Gum Leaves

Fiction or non-fiction, any theme, from 200 to 1000 words.

Winning entries will be published here

FICTION - First prize, $100AU
Second prize $50AU

NON-FICTION - First prize $75AU
Second prize - $40AU


This competition closes end of October annually

October 2007

Judge’s comments

What I was looking for in these short pieces was simplicity.  The length is not there to develop a complex plot.  Still, something must eventuate between the beginning and the end, something of interest.  Although the winners were stories or story-like, many of the top entries were not.

Unlike just a dream of the past, Karma incorporates knowledge that the younger sibling has died.  It is a visit from ‘where it is you exist now’, and they are ‘not talking about where you are now’.  There is emotion here, a pleasure mixed with tension, they are ‘drawn as if we had no choice’. There is an immediacy and a good focus, with the end linking back to the opening. There is excellent imagery. Sounds and words like ‘squelch’ are very evocative, and with a voiced reading we can hear alliteration and poetic cadences. This still gives pleasure on subsequent readings.

In Tourist, good use is made of flash-back, although the time elapsed in the present is merely hours or even minutes.  The dialogue is very natural, at the same time revealing much to the reader.  The attitude of the wife soon becomes unbelievable. There is an element of farce here, but subtle enough to let through the horror of the eventual realization.   It is enjoyable to re-read this story and note the humour, unnoticed on the first reading, of  “My wife’s into bookmarks in a big way”  and “travelling a lot with tourists now.”

We hope in 2008 to offer another competition for fiction, and reserve Gum Leaves for non-fiction.  Let’s keep our fingers crossed!  But this one worked well, although I had expected greater difficulty in judging the mixture. The pleasure I had from reading so many delightful works made up for any difficulty.  The worst part, as so often, was in putting aside very worthy entries. Congratulations to the successful!

Ruth Strachan 

“Thank you,” I say, modestly. The first customers of the day. American ... or possibly Canadian. I can never tell.

“We’re tourists,” he says.

I smile politely. Americans - no doubt about it.

“So, where else are you off to ... besides here?” I notice that Susan, my young assistant, is helping Mrs. Tourist to choose a scarf.

“Pearldrop Bay. It’s on our list of ‘must-sees’. Have you been there?”

“Only last year. Might I suggest that you sit on the beach for awhile and watch the clouds. The way they form over the mountains on the far side of the bay.”

“Thanks. We probably won’t have time. ‘Schedule’ you understand.”

“Yes, of course. Schedule.” He wanders over to his wife. Susan will look after them now.

I relax, recalling the last visit to Pearldrop with my wife. The American’s got a ‘schedule,’ same as Belinda. She loved her ‘schedules’ so much. Let’s see, when were we there? November seventh? Yes, seventh.

“Come on Belinda. Relax for a minute and watch the clouds. See how they form when the wind hits the left side of the ... Belinda, what are you doing?”

“Packing. I’ll drive. You’re too slow. We’ve got to get to Silver Beach before five.”

“Why? Can’t we stay here and watch ...”

“What? ‘The clouds’? Give me a break, Stevie.”

I hate it when she calls me that although I’ve given up telling her. My name’s Steve or Steven. I wouldn’t say she does it to irritate me. It’s simply ... well, she doesn’t think.

“Come on, ‘little’ Stevie,” she says, before kicking me in the kidneys. It hurts. The previous bruises haven’t healed. I try not to show the pain as I get to my feet, dusting the sand from my clothes. She’s already walking away.

“Whoops!” she exclaims. “Almost forgot. Souvenir shop.”

I follow her, reluctantly, predictably. Why do I let her ruin my life?

‘Do you sell leather bookmarks?’ That’s what she’ll say next, in that squeaky voice which I’ve begun to hate.

“Do you have leather bookmarks for sale?” followed by exited squeal number two when the assistant shows her the selection. Obsessive, compulsive bookmark collector.

“If you haven’t got a bookmark, then no one knows if you’ve been there,” she tells the young girl. The assistant smiles back, not having heard Belinda say the same thing to eighty seven other bookmark salespeople. Eighty seven bloody coloured leather rectangles with embossed pictures and words, proudly displayed in our living room.

I follow her back to the car, opening the passenger door for myself.

“Ahem, Stevie. Aren’t we forgetting something?” I stammer an apology, rushing to open the driver’s door for her. I wait until she’s seated, before gently closing it.

“Women deserve to always be treated with courtesy,” she reminds me with her cold stare. Belinda-Rule, number seventeen.

That evening, we examine her two bookmarks. Belinda prefers the beige one from Silver Beach the best. I agree with her. It’s simply easier.

After we watch her favourite television shows, she invites me to massage her thigh. She hitches her nightie to expose the naked flesh then checks that my hands are clean so that I don’t put any germs on her ‘lovely’ body.

‘Soft as satin, soft as silk,

Smooth as creamy buttermilk.’

I recite her special words as my fingers brush her leg, gently rubbing her special oil onto her golden-tan skin.

Is this why I allow myself to be humiliated? Love? No, it’s not ‘love’. Lust then.

She slaps my cheek. A hard, stinging slap.

“Naughty! That was too high. Just for that you can sleep in the car, tonight.” Her tone is angry, commanding. I’ve heard it before ... too often.

“How dare you spoil our holiday, like that, Stevie. I’m very disappointed in you, very disappointed indeed.”

I want to yell at her, to tell her she couldn’t be as disappointed as me.

I don’t.

Instead I open the door of the motel room. There’s a thick frost on the car windscreen. “Before you go, get me my machine out. It won’t upset me and it’s not as small as ....”

“Excuse me ...”. Someone’s speaking to me. I’m in the shop. The American is standing opposite.

“Sorry ... . I was daydreaming. Sorry about that. Has Susan sorted you out?”

“Oh, yes. We bought a few things. Wanted a bookmark. Not one of those cardboard ones. Can you help?”

“I know the one’s you want. My wife’s into bookmarks in a big way.” I point out the selection of leather ones at the end of the counter.

“Ah, a fellow collector. Is that your wife?” He nods his head towards Susan who is rearranging some shelves.

Oh, no,” I laugh. “My wife’s overseas. We’re separated. She travels a lot these days. ”

Mr. Tourist selects a pale green bookmark. He comments on the supple texture. Placing it in a bag, I watch the Americans move toward the shop door.

“By the way, which state are you from?” I call out.

“Vermont. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” I reply.

I move down the counter to tidy the souvenir selection. Postcards - looking sparse. I’ll have to order some more on Thursday. The furry animals grin at me stupidly as I reposition them. Then there’s the leather bookmarks - they’ve been a steady seller. Only eleven left in the stand and five of those are red. I call to Susan to get some more from the store room.

While she’s gone, I caress the tips of my fingers against the soft leather bookmark on top. This one is still its natural colour, a golden-tan.

‘Mmmmm’, I begin softly, as I close my eyes to concentrate on the touch, the texture. My whisper is tinged with memories of the past,

‘Soft as satin, soft as silk ...’

~ ~ ~

Karma

by Winsome Mitchell

             You came to me last night filling my dreams with memories and my heart with longing. It was wonderful to see you, young and healthy with a glow to your cheeks and I just wanted to hold you. To be still; content with your presence for a time but typically, you were impatient to keep moving.

            “Come with me,” you said stretching out your hand, but even then I could hear the cry of the distant gannets and sensed where we were going.

            “Let’s go bike-riding instead,” I protested, but you ignored me and even though you were the younger sibling I followed you reluctantly to the willow lined river bank.

We climbed among the trees, children again, swinging like brown limbed monkeys from the golden branches before we broke and tangled them one over the top of the other to form a dense tree-hut. We sat hidden beneath the wilting leaves, eating half ripe apples smuggled from the neighbour’s orchard; not talking about where you are now, but instinctively understanding that even your death hadn’t destroyed our special bond.

Meanwhile, the receding tide lifted the hem of her rippled skirt to reveal an undergarment of thick grey mud, and we left the shelter of the trees to wade calf deep in the sludge. I lifted the ends of rotting logs and savoured the sound of your laughter as you poked and prodded the mud beneath with a piece of driftwood. We screamed in mock terror when you flicked out a crab or an eel, then dropped that log and squelched on to the next.

In this way we moved steadily toward the river mouth. The plaintive cry of gannets-in-mourning grew steadily more strident, and when I saw the remains of the old wharf rising from the sand like a monolith, I knew it signaled the beginning of the end of my dream.

            Yet still we pressed on. Drawn as if we had no choice.

 Young hands reached up and young legs twined themselves around the weathered piles. We hauled ourselves onto the sun-bleached skeleton of the wharf and searched its bones for the gannets’ eggs which lay nestled in carefully prepared nests of dried seaweed and bird droppings. Would we never learn?

 Ignoring a gathering sense of loss we shouted in delight as we wrapped our fingers around the chalky blue eggs and then drew back our arms, only to fling them forward and smash the eggs against the wooden cross-beams. As the life exploded from the shattered shells and stained the ruins with yellow death, the black and white parent birds shrieked their distress and took to the skies with their long, pointed wings just as they did all those years ago.

The cacophony grew even more shrill until at last the sound of the birds invaded my sleep and I sensed you slipping away; our dreamtime together stolen by the gannets just as we stole the life from their unborn chicks so long ago. I struggled against the first pinpricks of wakefulness and watched helplessly as your image became more and more distant. In vain I attempted to grasp the coat-tails of vanishing sleep and with a heavy heart, opened my eyes to the new day.

Once again the gannets had gained their revenge and I awoke missing you, while you went back to wherever it is you exist now.

~ ~ ~

He noticed the change in the air first of all. There was a newly-arrived subtle, dusty taint. It was not a smell that could be described in detail, more a whiff of clay talc in the gentle breeze, stirred and enhanced by moisture.

The sound would be next, or rather the absence of it. Countryside noise would be dulled and absorbed, like spilt ink soaking into well-used blotting paper on a desk. He smiled at the image. Times had changed from the pen nibs that scratched words across the pages of his school days. Only nature remained eternal - the sounds and touch of a raindrop was the same now as it had always been.

The old man fidgeted in his attempt to get more comfortable, then gazed at the irregular blue horizon for the usual signs of coming rain. They were the same hills which heralded childhood storms a lifetime ago. He could not discern any warning today - only a grey haze at the land-sky boundary. Maybe that was it, he considered, frustrated at his failing eyesight.

The sun had long since departed along with its cooling shadows. The colours of the native garden blooms were not as vibrant now but were still testament to the warmth of the summer’s day. Slowly he turned at a nearby sound, half-expecting his daughter to be coming so she could take him inside. She was his youngest, a mother-to-be herself. She would come soon, caring for him now that he could no longer care for himself.

His attention was drawn to a flash of tinted movement, near the earlier noise. Only a robin, constantly alert in its explorations. For a moment it came near to him, realised its error and flew off again.

The hush altered slightly as a single raindrop fell to a dried leaf on the parched earth. He peered intently to witness the change in dappled colour of the leaf from beige to burnt umber. The rain had proclaimed its coming to the parched landscape all around him. He wondered about his daughter. Surely she knew and would come to move him from the certain storm. She wouldn’t leave him in the open. She wouldn’t.

Another droplet splashed nearby. It also disturbed the tranquillity of the leaf litter. Where was she? Touching the wheels of his chair to push them, he knew instinctively that his strength had long since gone. He could not move himself to shelter.

There was a gentle silent sigh in resignation at the possibility that he might get wet. The first rain in five months. He recalled another lazy, dry summer like this. It was long ago when he ran freely around these same gardens. At that time he was filled with the energy and joy of a child. So many years gone. And yet, in some aspects, it was yesterday to him. His mother standing, arms crossed over the lilac-spotted apron she always wore. Her manner was gentle, always helpful and he recalled her smile. In his thoughts, the old man heard himself once more. “Rainz, mama. Look at the rainz,”

A cooling splash licked the greying hairs of his bared arm. More spots followed, cast down from the leaden skies. He rejoiced in the movement, the activity, the sensations of his changing feelings.

There was one solitary droplet hanging precariously on a leaf close to his feeble sight. It was a thing of boyhood fascination - a shimmering rainbow. It beckoned him to reach out to touch it.

Gazing upwards he closed his eyes against the increasing assault, all concerns forgotten about becoming wet. It was too late. Already his sodden clothing swathed his frail body. He thought again of his daughter. Why isn’t she here? His worries were now for her, rather than himself.

The hard rain beat against his closed eyes. He felt life forces of nature tumbling about him, protecting and renewing his spirit-drained soul. “Rainz”, he recalled in his exhilaration.

The precious waters transformed the dry garden and countryside, enhancing the colour of the plants wilted by the summer warmth. All around the glistening figure of the old man life was being renewed. Accepting his own fate as a part of the same life cycle, he smiled inwardly at the energy bestowed on him. An opened mouth let the waters rejuvenate his inner self as it bathed his skin.

Overhead the thunder rumbled across the clouds, preceded by sudden flashes of strobed whiteness. He relaxed whilst sharing the loud declaration of nature’s majesty.

The wheelchair moved. Instinctively he tensed. What was happening? He felt himself pushed to the shelter of the verandah as the storm continued. Grudgingly, he accepted the disturbance, aware that his time of union with the rain was now over.

His daughter moved around to face him. Her hair was disheveled, her demeanour confused. She must have been sleeping.

“ Why didn’t you call me?” she demanded, both concerned and guilty.

His eyes replied. Instantly Julie regretted her accusations.

“Because you couldn’t,” she understood from his plaintive appearance, sobbing at the reminded truth.

‘It’s all right,’ his eyes continued through the tears. Slowly, he pulled himself upright and demanded for her to look at him.

“Rain”, he whispered, a single coherent word forced through the haze of his now-language. The old man smiled, knowing she was sharing his pleasure at the brief respite from aridity for the fourth generation ancestral home.

“Yes, Dad. Rain.”

~ ~ ~

The Lecture

by Pat Rosier

The lecture is at the American Embassy in Wellington. That’s what it calls itself on its signage, ‘The American Embassy.’ We, the audience, have to give advance notice of our attendance, so we can be listed, and then show photo ID at the entrance and have what we carry xrayed. So courteously done, by people with American manners and New Zealand accents. In the ante-room are elegant nibbles, small pancakes with savoury toppings. Wine, beer or juice and substantial paper napkins with an embedded crest are passed around by non-speaking waiters.

The cultural adviser, a New Zealander, introduces his boss the public affairs officer, an American. He is a diplomat, public affairs tells us, and his last posting was in Kabul, where his office was a well-appointed cargo container. The accommodation in Wellington is more to his liking. He doesn’t mention the high wire fence and the check points to get in.

The lecturer, who has a teaching post at Auckland University, compared portraiture in New Zealand and the United States. She is young and blond and thin, with strappy shoes, longish feather-cut hair and modern half-frame glasses. Her dress is made of a fine fabric, see-through in non-revealing places, light and lacy. The colour is not blue, not green, not grey; a dull, flat, flattering colour. She speaks in a slow, deliberate manner, holding each syllable separate in its own space. Her educated American accent is very clear and easy to hear.

Portraits, she says, are representations of a subject in the widest sense and not necessarily a naturalistic picture. The use of photography as a portrait medium does not eliminate idealisation of the subject. The status of portraits and portrait artists in the art world is low. Portraits, especially commissioned ones, are used as a means to display the rank of the subject. She shows slides of portraits by Rembrandt and Van Dyke alongside painted portraits of Bill and Hillary Clinton.

Do we, she asks — as viewers — concentrate on the subject or the painting? Does the recognition factor — oh, look! that’s Marilyn Monro — get in the way of us seeing the painting itself, judging it as a work of art?

After too few slides she calls for questions. You can see how enamoured of her the older men are; they tell her about themselves, their families. A couple of women offer information about portraits in New Zealand that she might want to see.

‘Would she go out with me?’ comes not sotto voce enough, from a young man in the second row and she blushes and turns her body and her attention to the woman in the front talking about the paintings in the corridors of the old government buildings that now house a law faculty. The public affairs officer winds up the questions, gives gracious thanks. Flowers are brought on and presented by a shy girl. The final applause is enthusiastic; it was a stimulating lecture and she is young, beautiful and charming.

~ ~ ~

THE BLOCK

by Tarang Bates

The fan whirred fast above my head. I sat watching my skirt lift and flutter with the movement of air. Aztec red and purple on sand, pleasing to the eye.

This place is hot and dry, brown and parched – where the chooks scratch down to the roots of the plants for succulent moistness.

Far away from the lush tropical north, which I call home. Contemplating family affairs. This family is large – I am a part of it now. Part of this gathering from far and wide, to make emotional and complicated family decisions.

Even the Jacaranda struggle here. The Eucalyptus are wild and huge and of unimaginable colour. Although there are places their bleached skeletons stand amongst the fallen. On the banks of the Murray, the earth at their feet covered with a white layer of salt, their death.

This gathering is large and many generations. A boy of the latest generation, points out a beautiful scene. This is his life, this dry, brown place and he has a love and an appreciation of its spirit that surprises me.

“Use the outside dunny for number twos. Shut the door to stop the snakes,” is yelled out across the crisp brownness.

I wonder how the next generation down from me, the newest herd of sisters-in-law, take to this tradition of bold and honest, loud and chaotic communication. I watch as they quietly circle the periphery of the chaos, trying to fathom from their faces and body language, if they are fazed by the brashness.

There is something about this family in its boldness, strength and wildness, that you just can’t help warm too. Opinions and spirits are strong; life was hard once, creating a determination, fullness in all things.

Will the new members of the herd see this, before they flee back to what is safe, polite, comfortable and predictable?

Non-stop - loud, rampant, controversial conversations, rage over the huge dinner gatherings, coupled with loud, loud laughing, layering over and over until it all becomes a blur.

The block, they call it, acres of sand and trees that struggle with the elements.

A place of special memories for this tribe..

~ ~ ~

Staying True

by chayne de cairns

He was knocking at her door~ again. The night's light rain pooling at his grass and mud splattered feet as she opened the door. Florescence reflects off his glim-lit eyes, she sees hope there, a silent call for her not to turn him away. Not tonight. Mentally she kicks herself for the Damask rose washing past her silhouette form centered in the whirlpool breeze that arabesques past him at the door. A smile ghosts her compressed lips as she brushes past him, taking the lead down the front stairs, they cross through the garage to the spare rooms below. He walks close behind her, his breath short, hands running through his damp hair. As she flicks the light on, she turns to watch him sit heavily, hands now rubbing his face as he realizes - he should not be here. "What you need," she murmurs across the silent room, "is a cup of tea." She smiles as she turns away from him, and with a slight shake of her head rolls her eyes at the idiocy of the situation. Of them. His relieved sigh carries on the cool breeze, as she walks away to be a friend.

~ ~ ~

Composting Grief

By Meg McNaught

The garden is an escape. So an old friend, now wearing the cloak of widowhood around her thin shoulders, informs me. I smile secretly. I picture the quiet contemplation of trees. The dependability of cycles. The resilience of natives. I try to understand the need within my friend to surround herself with this energy of growth, this reliability of life. Has she noticed the irony, I wonder? Has she looked beyond the flowering buds and the aromatic shrubs? Past prolific fruit trees and confident annuals? For this very place that offers her solace and reassurance, fosters the constancy of death.

Decaying reminders of this constancy are held within the compost heap situated on the fringes of her garden. Like my grieving widow friend, the heap is slightly outcast, as though the garden society doesn’t want to be reminded of its own mortality. Of life’s fatality. In the heap is thrown a sad soggy banana peel, dripping with fermentation. Added to it, the bitterness of a lemon, turning sour. The angry stench of a forgotten potato. The powdery fragility of a mouldy piece of bread. From the garden is tossed a crackle of dried leaves, edges jagged with memories of a youthful green. The hollow laughter of a once cheerful pansy. A thorn pruned from a stoic rose.

The heap is then topped off with the normalcy of grass clippings.

These ingredients concoct together in a composting introduction to widowhood. At first the layers of grief are clearly defined: sadness, anger, pain. But the widow’s cloak and its unrelenting seams hold fast; much like the tarp covering our compost heap. Donned with thick garden gloves, our widow cannot untie the cloak or even dislodge it. Resignedly she accepts the weight of the cloak and the protection it sometimes offers from windy well-wishers and sunny dispositions.

As time passes, grief settles. Our composting widow may have once been a raw pile of emotion, but now she’s feeling more together. Fortified with her rawness and stronger for the potency of sorrow and emptiness, the decaying stench is not quite so offensive, laughter not quite as hysterical. A blending of ingredients occurs, resulting in a smoother, richer product.

Except then, out of nowhere erupts a summer storm. Clouds of memories clash with lightning bolts of reality. Under the flapping tarp the compost heap is churned. Exposed and vulnerable to elements beyond her control, our widow is in a state. New layers mix with those already partially broken down, resulting in a prickliness unexpected at this point in the composting process. Uprooted, my friend wishes the garden was more receptive to irritating itchiness and more tolerating of turbulence. Further adjustment is necessary. The heap is topped with leaves that have gathered like steadfast friends in a shaded corner behind the garden shed. Some thoroughly dried herbs, a potion saved for desperate times only, are added with hopes of sedating the unease.

Eventually life stabilizes, but not as before. Our widow’s ingredients, in different stages of decomposition, have hybridized in a way she could not have foreseen. Usually unpredictability in the garden is relished, like discovering a flowering orchid hidden amongst the rocks. But when an unexpected rendition of ‘their favourite song’ is performed by a choir of butcher birds, an unsettling wave flutters through her system. She seeks the dependable periwinkle bloom of an agapanthus, now as familiar to her as the memory of her dead husband’s arms. The rocks in her garden retain her wall of resolve.

Later, underneath the jacaranda tree, my friend flicks her cloak over her shoulder and takes a moment to reflect on how decomposing grief has changed her life. The sorrow and pain have matured. Filtering layers have yielded a more refined product. Life’s necessities are all that is left in the rich dark soil, still moistened by infrequent tears, fragrant in the way of goodness. Grief has connected her again with life’s essentials. Re-introduced her to parts of herself marriage had melded. In this newly blended soil of life, tears, bitterness and fragility have been transformed.

This refinement is now herself.

It is as if grief has awoken an awareness within her layers. Strength, determination and passion are available to her once again. Sometimes she even feels joy. Yes joy.

What happens next in this decomposing process? What does our widow do with the history of her pain, loneliness and sadness; life’s lessons condensed into a few metres of precious soil? From where I’m standing, in the partial shade of the frangipani, I watch my widowed friend scatter her seeds of wisdom. She is able to do this despite the cloak falling forward and getting in her way. It is less cumbersome now, the deep black has faded to a softer grey. She reaches out to an African daisy, seeking more light. She listens to a recently transplanted rose, struggling with rocky soil. Anything or anyone needing a boost benefits from my friend’s richly composted grief. This is the ironic part. The process of decay and decomposition has made for an opulent vintage. One with the ability to nurture and perpetuate the cycles of life in others.

I heard someone say you are never the same once you’ve grieved. Whether your first taste of grief was as a child when your dog died or as an adult like my cloaked widowed friend. Life is no longer viewed through untouched eyes; it is lived with a new knowing. This increased appreciation of life’s fragility deepens our sadness and amplifies our laughter. Composting our grief into a richer life for all.

~ ~ ~

THIS MOVING LIFE

by Edel Wignell 

 After moving house I am unusually alert. My senses constantly compare and contrast the old environment with the new. Malvern (Melbourne) is almost inner-suburban, totally different from the foothills of the Dandenong Ranges in the outer east where I live now.

  First I notice that it's cooler and fresher. If the temperature forecast for the city is 20 degrees, I mentally adjust to 18. Preferring cool weather, I feel my energy levels soar. Often there is a breeze which I welcome because, at last, I can breathe freely. No more environmental pollution! Goodbye to sore throats, anti-histamines and nasal inhalers!

  On early morning power-walks, I notice architecture and gardens. Malvern features Edwardian, Federation and other classic styles, set in well-established, manicured gardens in streets on a square grid.

  Outer suburbia sprawls on avenues, ways and boulevards: large houses on wide frontages of lawn with trees and a few shrubs. The garden beds may not be as resplendent, but there is room for two or three vehicles and a large boat.

  Walking east, I reach parkland bordered with grand houses overlooking three lakes. To the west is a golf course with a wild fringe, the scent of fox evoking memories of my childhood on a farm.

  Young families dominate the area. Children provide distractions and need chauffeuring. I see more children in a day than I used to see in a week - pushed in prams and toddling beside mothers.

  The undercover shopping centre is perfect in all weathers - much more comfortable than a shopping strip. It's conducive to browsing and taking a coffee break. Visible consumption rules! Young people eat and drink on the run. Elderlies sit for their refreshments, and observe. Injunctions ring out!

  'Come here, Harry!'

  'Put that back, Rebecca!'

  'Thomas! Hurry! Up!'

  In the school holidays a miniature golf course is set up and a play booth with photography entices mothers to bring their children to be immortalised on film.

  In the past I waited in a queue at the bank and the post office, but not for long. Here, the queues stretch out the door. In the first week, I waited at the bank's information counter, glancing often at my watch. A client left; my turn next. I sighed as I moved forward. A young woman behind me shuffled from foot to foot and muttered.

  I turned sympathetically. 'I've been here for a quarter of an hour.'

  'I've got a kindy pick-up!' Her voice was urgent and angry.

  Just then, the last client left and the bank officer looked up. I moved forward, but not quickly enough. The young woman darted ahead and took my place! I protested, but she ignored, persevering with her business.

  The bank officer glanced and said, 'I'm sorry, but I'm on my lunch hour.'

  Silenced by this logic, I waited with uncharacteristic meekness, reminding myself that, from time to time, the ruthlessness of motherhood should be celebrated.

  Our former suburb has many splendid restaurants, so, for months before we moved, we wondered and speculated. Where will we eat? Soon we discovered every kind of take-away establishment within walking distance, all hugely patronised by families.

  Close by is a variety of restaurants and clubs, and a high-class bistro in an enormous hotel. The hotel is surrounded by acres of car parking to service a huge poker machine area. From time to time, boxing and wrestling shows may be viewed in one of the function rooms. Why would anyone want to stay at home and tend a garden?

  The Dandenong Ranges and their culinary pleasures are now at our back door. It is easy to drop everything and slip away for lunch or afternoon tea in a leafy paradise.

  In the past travel was easy: 100 metres from my door was a tram to the Arts Centre, city, public library and university. Three tram stops away was a train station. Reading as I ride is one of my pleasures.

  On moving, how would I travel? As a patron of public transport, I couldn't imagine driving my car, except when I wanted to cut across suburbs. Soon I discovered an express bus to a train station, linking with an express train to the city. Even more time to read!

  For most people, moving house is a traumatic experience. It was, for us, too. But pleasure came afterwards with the waking of the senses to all things new.

~ ~ ~