toast for tea

Christmas Day takes a year to arrive and then it’s over in a woosh. Well, that’s how it feels to me. Perhaps if you didn’t have anyone to be with on Christmas Day or the people you spent the day with drove you crazy you might not agree. I tried really hard to be ready for Christmas this year instead of it creeping up on me when I wasn’t looking. But it did anyway. It crept up even with me keeping a close watch out for signs – like a plethora of biscuit tins in the stationary aisle at the supermarket and the humungous decorations the council hang from the light poles. I did manage to get the cards posted – well, okay, the overseas ones will probably arrive a tad after Christmas. I got the presents thought about, bought and wrapped. And I was going to put the tree up. Actually, that’s a bit of an untruth. I had no intention of putting the tree up. I made a decision not to have a tree this year because we were going to have Christmas Day at my father’s house and my teenagers were both

My dog, Milly, and I have a few things in common: we believe a long walk is a daily necessity, good for emptying – she, her bladder, me, my head; forty winks on the couch is so much better when you’ve got each other for a hot water bottle – except on a Melbourne forty-plus killer; we’d sell our souls for a decent backrub; we’re chocoholics; and we love a good novel. The liking for chocolate is a bit of a worry. Though to be truthful, for me it’s an indulgence-slash-addiction I have no intention of ever trying to conquer. To overcome my chocolate habit would be tantamount to donating my tastebuds to science. I’m never doing it. It’s another matter for the dog, however. For her, chocolate, for all its sublime slide-down-your-throat-on-velvet-rollerblades allure, is toxic. Chocolate contains a compound called theobromine – a stimulant and diuretic – which dogs cannot digest. In large enough quantities – and for a small dog this could mean only a few squares of chocolate – it can be f

So much has happened since Dog Gone was launched at the Melbourne Writers Festival. What a whirlwind few months it’s been – the reason this post is so overdue. When I look back I can’t believe I’ve managed all I have between packing up the house, moving into a hotel then back into the house again. I certainly wouldn’t have chosen it, but having an unexpected renovation thrown into the mix of our already hectic lives hasn’t been all bad. The house looks great – apart from the front fence – some of which is still in a crumpled heap on the nature strip. (Think steep driveway, wet day, plaster delivery.) The launch was so much fun. Elly Varrenti was wonderful considering she’d had such an awful couple of weeks beforehand . Euan Mitchell introduced us and after Elly spoke I gave a bit of background to the book and read out some of the funny bits. Everyone laughed and groaned in the right places, which was a most satisfying feeling. It was fantastic to see so many people come down to

The fantastic news is it’s FINISHED! And ELLY VARRENTI is launching it at the Melbourne Writers Festival . EVERYBODY is invited! Date: Sunday 5th September 2010 Time: 4pm Place: Melbourne Writers Festival           Feddish Cafe Bar           River Terrace, Federation Square           RSVP: carolepoustie@optusnet.com.au

It’s a Monday morning and I’ve just finished eating a breakfast of fresh fruit and yoghurt; bacon and eggs, tomato and pan-fried mushrooms; a freshly baked croissant with strawberry jam; and at least three cups of brewed coffee. The big band sound of muted trumpets and the voice of Frank Sinatra wafts overhead. I never have coffee for breakfast. Nor, I don’t think, have I ever eaten mushrooms this early in the day. But then I don’t usually start my day off in the dining room of the local motel. It’s a far cry from my usual routine of muesli and yoghurt eaten on the run between trips to the station and bus stop with teenagers. And today I feel displaced. The dining room is opulent. White table cloths, a waiter in black, cushioned wicker chairs, remarkably real-looking fake palm trees. Business people arrive for breakfast meetings; a young couple lean in towards each other, deep in conversation; there is applause from a conference room to the side. It feels surreal, me here on my own

Yes, it’s true. The Word Spy is back. She snuck in by bus, train and plane without anyone noticing. And shhh, don’t tell, but she’s uncovered a heap of fascinating facts about words. Reading The Word Spy was adventure enough, but this time the trail takes some tricky twists and turns through language itself. A lot of snooping goes on, I can tell you. The Word Spy’s torch illuminates the origins of language, different types of languages – dead ones and new ones – sign language and Braille. There’s even a real Braille page in the book to run your fingers over! She talks about “the language of the road” and the symbols that swaggies used in case there were angry dogs about.  From babble to Chomsky, over-extension to metaphors and similes, you can be guaranteed the Word Spy has unearthed a fine selection of language peculiarities with her pick – and explained her findings with humour and intrigue. But there’s more.  Nouns, verbs, adjectives, subjects and objects. Don’t worry, the Word

Marvin and Violet are best friends. They’re like socks and shoes, salt and pepper, two peas in a pod. That’s what Mum reckons. Violet reckons Marvin is Marvellous, so that’s what she calls him. Wolf, Violet’s dog, and Marvin’s chook, T Rex are best friends, too. Being next door neighbours on Raven Street is loads of fun, especially when Violet has a jumping castle and octopus in her back yard, a train in her lounge room and a ghost in her kitchen. But one day Violet has some disturbing news. We are moving, Marvellous. We are going to the moon. Chris McKimmie has produced another pearl. Using his trademark Dylan and Blake font, naive illustrations, magical thinking and understated subtext, there is something to chuckle at or ponder on every page. Like its predecessors, this is a book that can be returned to time and again, each subsequent read revealing extra levels of meaning. McKimmie’s clever use of symbolism may not be apparent to the young child, but the overall effect is powerfu

My first-born turns eighteen in less than four months. He’s booked the licence test for 11.00am on his birthday. The beginning of a new era. A great-big-wonderful-start-of-your-adult-life world’s-at-your-feet-ground-breaking-breath-takingly SCARY era. And he’ll want to borrow my car. Lately, I’ve been feeling … vulnerable … is that the word? Or is it fragile ? This year my birthday will nudge me closer to the next decade than the one before it. That’s all I’m saying. I’ve been looking ahead, planning out the next few years, imagining the possibilities, bravely accepting the sobering truth that I will never realise many of the dreams I held close to my heart when I was eighteen. I’ve been looking back, noticing the things I’ve let go. Some by choice, some by necessity, and some with great reluctance and an accompanying sense of grief. Some things have simply fallen away without me even noticing. As Joyce Rupp says in her book Dear Heart Come Home: the path of midlife spirituality

My delicious week on Magnetic Island…   Horseshoe Bay Sitting out the front of Noodies Cafe eating pecan pie and drinking excellent coffee while I watch my teenagers crisscross the china blue water in their catamaran. The sky is cloudless and the shade of the giant Morton Bay fig tree on the foreshore is expansive and welcome. Music filters out from inside the cafe and blends with the shush of the waves as they break on the sand under the palm trees. The occasional moke trundles past and people… well they saunter. No one hurries here. I could get used to this.   The Lagoon I came to see birds. Myriads of waterbirds: ducks, herons, egrets, swamphens, curlews, magpie geese, and maybe even a jacana. It’s eerily quiet. Only the sound of my footfall on the boardwalk that snakes between the waterlilies. This is how many birds I see: NONE.   West Point We’ve come for the sunset. Done some four wheel driving to get here. My first time. The teenagers in the back hooting and cheer

I’m sitting at Gloria Jeans in Melbourne Central. My coffee is hot and strong. Perched on my bar stool, opposite the shot tower just along from the giant clock, it’s a perfect vantage point for people watching. They spill from the top of the elevator like robots off a production line. Since gaining a position as an editing intern at the Victorian Writers Centre, located at the SLV in the new Wheeler Centre, it’s my new Monday morning routine; I dash over to the park with the dog, walk to the station, catch the train, get absorbed in a book, alight and merge into the people river, flow with the current, materialise from the other end of the escalator, order coffee, and settle down to watch. I love it. The extra effort of getting up and leaving early is worth it. There is something alluring about having a leisurely coffee, on your own, and looking at life happen around you. Taking it all in. Filing it away in your writer brain. Observing the small details – the clothes, shoes, the gait