encounter after all. So had hubby, sunning himself on the shore, phone in hand. He got the photo, and to this day when I look at it I am still amazed by how lucky I was.There have been many other encounters with creatures. I have swum with manta rays at Ningaloo reef, and reef sharks on Dunk Island.I have sat on an open-sided truck in Kruger National Park, a little too closely in my opinion, watching lions eating a wildebeest. The smell in the searing afternoon heat was indescribable.I have been divebombed by micro bats in the CuChi tunnels of Vietnam. And rushed at by a foam-mouthed dog in a Phnom Penh street. Fortunately, hubby took aim with a rock and scared it off.I have ignored a python living under my bedroom, and a red-bellied black snake living for a short time in a drain near my front door on Berry Mountain. And still on the mountain, I persisted with creating gardens despite my resident wombats tromping them as they blissfully and blindly went about their nocturnal wanderings.I have been stung relentlessly by bluebottles, bitten by mozzies, and traumatised by rats who lived in the bar I worked in at the Menzies hotel back in the 1970s. It was all part of my job to bash ferociously on the metal fridge doors as I opened the bar at 11am daily, in order to warn the rats off. Customers would never have known.These encounters with all manner of creatures has enriched my life. I have enjoyed and been positively inspired by most of them, and will set my sights on having many more in the future.

By Carol Goddard I very much enjoy taking an impromptu road trip with friends. The excitement of the planning, the anticipation of spending a few carefree days with besties, enjoying spur of the moment adventures has always appealed.The over 60s were given a travel gift a few years ago, when a new fare of $2.50 a day enabled us to explore NSW by public transport. This put joy into the hearts of many a frugal senior, including one of my best mates Ron.He is a chook farmer, an egg producer, extremely entrepreneurial and very talented musically.Music, particularly rock music, is Ron's passion. Not only is he self taught on guitar and harmonica, but he is also a gifted songwriter.He can belt out a tune with a raspy rock voice which usually brings the house down, wherever he's performing with his band, which is quite awesome considering he only discovered very late in life that he could sing.I recall one day commenting to him that some of the establishments he played at seemed a little rough. Ron's response?"Ahh, the seedier the better, Carol.”This reminded me of that pub scene in The Blues Brothers movie where the band had to play behind netting for fear of being hit by the odd flying beer bottle from a rowdy crowd. We had a good old laugh.A few years ago, a bunch of Ron's friends, including hubby and I, decided to take advantage of the $2.50 a day travel. Ron was our designated leader and took on the responsibility of organising a two-day escape to Lithgow and Katoomba.Not only did Ron choose the destination. He also put himself in charge of finding accommodation.Most of the couples lived in the Newcastle area, while hubby and I lived in Cronulla. So we met at Sydney's Central Station and caught a train together to Lithgow.This was like a school excursion with naughty children, except that we were naughty 60-plus.As station by station flew by, we laughed all the way, encouraged by the antics of one very funny lady. Though we had not met most of the group before, and there were 10 of us, we almost immediately became mates. This was shaping up to be a fun two days.We arrived in Lithgow and set off to tour a pottery factory which Ron had researched, and organised as our first point of interest. According to Google Maps, it was within walking distance of the station.When we arrived at the site we found a derelict building, looking forlorn, ancient paint peeling, weeds escaping from rusted downpipes, windows shattered as if a bomb had hit.This was the pottery factory. No sign of life, except for the sounds and the prints of our footsteps on the uneven gravel.With much ribbing and guffawing, poor Ron immediately became the butt of many a joke. The factory had obviously not produced pottery for a long time.Back to the station we strolled, our funny lady being pushed all the way in a discarded shopping trolley we'd discovered in the long grass. The spontaneity and the silliness was going to continue. We'd definitely started well.Arriving in Katoomba, we made our way to our accommodation, which quite coincidentally happened to be a pub, advertising an open mic night that night.But it wasn't a coincidence. Ron loves performing. Ron loves an open mic night. So he booked our trip, and our place to stay, accordingly. He figured he'd at least have an audience of nine. The tariff was very low, in keeping with our $2.50 per day travel budget. It was a win all round.Now this pub from first appearance couldn't be described as five-star. In fact, it gave the impression of an old, rundown watering hole. There was a smell of stale beer lingering in the entrance way, history in that smell, with the inside gloom adding to the atmosphere.The formidable bar person, who was completely lacking in the art of welcoming, gave us our old-fashioned room keys, and off up the very worn carpeted staircase we climbed, to our rooms.Imagine our dismay. Struggling with the door key, hubby and I finally manage to break into our room to discover double bunks, and in one corner a vintage sink complete with dripping tap and a greenish stain decorating the basin.Added to this was the joy of shared bathroom facilities, situated a veritable kilometre down the draughty, cold and exceedingly drab hallway. History notwithstanding, the place needed a makeover.Hubby grimaced. A change of room was needed. We tossed up to see who was to confront the formidable bar person, and I lost.Back down to reception, and with the utmost diplomacy, I successfully negotiated another room, complete with a double bed, no sink, and an open window , which unfortunately was stuck open.In Katoomba, in winter.Worse still, this window was over the pub carpark. Fabulous. But I wasn't going back down those stairs to change our room again - this was our room for the night. Unfortunately, we were still sharing that uninviting and draughty bathroom.Meeting up with our mates, drinks, pub grub and more drinks were the order of the night. The dining area had the aroma of beers, burgers and deep fry. The tables sticky from years of patronage, and as the glasses clinked and the cutlery scraped, we took part in that noisy revelry that temporarily brought us back our youth.The best was yet to come, the open mic competition. Ron had strategically signed up as late as possible, and so was 11th on the runsheet. It was going to be a long and boozy night.The calibre of performers that night ranged from the very, very good, to the not so good, to the downright awful. There were poets, singers, musos all having a go, and the audience was large, sympathetic, noisy and merrily inebriated.At last it was Ron's turn. He got up and took the mic with ease, his face a picture of concentration. And then he launched into his first cover and it was immediately obvious he was in a league of his own.The first chords brought an end to audience chatter, the atmosphere in the room became electric, heads turned towards him, drinks to lips momentarily paused.Ron's gravelly voice had the audience rocking, they were spellbound, they weren't used to someone so talented just walking into that pub, signing up, playing and seizing the night. Everyone was with Ron, everyone was in the band.The applause, the happiness, the shared enjoyment was at fever pitch. Ron had once again brought the house down.Too soon, the entertainment was over. We slowly staggered to our room, having had a few drinks too many, and upon opening the door, were greeted with not only the acrid fumes of cigarette smoke, but the chill of winter Katoomba air.The voices of many a drunken patron were rising loudly and incoherently from the carpark and through our window. The prospect of a good night's sleep seemed somewhat far off, but mercifully the carpark cleared relatively quickly, the bed was very snug, and we were a little the worse for wear.After indulging in a hearty breakfast the next morning, and fossicking through the shops of Katoomba Street in search of a treasure or souvenir of our two-day getaway, it was time to head for the station, and home.We all settled back to enjoy the train trip back to Sydney, having had an eventful, exhilarating, and relatively cheap two-day romp.We were content, the contentment that comes from a full heart. We'd had a lot of fun with good mates, slept in a dubious space, drunk far too much, enjoyed some great music and laughed constantly.I still have vivid memories of that Katoomba pub room. I do wonder if the window ever got repaired. I'll tell you one thing: I won't be going back to check.

By Carol Goddard There is no doubt about it. Travel enriches. It broadens the mind, introduces you to other cultures, presents you with experiences, places, foods, lifestyles and fashions that you may never have encountered before.The sheer excitement and stimulation of overseas travel can however also have an irritating downside.Sometimes things do not go to plan.More often than not in my travelling life, things just about never go to plan. As long as it isn't a life threatening change, or a dangerous one, that's totally fine with me.It will most definitely appeal to my adventurous spirit. Almost always.But then there are those travel glitches, those little annoyances which make me momentarily contemplate why I travel at all.Such as the accommodation which isn't quite what I expected, or paid for.Hubby, two young children and I arrive in Kingston Jamaica. We are shown to our rooms, the kids are irascible, it's definitely time for a rest before we hit the streets. The 10-year-old complains of noises in his room and the 12-year-old agrees.I employ selective deafness, escape to my room and lie down on the bed. Then I hear noises too. Coming from above my head. Squeaking, mewling noises. Hubby goes to investigate.We'd noticed on our arrival a few cats slinking around the reception area.They were permanent residents of the hotel, entering via a small roof hole and living comfortably in the ceiling of our twin rooms.Mama Cat had just had a litter, hence the mewling. Our reception staff, being super cool Jamaicans, were most relaxed when we pointed this problem out. It was a case of "Hey mon, no problem".On the buses, Cuban style.Wish I could be so calm, visualising a sleepless next few days. We were relocated to a cat-free accommodation. Slowly. We were on Jamaican time.Another travel inconvenience is the queue.Queues so long I could easily leave for the day, go shopping , get my nails done, have a meal, return, and I'd still be in the queue.Now these days, it's possible to prebook places that you know are going to be crazily busy. A Skip The Queue prepaid ticket is a wonderful thing.But back in the day, let's just say I spent a fair bit of my travel life waiting, waiting, waiting.And generally when I finally arrived, whether it be the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles, or the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, I'd be jostling for a view, given I'm also vertically challenged.And now, and I've saved the worst for last, my pet grievance, the transfer who doesn't turn up.Imagine, once again travelling with young children, arriving late at night into a foreign airport after a very long and tiring journey.You can't speak the local language, you don't as yet have a working phone, and you are without local currency .There's no need for concern because you have already paid for a representative of your travel company to meet you and transfer you to your accommodation. Couldn't be easier.Except the transfer doesn't turn up.This has happened so many times to me over the years, that I now come to expect it.But back in my early travelling days, being stranded in an airport for a time was intimidating to say the least.We were backpacking with two of our young children and Cuba was the destination. Fabulous Cuba, stamping ground pf Hemingway, the place of music and dance and Cuban cigars and black beans and rice, and Mojito and Cuba Libre.And old vintage American cars.As a treat, we had prebooked an old limousine to take us to our hotel from the airport. And of course it didn't arrive. Leaving us stranded.The kids bunked down on their backpacks on the airport floor and promptly fell asleep while hubby searched for help. I just stood guard over the kids while inhaling the blue air, as cigar smoke curled its way all around us.Hubby managed to find help and finally we were on a local bus to our hotel, at 1am. I rue to this day that I didn't learn Spanish.Years later,and in another part of the world, it happened again. No limousine was booked this time, just someone waiting for us in the pickup area at the airport with a little piece of paper with our name on it. Please be there.Just as riots were erupting in Athens, we arrived at the airport, child free, to start our dream trip to Greece. Our hotel was in the Old Town, the Plaka, walking distance from Syntagma Square, which also happened to be the centre of the unrest.All of this we were unaware of, until we were forced to hail a taxi.Yes, our transfer hadn't arrived.He was possibly a rioter, or at least caught in traffic.As were we, in our taxi.After many detours, during which we were stopped more than once by riot police pursuing rioters, we arrive at our hotel. Our driver, speaking no English, nevertheless gets across to us that he only accepts cash, a detail overlooked by him at pickup.We have no cash.What ensued was scary then, funny now.In no uncertain terms, I was encouraged to stay put in his taxi, with meter running, while hubby hurriedly found an ATM in a nearby hotel lobby. Thankfully it worked. Paid in cash, the taxi driver sped off, having set me free.We could now start our Greek experience.After all these hiccups, and they have happened constantly over the years, I still have the travel bug.The glitches that weren't meant to happen, as long as no one is harmed, have made the best and most memorable stories.

I’ll tell you a tale of a family fightThat gets so insaneIt must be put rightIt starts like this (and here I quote):“It’s gone again. Who’s got the remote?I need it now. I’m sure you knowIt’s nearly time for my favourite show."Then I say: “If you look closely, you’ll see it’s thereUnder the seat of your sturdy old chair.”Then he flicks ‘round the channels,Nearly drives me insaneBut I’ve a solution…And here I'll explain -To gain some control, you need to get tough....Just grab the remote and then- turn it off!

One day last week at my local primary school , teachers and students alike regaled themselves in the colour orange , which is apparently the colour signifying the promotion of mutual respect, social wellbeing, inclusivity and a sense of belonging.This fact about the colour orange was something I did not know.I also had no idea why my grandson was wearing fluoro orange long socks, orange sunglasses and an equally hued headband to school.But as we walked into school, I was in awe of the creative,fabulous, and sometimes riotous outfits parents had produced, all very orange, and worn to school that day. From just a modest orange scarf, to a full blown head-to-toe sartorial experience, it was all there, and I was impressed.Of course! It was Harmony Day. A day for us to recognise and respect our cultural diversity. And to wear the colour orange.The smiles on the children's faces told a positive story. They were loving dressing up, as part of a learning experience.This led me to think more about the act of dressing up, and how much fun it is.From the time we are toddlers, there's a dress-up box of some kind. In most toy cupboards, in kindies, playgroups and childcare centres, you'll find capes, masks, tiaras, wigs and an assortment of dress-up gear.Dressing up is instilled in our psyche from a very young age. Little children love to be superheroes and princesses - we see Spider-Man and Elsa constantly at the school drop-off, the playground and the supermarket.And as we all grow, our love of dressing up gets stronger.Whether it be birthday parties, school formals, weddings, funerals, Christmas or New Year’s Eve parties, it's the done thing to dress up. Think about Melbourne Cup day in Australia. A fine example of adult dress-up, and it's not just about the hat.Come to think of it, where would the world be without Hollywood's red carpet at the Oscars, the Paris fashion shows, Elton John's crazy glasses, the make-up that made Kiss a world famous rock band, Dame Edna Everage’s enduring persona, Eurovision and that most important dress-up day of all - Halloween where scary, often grisly costumes bring great joy.Call me superficial, but I love it all.And of course, I have also indulged in many a dress-up over the years at parties.I have been Morticia Addams, in black wig and white powdered face, Patsy Stone, complete with French Roll and pretend Bolli, the Creature from the Black Lagoon and my last dress-up affair was my favourite. It was more a dress-down, which ended hilariously. The venue was one of those island holidays where, every night a different entertainment was organised. The problem for me was what to wear? Nothing in my luggage was giving me any ideas. Then hubby came to the rescue. The Creature - a black garbage bag, a staple gun and about 5kg of seaweed did the trick. I was completely covered, head to toe, in brown seaweed he had collected from the beach. I paraded around, won the prize of a bottle of very bad bottle of bubbly, and then the seaweed got incredibly smelly. Hilarious fun, and a very long lasting memory.We have all had to dress-up at some stage or another in our life. It should be creative, and it should be fun. As someone once wrote: no matter how you feel - get up, dress up, show up and never give up.By Carol Goddard

All were checked in and now comfortably seatedThe speaker was there and had been duly greetedThe meeting had started with a feeling of urgencyWhen all of a sudden there was an emergencyThe lights slowly dimmed then it quickly went darkIt was just a blackout, but some thought it a lark‘Cos a lady in red began to shout“Who’s the silly old goose who turned the lights out?”Upstairs in the club there were weird sounds and rumblingsBut back in the room there were some dodgy fumblingsEnough for the lady in red to shout out“Keep your hands to yourself, you senseless old clout!”There was pushing and shovingSome were knocked to the floorA few others joined inButMost chose to ignoreThen the lights came back on, once more shining brightIt was now time to find out who started the fightBut the lady in red, just calmly said“If it wasn’t me so it had to beSomeone else instead!”

By Carol GoddardThey say there are only two certainties in life: death and taxes. I’d like to add a third - weekend traffic in, through, and out of Kiama. Every weekend.Oh, the sheer joy of living in this magical place! We, as locals, are supremely blessed. We live in a coastal paradise that still retains a charming country village feel.Our town is the perfect venue for music festivals, markets, sporting events, car rallies - you name it, Kiama has probably hosted it. And continues to do so.So, on any given weekend, our little slice of paradise becomes the destination of choice for many. Some arrive by train, but the majority form a conga line of vehicles streaming off the highway, into Gipps Street, down Collins (especially on Sundays), and into the bustling heart of Kiama - Terralong Street.From 10 a.m. onwards on Sundays, it’s a veritable parking lot up the hill and into town. The silver lining? Less noise - because the traffic is crawling. Well, except for the occasional blatting of motorbikes, always an assault on the ears for everyone except the rider.Then, the hunt begins - for a parking space. Never a joyful or rewarding experience for the driver, until, finally and mercifully, a spot is found.And then, the real adventure begins. If you’re headed for the surf, kids in tow, you’ll likely be wrangling beach umbrellas, towels, chairs, cooler bags, and an assortment of wave-catching devices. No wonder beach carts have skyrocketed in popularity - unwieldy though they may look.Finding a table at one of Kiama’s many cafés and eateries is another weekend challenge. Depending on the time of day, a takeaway order to enjoy in Hindmarsh Park or around the harbour is often the best option. Quite a pleasant one, too - but expect a wait for your coffee, fish and chips, smoothies, or ice cream.Of course, weekend trade is a boon for our local hospitality businesses, so the more customers, the merrier! A little patience is always appreciated.Because Kiama is a place of extraordinary natural beauty, it draws visitors from all over the world. And with Sydney so close, it’s a prime weekend getaway. There’s just so much to see and do, for young and old alike.The colour, the energy, the noise, the traffic - it’s all part of Kiama’s charm. From Friday afternoon until late Sunday, it’s one big, noisy, car-and-people-filled space.And then, as if orchestrated, the Sunday afternoon mass exit begins. Kiama’s visitors head north, bumper to bumper for a good while, leaving behind a much quieter, more serene town by mid-evening.Until it all starts again next weekend.

The Garden Shed(with sincere apologies to AA Milne) The PM checked his Bunnings quote,Then went to ask the Treasurer“Could I have some extra fundsTo build a garden shed? For when Parliament’s not sittingI think it only fittingI fix things around the LodgeAnd in the garden too,” he said. The Treasurer said: “Hm…well… maybe,But I better ask my deputyI’ll send him a text message nowBefore he goes to bed.” The deputy soon answered“Go and tell Prime MinisterI’m not sure we could justifySome funds to build a shed‘Cos all the PM’s nowadaysUse handymen instead.” So the trusted TreasurerReported to Prime Minister“Speaking of the funds you needTo build your garden shed,It seems that PM’s nowadaysUse handymen instead.” The PM said: “Oh come on sport,It’s not a rortI only want a few more fundsTo build a garden shed.”“No-one” he added“Could call this extravagant‘Cos I want is extra fundsTo build a garden shed!” Then the Treasurer said wearilyAnd perhaps a little cautiously:“Maybe I could find funds,But I suggest, perhapsBecause it’s not quite in the rulesWe best keep it under wraps.” The PM jumped up eagerlyAnd shouted loud (and cheekily)“No-one” he said, “could call me extravagant‘Cos all I ever asked for wasSome funds to build a shed.” 

By Carol Goddard. Chaos? Mayhem? Total disorganisation?None of the above. And all of the above.Every Monday morning, without fail, the battle begins: getting the kids to school on time.First challenge - waking up. Getting out of bed? A whole other ordeal. Cold mornings make it even worse. For teenagers? Practically torture. Bed is just too warm, too inviting, too… not Monday morning.Eventually, the sluggish shuffle begins - shower (maybe), wash (hopefully), breakfast (debatable). And oh, the agony of watching a single mouthful of cereal take five full minutes to chew. The school bell waits for no one, but somehow, breakfast digestion apparently does.Then, the frantic treasure hunt kicks off: "Where are my shoes?" "I can’t find my library bag!" "My hat’s not in my bag!"Followed closely by: "Did you brush your teeth?" "Did you do your hair?" "Why is your brother on the floor?"Meanwhile, the siren call of the TV, PlayStation, or an abandoned footy in the living room is impossible to resist. Because obviously, now is exactly the right time to practice dribbling.At last, breakfast is mostly eaten, entertainment is switched off, the ball is hurled into the backyard, and hair and teeth are somewhat attended to. Time to pile into the car.The school run is only a few minutes, but in the backseat, sibling negotiations begin: A whack here, a pinch there. Nothing serious—just enough to fray your last nerve. Add in bumper-to-bumper traffic, a shortage of parking spaces, and music that you actually want to hear being drowned out by bickering, and the experience is complete.Then - miracle of miracles - arrival. The kids leap out, instantly transformed into laughing, chattering social butterflies the moment they spot their friends.Victory! Monday morning school drop-off: complete.Until tomorrow. Then it’s Tuesday’s turn.

By Carol GoddardI had a most wonderful day recently. A real, feel-good day.Nothing particularly special happened, nothing momentous or life-changing, or, as my dad used to say, "nothing to write home about." But in hindsight, a series of small observations and one brief encounter made it a day to remember.The day began like any other.Charles Avenue in Minnamurra was throbbing with cars at 8:30 a.m., as though the entire world was jostling for a parking space. And yes, I got one! Amidst the chaos of the first morning back to school, I noticed bursts of happiness, big smiles, excited toing and froing.Little kindy kids, who may eventually grow into their oversized uniforms, walked hand in hand with Mum and Dad into the school grounds. Tiny figures teetered under the weight of school bags almost as big as themselves. A few tears, lots of hugs.Teachers welcomed, calmed, and wrangled, all at once, as teachers do, with dedication and love. Meanwhile, mums, dads, and grandparents captured the moment, snapping photos by the Minnamurra Public School sign before waving their little ones off for the day.That was me. Doing the Nanna thing. And it felt good.As did my next stop. Well, not really a stop, more of an indulgence.There’s nothing I love more than a dip in my beloved Kiama Rock Pool. I say "dip" because, while I can swim, I wouldn’t call myself a swimmer. I don’t do laps. I’m more of a frolicker. I love the crispness of the water, the salt on my skin, the pure joy of just floating about. I can frolic for ages, until I get a bit pruney. Or until I hear the ‘Call of the Caffeine’.So, out of the pool I go. A quick dry-off, then a stroll around Kiama Harbour on my way to coffee and a few hours at Main Beach.That’s when I see him, a gentleman ahead of me, pushing a walking frame. His tanned legs suggest he gets out and about often, but his gait tells me he’s quite elderly.As I pass, I say, "Good morning."He looks surprised, then pleased. On impulse, I stop. We chat. I compliment him on his vigour, then instantly regret it, hoping I haven’t sounded patronising. But he just smiles and tells me his name and where he lives (let’s call him Fred, not his real name, and yes, he’s a local).Fred walks an hour every day, around the Kiama Showgrounds, then the Harbour. Then he rests. After all, he’s 91!I respond with sheer admiration. We talk more, about his late wife, whom he greatly misses, about the beauty of Kiama, and about life itself. "Life is what you make it," he says.And with that, we part ways.I hope I meet Fred again.A chance encounter, and simple, beautiful moments, like back-to-school day, have enriched me.

Disobedience(with sincere apologies to AA Milne).Jess Jayne, Molly McGuire, Willy Purcell and meTook great care of our mothersThough we were all thirty-three.We all said to our mothers:“Mother,” we said, said we“You must never sign upTo a dating site especially RSVP.”..But, our, spirited mothers . .Led each other astrayBecause, despite all our warningsThey signed up that very same day.It seems that, old, single mothersWant to make plans on their ownAnd even though we regularly call themThey don’t ever pick up their phone.So, we, put up a notice On every website we could find Explaining that each of our mothersSeemed to have lost their mind:.“LAST SEEN CHATTING WITH STRANGE MEN(QUITE OF THEIR OWN ACCORD)AND, IF YOU, COULD POSSIBLY HELP THERE’S A THOUSAND DOLLAR REWARD!”.Most of the comments (somebody told us)Simply confirmed what we knew…That if mothers sign up to a dating siteWhat can anyone do?..

By Carol GoddardOver my adult life, I’ve traveled extensively, both in Australia and overseas.My parents never had the desire to explore beyond Bondi. For them, our coastal suburb was enough. But not for me. As a child, I vowed to explore the world, and I’ve kept that promise.Some of my travels have been serene and relaxing, but the majority have been adventurous, challenging, and often physically demanding. It’s these adventures that I treasure most. They’ve created memories that are special, unique, and occasionally very funny. Along the way, I’ve met extraordinary characters - many of them tour guides.GomelGomel in pinkI met Gomel in 1999 while trekking the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal. This simple, resilient man earned his living guiding tourists between Kathmandu and Pokhara. He spoke little, could have been 40 or 70 years old, and had only one hand.Yet Gomel was intrepid. Trekking in Nepal, like living there, is not easy. Temperatures vary chaotically depending on elevation, and back then, guesthouses were scarce. We slept in tents, and the rugged Annapurnas offered no flat terrain. You were always either climbing up or descending steeply.Gomel’s pace was steady, regardless of the incline. When I felt I couldn’t take another step, he was there, leading by example. His strength, resilience, and quiet determination inspired me to push on. Even now, when faced with a strenuous task, I think of him and “do a Gomel.”PierrePierrePierre, however, was a different story.In the south of France, I joined a guided coastal walking tour marketed as a “not-to-be-missed culinary experience.” Our guide, Pierre, was supposed to take us to village markets, gather fine fare, and prepare a picnic for our group.The group was diverse, ages ranged from mid-20s to mid-70s, with varying fitness levels. But Pierre seemed oblivious, charging ahead at breakneck speed. Those unable to keep up stumbled or slipped, though fortunately, no one was seriously hurt.Pierre’s pace suggested he was training for a sporting event, perhaps speed walking or a marathon. Still, we anticipated the promised culinary highlight.When the moment came, out of Pierre’s backpack emerged one baguette, a tiny amount of cheese and cold meat, and half a bottle of wine - meager rations for a dozen people. No olives, no macarons, no “culinary experience.” Disgruntled, we suspected Pierre had pocketed the food allowance. One wonders how long he kept his job.FilipposFilipposFilippos was everything Pierre was not - caring, professional, and endearing.I met him in Athens, where he guided our group to Crete and Santorini. A former dancer, Filippos emphasised frequent stretching during our hikes and took great care of us. He nicknamed my husband and me his “naughty children,” laughing at our antics. Being the only Australians in the group gave us an edge - tour guides seem to adore Aussies!One unforgettable memory was our ferry ride from Crete to Santorini. The Aegean Sea was rough that day, and the journey lasted several hours. The ferry was filled with stylish travelers, families, and tourists. Strategically placed black plastic bags hinted at what lay ahead.As the ferry pitched and rolled, seasickness overtook many passengers. The cacophony of retching, combined with the smell, was unforgettable. My husband, immune to seasickness, remained unfazed, while I relied on Zen techniques, focusing on the horizon and sucking a mint.Poor Filippos wasn’t as fortunate. His green-tinged face peeked out from under his seat, where he lay curled in a near foetal position. Not even my offer of a mint could revive him until we reached Santorini. Once ashore, he recovered, and we laughed about the ordeal, continuing our adventure on dry land.Mr ShandMr ShandIn Rajasthan, I encountered Mr Shand, a charismatic driver from Shimla at the base of the Himalayas. He chauffeured us in a rickety white Ambassador at breakneck speed, weaving through chaotic traffic with alarming confidence.Whenever something outrageous occurred - which was often - he would throw up his hands and exclaim, “This is India!” Sweet and accommodating with us, he showed no mercy to anyone - or anything - that dared obstruct his path. His driving was terrifying but memorable.Mr DrissFinally, there was Mr Driss, who drove us through Morocco with charm and ingenuity. He somehow procured alcoholic beverages despite local restrictions, shared strong coffee, and introduced us to exotic shops brimming with rugs, spices, and beauty products.Mr Driss often spoke of his very young wife and even taught me a few Arabic phrases. Where he spent his nights was a mystery, but every morning he appeared promptly, dressed impeccably in a fresh outfit. His sartorial elegance was matched only by his resourcefulness.Travel creates great memories, and for me, the best ones involve people from cultures vastly different from my own. These fleeting encounters have left lasting impressions. There are countless more stories of tour guides I’ve met along the way, but those are tales for another day.

It felt as if the soles of my bare feet were on fire with every step I took along the sandy path to the beach. I mistakenly thought that my sandals were in my car when I made the snap decision to escape the stifling heat of the flora deprived, over-developed suburbs and head to the sea. With the kids away helping my mum for a few days, it was one of the rare occasions I had a few hours to myself. A choir of cicadas filled the dry, dusry, hot air with their distinct shrilling unremitting tunes. It was only early December but we were in the middle of a heat wave, something we had not experienced for many years. We had become so used to torrential rain, intermittent storms, and devastating floods, we were not prepared for it.When I reached the waters edge I dipped my sore feet into the cool, refreshing water gently lapping in time with a cosmic song that only the sea could hear. I found a sheltered, quiet spot away from the crowd to sit and rest. The trip to the beach took just over an hour but most of it was in stop, start traffic with so many detours and most of the traffic lights out. I put my bag down, laid out my beach towel and settled down to wait.  Relax. He’ll be here soon, I said to myself. To pass the time I buried my toes in the warm sand and listened to cheerful squeals coming from a group of young children building sandcastles nearby. They didn’t appear have a care in the world unlike their parents at the moment I assumed. The northern end of the long popular beach where I had settled, a short stroll to the rock pool, was crowded with families. As most schools and many workplaces were closed due to the heat it was an obvious place to cool down.  “Been waiting long?” a familiar voice greeted me from behind. “I got here about 15 minutes ago,” I replied turning and smiling as he knelt down beside me on the sand. He leaned across to brushed my cheek with an affectionate kiss.“I am glad you got my message.”“Yes, so am I. it came through just before we had to shut the computers down and close the office for the day. I picked up a couple of cool drinks on my way here,” he said taking one out of his bag and handing it me. “I was also able to pick up some ready-made salads for our dinner in case the power stays off tonight. Oh, and I brought your sandals. You must have left in my car the other day.”“What a thoughtful husband,” I said giving him a cheeky grin. ”You were extremely lucky to find a supermarket open. And I really need those sandals today.” “Yep. I thought so. Ready for a swim?” he said and handed me the sandals. “I so am,” I replied. I took the sandals and packed them into my bag.I quickly slipped off my blouse and skirt and also tucked them into my bag. Now stripped down to my swimsuit, I thought how I had never liked revealing my body to the world but I always felt comfortable with him, more comfortable than with anyone else. Ever. I handed him his swim shorts and towel and watched as he stripped with the towel wrapped around him and changed. It was his gentle strength that always attracted me. He hadn’t changed. Well, yes, he did have less hair and had put on a few kilos over the years and his eyes weren’t as bright as we were in his youth. But he was still the same quiet confident person I had fallen in love with when were teenagers. I wondered if he thought I had changed. The years had definitely turned a free-spirited adventurous young girl into a round contented middle aged woman. He didn’t seem to mind but I never enquired.I glanced over at the pool. “Pool or surf?” I asked. “The pool’s pretty crowded but the surf is small and the local patrol are keeping an eye out for rips or anyone in danger,” I added.“Surf it is then.” He took my hand and we walked silently to the waters edge. Glancing out to sea I spotted a few clouds in the far distance but I doubted they would come to anything. Tiny ripples of light glimmered on the surface of the smooth water past the break.  “You first,” I challenged.    “We’ll go together,” he replied taking me by the hand and propelling us both forward into the waves. We swam together, diving through the waves heading out beyond the break. As we settled to tread water, I felt his leg brush up against mine. A sudden spark of electricity ran through my body. We might have been a middle-aged married couple with three children and the stresses of a mortgage and rising cost of living but the chemistry was still there. With so many of our friends divorced or in the process of separating it continually amazed me how hot our relationship still was…and we could call each other best friends too.We flipped onto our backs and floated for a while enjoying the sun on our faces. We must look like a couple of beached whales, I thought. Still, that thought didn’t bother me. I was surrounded by glorious water with the man I loved and that was all that mattered. There’s something rather magical about the ocean, I often thought A place to find solace when things get tough. Our human connection to the sea seems to run very deep. Perhaps it is because we originally evolved from primitive life forms in oceans about three and a half billion years ago.  “Race you back” he said, interrupting my thoughts “Ok, but you need to give me a head start”“No way!”Leaping into the challenge we both swam back through the breaking waves. Within minutes we were back on the shore.“I’d call that a tie,” I said lifting myself up and heading towards the sand. We both laughed in agreement.As we walked back up the beach he wrapped his arm around me giving me that sudden electric spark again. When we reached our belongings he picked up my towel and tenderly patted me dry. I trembled with his gentle touch“Sometimes when we are together I like to imagine that we are alone on a desert island, just the two of us without a single care in the world. I also often wonder what our lives might be like if we had never met.”“What ifs’ like that are pointless,” the practical me interrupted. “If there is anything I have learned from life it is that there is only now. However, the years we have been together have been wonderful. And if we were to escape to a desert island we’d have to take the kids. Or we’d really miss them.”“I guess. But we had much more fun when we were young. Remember those camping trips we used to take in school holidays? What about that Easter when it rained the whole time and we were soaked to the skin and completely washed out? But of course none of that mattered. Everything we did back then was an adventure. It just seems like yesterday.”“It’s a shame it has taken such a catastrophe for us to spend a little time together.” I commented, “We really need to find the more times like these when everything gets back to normal. If it ever does.”“Have you heard from anyone at work?” he said changing the subject.’“Not really. Things have just been too crazy,” I replied.It was rather fortuitous that I had just begun my annual leave a few days before the heart wave set in. December was usually the ideal time for me to take a break with the school holidays soon to begin and Christmas looming. It also meant that I didn’t have to go back to work until the New Year with the public holidays added in. With all the issues now caused by the heat wave, I wasn’t feeling very confident that my job would even be there when I was expected to go back. This was probably truefor many. At least I had my holiday pay to tie me over.“Well, I guess we better get going. Travelling on the roads today is a bit like trying to find your way through a war zone. Not that I’ve ever had to do that, or intend to.”      We walked hand in hand in comfortable silence back down the sandy path to the car park. I noticed the shrubs along the sides. They looked tired. Many of the once blooming native plants were already withered and dying and it was only early summer. So much collateral damage from the heat.When we reached his car I had an idea. I had earlier checked my mobile phone to see if there was any reception in the car park. There wasn’t. So now I suggested we try his car radio. We sat in the car and he turned it on. It crackled for a short time but after a bit of fine tuning we eventually connected to a local news channel. I was desperate for any news updates. The news we heard wasn’t good, not that any news these days was good. None of it surprised me. Bushfires were still raging, some out of control all around the country. Comuniations had almost come to a halt and power outages were affecting residential areas and in major cities. Only those off the grid with their own solar power and batteries were being spared. Hospitals were being inundated with people, mainly the elderly and young with heat related health issues. It was chaos. I switched on my phone and discovered I did have some reception now. I found a local weather forecast and read it out aloud as he changed back into his work clothes. “The Sydney Weather Report for Wednesday 20th October 2025. It will be an extremely hot, dry day with temperatures ranging from 35 degrees to 40 degrees during the day, dropping to 30 degrees overnight. Only light winds are expected near the coast. Precipitation will be extremely low with a 2% chance of rain. Bush fire warnings are in place for all suburbs adjacent to National Parks. The Heat Wave Emergency hotlines are open 24 hours through 000.We sat for a minute to contemplate what that meant for the coming day.“Will the kids be home later?” he ased“No,” I said, “ they’re sleeping over at mums tonight. She hasn’t been coping well in this heat without any air conditioning and they were more than happy to help her and keep her company for a few days.”“So that means it’s just the two of us tonight?” he said with a cheeky grin“Yep,” I replied knowing exactly what that cheeky grin meant.“See you at home then,” he said and leant over and kissed me tenderly on the lips.I turned towards my car, parked a little way off, but stopped for a few minutes to gaze back at the awe-inspiring, expansive blue ocean stretching out to the horizon. We live on such a beautiful planet. How have we let such a devastating environmental catastrophe build up despite having the combined wisdom of so many cultures and the extraordinary scientific and technological advances that have been achieved in the last hundred years? When I reached my car I quickly slipped my skirt and blouse back on and threw my towel and bag onto the back seat. It was time to head home.

T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring except ... one little mouse. Theodore poked his head around the corner into the living room to check the coast was clear. It was. However, in case the cat was still awake, he cautiously tip-toed across to the dining table to see if any scraps had found their way onto the floor as he knew from past experience, how messy the kids that lived there were.Unfortunately it was clean and there were no scraps but Theodore knew that tonight was unlike other nights. He eyed the Christmas tree surrounded by all kinds and sizes of packages and quickly scurried over to sniff them out. On past Christmas Eves he had sniffed out packages containing cake, dried fruit, lollies and chocolates: a potential feast if he had the time to gnaw through the tight ribbons and wrappings. Unfortunately time he didn’t always have, especially on Christmas Eve. Even more enticing than the wrapped gifts though, was the piece of Christmas cake and glass of whisky left on the mantle piece for Santa. But he had to be quick!“Hey little mouse,” came a beaming voice behind him.Theodore turned and watched the chubby, white-bearded old man in his easily recognisable red suit climb out of the fireplace with a packed sack.“We meet again,” Santa continued.Damn, Theodore thought as he stood and watched him unpack his sack under the tree, and quickly gobble down the cake followed by the whisky. Santa then cheekily smiled at Theodore, bowed and waved a silent goodbye. Then as Theodore watched him climb into and back up the chimney, he sighed and vowed once again to make an extra effort to beat him...next year.

I’ve been standing in the queue at the Post Office for what seemed like an eternity. The drone of once-loved Christmas carols over the music system is beginning to drive me to distraction, as I still feeling rather seedy from the Christmas party the night before. My shopping list seems much longer than I remembered and I am starting to seriously worry whether my budget is going to cover it all. The weather is extremely hot and muggy, tempers are frayed and there seems to be an endless stream of restless small children bumping up against my legs.I’ve just come off the phone to my sister who has announced that, after months of family squabbling, it has finally been decided that Christmas lunch will be held at my place. Tension rises in me once again as I recall that at least one leg of the dining table needs repair and I only have five decent chairs.The queue inches forward and my memory is jolted once again: that special Christmas posting box for Aunt Mary’s clock! It is probably on the back shelf and there is no time to leave the queue to find it now. ‘Bummer’, I think. This means I will have to come back tomorrow. But tomorrow is Christmas Eve and, aside from the fact that it will be much too late to send it, my time will probably be more consumed with arranging for the dining table to be fixed and deciding on the family seating for Christmas Day: not an easy task. I finally reach the sales counter and am greeted by a cranky sales assistant who informs me that the cute little Christmas angel stamps I ordered last week are now out-of-stock. I leave with next to nothing.The car is parked six blocks away (and that took half an hour to find two hours ago) and the bags hanging from my numbed wrists are feeling heavier by the minute. If only I was looking forward to a holiday but my tight budget, the long term effects of the cost of living crisis and the ridiculous fluctuating price of petrol over the last few years has made this idea impossible. All I want to do is to go home, relax and hope that Christmas Day won’t be as bad as the last one. Then, as every year before it, there will only be 364 days to recover ‘til the next one.

The GatheringA short story by Jenny EnglandThey found her early in the morning, propped up on a pillow on her bed, eyes closed, motionless, pale and cold. Serenely dead. An open book lay across her chest. She must have been reading until her very last breath. It was the dog barking that alerted Sally, her next door neighbour on the left. The silky terrier, her constant companion, rarely barked. They knew instantly when they heard the barking that something must have been amiss. Luckily the back door was not locked so she could let herself in.     We soon gathered in the street after hearing the sad news. I remarked on the odd symbolism of the open book, as she and her life had been far from an open book. Few of us even knew her name or where she had come from although it was well known that she had lived in the area for over twenty years. Those who were a little more in the know revealed that her name was unpronounceable, leading to various suspicions about her origin. Ted, one very imaginative neighbourhood character indeed, suggested she may have been a Russian spy. As he was never able to elaborate on this wild idea we dismissed it as pure waffle.     The police arrived just after 9 o’clock. Later on we were informed, much to the disappointment of some, that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. She was quite elderly. Vera, from across the road estimated she must have been in her early nineties but no-one really knew for sure.     I often saw her walking her little dog around Black Beach. From my kitchen window I would watch as she occasionally stopped, picked up an odd piece of driftwood or some shells that had been swept onto the shore from a recent storm, and then carefully packed them into a hessian bag she carried on her back.  I used to wonder what she did with all this stuff and how she might spend her days, devoid of human contact.     She did, however, have one visitor from time to time. A young man mowed her lawns every month or so and was occasionally seen doing a little weeding. So I guess she wasn’t into gardening or felt it was too much for her. She never seemed lonely to me but of course I have never lived on my own for long periods of time so I don’t know how it would feel year after year. She didn’t drive anymore. Once a week she would walk to the bus stop, disappear for the day and then return in a taxi with her shopping. Sometimes the taxi driver would help her in with her parcels. I would like to think she met a friend for lunch or coffee and cake, but I guess I will never know.     We all agreed it was a shame we had not got to know her better. We did invite her to our yearly Christmas street party but she never came. The one day I worried most about her was Halloween. The neighbourhood kids usually get together in the street and go from house to house for trick or treats. The young ones are pretty harmless and all finished before dark but the older ones often go on a bit of a rampage, throwing eggs and flour at each other and occasionally fighting.     A few of the neighbours didn’t make it to the gathering. Many had already left before the hullabaloo began. Old Ted, who we all knew was also in his nineties was probably pottering around in his back garden tending to his vegetable patch, totally oblivious to what was going on in the street. He would eventually find out, I was sure, through his daughter, who was a regular visitor.  Or from a death notice in the local paper, if any was placed. I was more than sure that that was not likely to happen.     When the ambulance arrived to take her away we, her neighbours, stood silent and still. Even though some of us would have liked a closer look, there was really nothing to see. They simply packed her into the back of the van and drove off. I wondered if there was a family somewhere that would organise a funeral but it is more likely it will be a private cremation arranged by some remote government department that takes over in situations like this. The little dog was also whisked away by the police. No-one in the gathering offered to take him so he was off to the pound, I suspect.     The gathering started to disperse around 10 o’clock. We all wandered off in various directions, back to our lives. Some off to work, shopping and university, albeit a little late. Others went back to their cosy homes to tend to housework or to their small children, who had started becoming decidedly restless in the street. We all resolved that day to get to know each other better, keep in touch and never to let such a lonely death in our street ever happen again. But I haven’t caught sight of any of them of them since.     As for the book? We never did find out its title or what it was about.