Snapshot Poetry #3—My Father’s Hands
These hands held mine each Sunday night and clipped my nails, while I wriggled and watched the clippings fall like sawdust into the crease of the newspaper. As broad as the spades they pushed through the dirt, they hammered and sawed, patched...
How I learnt there were no lions in Tasmania
One of the lions in my imagination… I had a few weird beliefs as a child. Some of the stranger ones were: that my grandmother was alive at the same time as Jesus; that the place where I lived constituted the whole world; and that there were about a hundred...
Alzheimers Australia National Conference, Hobart, 14-17 May 2013
Alzheimer’s Australia have invited me to Hobart next week for their national conference. I’ll be sitting on a panel discussing the use of antipsychotics in dementia. I’m excited nervous shitting myself, as it’s way out of my league. Luckily,...
A connection to country…
I read a post the other day by Sue at Whispering Gums about Place in Australian Literature and it got me thinking. I grew up in cold, rugged Tasmania, with hills on every horizon, very few sweeping plains, and very little sunburnt countryside. The Tassie...