toast for tea

What a journey you go on when you write a book! It’s an adventure with twists and turns, unexpected hazards, exhilarating moments, excruciating moments and some delightful surprises. And I’m not talking about the plot. I’m talking about the writing process. Oh, and there’s lots of walking for miles and miles towards the horizon – which plays tricks on you and recedes instead of getting closer. When you start out, you don’t realize what you’ve taken on. Well, not in my case. You don’t realize how many hours you’ll sit in front of the computer screen, tapping away in faith – that you’ll get there. And that it will be good. (Where good equals outstanding and outstanding equals published.) You don’t realize that the characters will become part of your family. That you will grow to love them as their lives untangle beneath your fingertips. That as you get to know their foibles, you’ll gain a much deeper understanding of your own. That your subconscious will work furiously in the background ...

Why would you do it? Honestly? Who would stand in a queue with about a million other people for an hour – AN HOUR! – in searing near 40 degree heat on a concrete path that scorches the bottoms off your feet so you think you've been walking on coals? And all for a ten second ride down a slide? Someone who clearly doesn’t have a life, someone who is suffering from severe heat stroke and has become delusional, or someone who’s just tossed thirty two dollars per family member into the gate keeper’s coffers in return for a day in water wonderland. Or so they thought. That’s me – all three. The things we do for our fourteen-year-olds! (And three friends – I’ll call them the Fem Four.) The last time I’d been to this water park on the Bellarine Peninsula – okay I’ll admit it was about ten years ago – you could actually see three feet in front of you without having to look over the top of somebody’s hat and you could swing your arms around without knocking ten people flying. Whe...

At the shops today when the girl at Boost asks for my name I say, ‘Myf’. She gives me a blank look. ‘Myf,’ I repeat, ‘short for Myfanwy.’ While I wait for my Mega Berry Blast ingredients to be pulverised, I scan the immediate area for familiar faces. It’s bound to happen. Just as the beautiful Welsh name is about to roll off the Boost girl’s tongue when she hands me my juice, a long-lost cousin will suddenly emerge from a shop and call out, ‘CAROLE!’ But no one does and I’m saved from shame and embarrassment. ‘Myf,’ calls the girl, and not even one head turns as I take my drink. ‘No ice,’ I’d said, so I drink it straight down at a nearby table. I notice there’s a classy-looking woman drinking coffee at the table opposite. I’m thirsty, and when I get down to the bottom, it’s very disappointing. I know there’s still a little bit left, but only obtainable with a fair amount of noise. Myf, I decide, isn’t the type to consider the sensibilities of others, so, vacuum cleaner-style, I guide...