In the early 60’s my parents packed up my brothers, sister, our numerous menagerie and me and relocated us from the sleepy country town of Pyramid Hill, Victoria, to the bustling metropolis of Launceston, Tasmania. I don’t think my five-year old brain was able to conceive the concept of moving house, and from that innocence came no sad farewells. In my brain we were going on an extended holiday, this was exciting stuff.
These past few months my life has been chaotic. Running at full speed, no resting, smelling roses or sleeping after 6:00 A.M. – just galloping around like a mad woman. I don’t have any recollection of how, or exactly when this ridiculousness started, but it became painfully obvious the day my son said, ‘Mum, I just want you to stop working.’ A painful dagger in my heart; a courageous cry for sanity.
In the town where I live I see all types. The locals that have been here for years, the kids who’ve just recently graduated from college and spawned back home to catch up on laundry, decent meals and cheap pot, and the yuppies from big cities who crave the ‘simple’ life providing it comes with no less than four bathrooms, a guest house, room for horses, an infinity pool with a view of the world and plenty of room for their toys. But the genus that I’m constantly amused by is the folk who shop at the local health food stores.