Still Life With Cat

* Because I still have my Sydney Morning Herald weekly book reviewing gig, I am still reading a minimum of four novels a week. In several d...

It's 24 years today -- and yes yes, I know what the date is; how apt -- since I rolled and wrecked a brand-new car with my father in the...

As we approach the end of the first week of January I've been thinking about how often the last week of January has, for me, brought wi...

Over the last week I've had two emails marking literary anniversaries and quoting bright stars in the literary firmament. September 18 w...

1915 1917 See also here . 1935 My dad, aged 8, with his parents. On the back of this little photograph my grandfather has written, in his fo...

Today is the tenth anniversary of my mother's death, which seems absurd; even this far down the track I am shocked by how vividly presen...

It's three years today since I first found Blogger and worked out what to do with it. Perversely, I'm going to celebrate -- perhaps ...

Yesterday a dear friend who lost her husband in August held a quiet afternoon-tea-shaped gathering at her home, a 'one month's mind...