Sarah Belle's Blog, page 9

Author Spotlight and giveway with Sarah Belle

Reblogged from Romance Writers of Australia:

 Hi Sarah and welcome to the Author Spotlight! Congratulations on the release of HINDSIGHT. Can you tell us a little about it?

Hi Imelda  and thanks for having me! I certainly can, here’s the blurb:

Humour, wit, and just a touch of humility: the swinging 60s as you’ve never seen them before!

The universe has sent Juliette a sign. She wishes it had been an email instead...

Read more… 1,409 more words

The Daddy Factor, part 2…

A few months ago I posted a blog (The Daddy Factor)  about my husband taking our three older boys out to lunch in a food court and how three elderly ladies felt the need to tell him that the boys were exceptionally well behaved. Then they said to him: “It’s great to see how well behaved your boys are. Please pass onto your wife that she’s done an excellent job.”

Well, after last week’s effort, I hate to think what they would have said to him, and am positive that they would not have passed their compliments on to me. In fact, I am pretty sure that they would have been ringing Child Services and reporting us…but let’s start at the beginning…

We are big fans of the show, The Big Bang Theory, in fact, our ten year old can quote episodes verbatim and our eight year old bares a remarkable resemblance to Sheldon (both physically and emotionally).

Fellow fans may remember the episode where Raj attempts to imitate American sayings, but gets it wrong and comes out with a mish-mash of quotes that don’t make sense. Well, apparently our six year old, Lachlan, was paying more attention to that particular episode than we thought.

While at a food court, eating lunch, the boys were reminiscing about their favourite sayings from the show. Lachlan joined in and said, that the top of his voice, while waving his sandwich around in his little hand,

“Hey, remember when Raj said: IN YOUR ARSE!”

Of course, the entire food court heard him and turned their stunned faces in the direction of Jason, who was now choking on his lunch.  The two older boys were as stunned as the rest of the food court population, while Lachlan, oblivious to his blunder, was smiling and dancing.

The eight year old mini-Sheldon, pointed out that Lachlan had gotten it wrong.  Raj had actually said: “Shut Your Arse!”, meaning to say “Shut up”.

Jason pointed out that in either case, it was not appropriate language for children and they shouldn’t say it again. Especially in a large public space, like a food court.

Fast track one hour later – Jason and the boys are happily ensconced in their seats at the movie theatre, waiting for the main feature to start.

A young child, sitting with his family in the same row, had been talking through the trailers, but no one cared because he only looked to be about four years old. We’ve all got to start somewhere, right?

As the main feature started, the small child continued to chat, even though his parents had tried to shush him.  We all know it’s impossible to tell a small one to be quiet when he has something to say.

Lachlan, however, thought otherwise. He leant  forward in his seat, turned toward the child and said, loudly:

“Shut your arse!”

Yep, you read correctly. Our six year old told another child to shut his arse. In perfect context. Perfect timing.  Not in a busy food court, but in a quietened movie theatre where everyone could hear.

Jason was stunned into silence, as were the older boys – especially our ten year old, Ethan,  who was sitting next to the mother of the other child. Ethan chose to let the backrest of the seat swallow him whole as he disappeared into the tweedy upholstery.  All that remained were to enormous, shocked blue eyeballs that were bulging out of his head in an attempt not to laugh, mixed with utter shock at what Lachlan had done, and fear that the mother would blame him.

Jason and his rugby player physique joined Ethan and made himself as small as a 100kg man can be, as he too disappeared into the manky upholstery of the seat.

And me? I wiped tears away from my eyes in hysterics, as this was relayed to me later that afternoon. I was at home writing at the time, so missed out (for once) on the public humiliation that comes wrapped in the gorgeous bubble that is my six year old, Lachlan.

But, the next time his teacher tells me that he is having trouble comprehending  things at school, I will be able to tell her otherwise!

Melbourne…the home of HINDSIGHT…

In celebration of the  release of HINDSIGHT, I thought it would be fun to show you where the story is set -  in my beautiful hometown of Melbourne, Australia, in both the modern day and 1961.

In the starring role are the inner city suburbs of Clifton Hill, Carlton and Fitzroy. These places hold special meaning to me because all of my family came from these suburbs. Like most inner city suburbs, these areas used to house mainly working class people in their tiny terraced houses and duplexes neatly stacked in rows. In fact, the house that HINDSIGHT is set in was built by my own Great Grandfather in the 1880′s and remained in my family until I was one year old and my parents moved to the suburbs. (this photo is not that particular house!)

Melbourne has crazy, unpredictable weather where the four seasons can be experienced in the one day! In Winter the arctic winds blast from the south, so cold that no amount of clothing will keep you safe from the icy blades that slice right through the skin and into every bone.

The summers can either be dry and hot, or steamy and hot.  Days of temperatures over 40 deg (104 deg Fahrenheit) can flatten everyone and have the entire population begging for a cool change and thunderstorm.

Autumn is my favourite time of year – the trees are full of russet brown, rich gold and amber leaves, which fall to the ground, creating mounds that invite small children to play in them. The mornings and evenings are chilly and the days are full of sunshine.

And, of course, the world famous horse race that stops not only our nation, but many others as well – The Melbourne Cup, held on the first Tuesday each November. Readers from outside Australia may not be aware that it is actually a public holiday in Melbourne! Yep, we stop everything for a horse race! Cool, huh!

We gather in crowds of 100,000 to watch a game of Australian Rules football, because the competition is tribal. It is a Melbourne religion – and most of the players are really, really cute with utterly fabulous bodies, which is a huge bonus for us girls! Carn the Pies!

But enough of my waffling – here’s a snipped from HINDSIGHT  and some great photos…

The air-conditioning is blasting out the vents, trying to keep up with the heatwave that has consumed Melbourne in the dying days of summer. Outside, the heat vapours rise from the road like ghosts of Melbourne past. It’s a beautiful city: majestic, full of character with its mix of Edwardian and Victorian architecture, the network of cobbled alleyways and Harry Potter-esque arcades leading to modern buildings that look as though they were designed by a tormented, but brilliant, acid-popping architect with an obsession with geometry.

     

You can buy HINDSIGHT from the etailers below, or from Escape Publishing.

JB Hi Fi   

Kobo

Google Play 

Ebooks.com 

Booktopia

Nook Barnes & Noble 

Amazon UK 

Amazon US

HINDSIGHT launch day! Sneaky peeky excerpt…

Whoo-hoo! The day has arrived! HINDSIGHT is released today. It’s just  little bit exciting!

In celebration, here’s a sneaky excerpt – a conversation between the main character, Juliette Wilde and her feisty  older sister, Dash…

“Hey chickster,” Dash says. “What’s happened? Are you alright?”

“I think Chris is having an affair with Anya.” The words sting. It’s unbelievable that they are actually being spoken.

“Whaaaaaat? No way! Uh-uh, no way in the world. Not Chris,” she says.

“I just heard it from her own mouth.”

“Onion told you that she’s having an affair with your husband?” She’s outraged, which makes me feel a tiny bit better that someone is on my side. “Where is she? I’ll sort her out.”

“No, she told her friend. I just happened to overhear their conversation. She said they kissed the night they all went out and that he is on the brink of leaving me. She wants to make a family — my family — with him. With MY HUSBAND!”

“Oh Jules, that’s awful. You poor darling. But it’s not true, is it?” Dash knows Chris almost as well as me.

“Of course she’s lying, just wishful thinking. He wouldn’t, would he? Everything’s been so wonderful. We’ve worked through so much in the last three weeks. We’re happy again.”

“No. There is no way that Chris would cheat on you. But…” She looks off into the distance as though some great philosophical thought is coming forth.

“But what?”

“Is kissing defined as cheating?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Of course it’s cheating!” I say. “If Joe pashed someone else, wouldn’t you consider that to be cheating?”

Dash looks lost in thought and confused all at once.

“Besides, are you saying that it’s OK for him to pash that trollop?” I ask.

“No, of course I’m not, Jules. But it’s subjective, isn’t it? For some people kissing is alright. You know, some men think it’s OK to get a blowjob because it’s not intercourse. Do you think that Chris would define kissing as cheating?”

“Well, yes, definitely.”

“You hesitated there. Are you positive that Chris would class pashing as cheating?”

I slump backwards into a chair and look at Dash’s face, which is remarkably similar to mine, except without all the enhancements. The weight of my own heart seems unbearably heavy, dragging me off the chair and through the floor.

“I don’t know. He was very snappy with me when we talked about it the next day. It was so unlike him, he’s never spoken crossly to me before. But there’s been absolutely no sign since, nothing to suggest anything’s going on.”

“Did he say anything else about it?” she asks.

“No, just that he would be offended if I was hinting that something happened between them…”

My eyes close as the connection is made. Snappy, accusing me of accusing him.

Dash looks at me as though…well, as though my husband has cheated on me.

Then come the tears.

HINDSIGHT is available now from Escape Publishing.

One day until HINDSIGHT is released…

Wow, I am getting nervously excited now! One day to go until HINDSIGHT is released via Escape Publishing. Whoo – hoo! Time for a little snippet from Juliette after she has time travelled back to 1961…

“Umm, this is going to sound really odd,” I say.

“More odd than anything else today?” she smiles.

“Where’s the toilet? It’s not…” where it should be. A bit like me.

“It’s in the backyard Jules, where it’s always been.”

“In the backyard, that’s a good one,” I laugh.

But she’s not laughing. In fact, her expression tells me that she’s serious. Touching my arm, Lily points through the window to a little wooden building in the yard, about the size of a broom cupboard, bordering the back fence, linked to the house by a concrete path.

An outdoor toilet? You’ve got to be kidding!

HINDSIGHT…the blurb…

Humour, wit, and just a touch of humility: the swinging 60s as you’ve never seen them before!

The universe has sent Juliette a sign. She wishes it had been an email instead…

Juliette’s career is on fire, her marriage and family are in melt-down, and a red-hot goddess wants her husband. But those are the least of her worries when she wakes up on her lounge room floor in the year 1961.

Without any of her modern conveniences — nanny, housekeeper, surgically attached mobile phone, designer wardrobe, and intravenous lattes — Juliette is just over fifty years out of her comfort zone. But as she takes on the role of a 1961 housewife, with gritted liberated teeth, she discovers an unexpected truth: slower doesn’t mean boring, at home doesn’t mean dull, and priorities don’t mean sacrifices.

As she finds unexpected friendships, a resuscitated love life, tragedy and triumph, Juliette begins to wonder if she really wants to return home after all.

That means that there is only one day left to pre order at the cheaper price. HINDSIGHT is available at the following etailers or from Escape Publishing,

JB Hifi

Kobo

Google Play

Ebooks.com

Booktopia

Nook Barnes & Noble

Amazon UK

Amazon US

Join me for my launch day on my Facebook page. Come and say hi and have a virtual drink to celebrate with me!

The drive to school is…

The journey from garage to school yard each morning is often fraught with tears, bickering  and temporary insanity…and it’s only a four minute drive to school…

7.57:00 am – I do a final cattle call for everyone to board the ‘school express’ that is currently welcoming  passengers in the garage. There’s no need to show your tickets, just put your school bag and hat in the boot, climb on in to the car  and do your seatbelt up. Let’s go.

7:57:10 – Two older boys have managed to find the door into the garage. Don’t be too impressed that they have done this within ten seconds because I have been gently encouraging them since 7:45 to put their bag in the car and get in. The twenty metres between the television and garage door is the longest journey of the day and can take up to fifteen minutes at times.

7:57:15 – Same two boys begin to argue because they have both tried to squeeze through the door at the same time, unsuccessfully.  Push has come to shove and one is sporting a sore shoulder from banging into the door frame and the other has managed to trip over his own feet. They are blaming each other.

The two younger boys are still chasing the dogs and each other in the backyard and are, conveniently, unable to hear me calling them.

7:57:35 – The two older boys have found the boot and thrown their school bags in it. They both land upside down which means that the entire contents of their lunch boxes has now been upended and will resemble scrambled dog food. This will not look appetizing come lunch time so it will not be eaten. Instead, it will come home untouched at the end of the day, resulting in another lecture from me about how our World Vision children would kill for such a feast.

The two younger boys are still playing in the backyard. They now look at me when I call them, but ignore my voice and hand gestures as I wave at them. I am worthy of a place on the Olympic Charade team.

7:58:00 – The two older boys are now sitting in the car, arguing because one shut the door too hard. There is a permanent seating arrangement in the car: birth order numbers 1,3 and 4 cram in the backseat together and number 2 sits in the spacious passenger seat, even though he is the skinniest of the lot. This is because he and number 3 have a symbiotic relationship akin to petrol and flame. The only other seating option is to put one of them in the boot, but I am told this is illegal.

7:58:20 – The two younger boys are still in the backyard and are smiling at me as my voice climbs to a sopranic rant. They continue to play.

7:58:30 – I open the back door and tell them that if they don’t get into the car right now they will never see the inside of a packet of crisps or icecream wrapper again. They move faster than the speed of light and hurl themselves into the back seat, squashing number 1 in the process. Number 2 smiles smugly from the front seat.

7:58:40 – I ask if everyone has remembered their hats. Eight eyeballs stare blankly at me. I get out of the car, retrieve said hats from the garage shelf, mumble a quiet profanity, and throw the hats in the car.

7:58:50 – I start the engine. Number 4 is hitting number 1 because he doesn’t want his older brother to clip his seatbelt in. He wants to do it himself, but then gets frustrated because he can’t do it himself. Number 1 offers to help, which results in physical abuse from number 4 in the form of tiny, fisty punches.

7:59:00 – Number 3 has started to make the world’s most annoying sound – ‘eeeeeooooooo, eeeeeeeooooooooo, eeeeeeeeeeooooooooooo’ at approximately 97 decibels. Symbiotic relationship with number 2 kicks into action and we have lift off – a volcanic eruption from number 2 and a satisfied grin from number 3 as he continues his unmelodious  screech.

7:59:10 – I groan, inwardly and silently, so hard that my lungs deflate. I then allow myself to fondly reminisce about the days when leaving the garage was a easy as getting in the car, turning the engine on and reversing.

7:59:20 – An ear piercing scream  snaps me out of my daydream and back to reality. Number 4 has pinched number 1, who is now clutching his upper arm in pain. I tell number 4 that his behaviour  is not ok. He bursts into tears. We haven’t even reversed out of the garage yet and everything’s turned to hell already.

7:59:30 – I lose my shit.

7:59:55 – I continue to lose my shit.

8:00:30 – I am still losing my shit.

8:00:45 – I have finished losing my shit. The car is filled with stunned silence.

8:01:00 – During the minute of losing my shit I have reversed out of the driveway and we are now only 2 minutes from school. The car is still filled with stunned silence.

8:01:30 – The guilt hormone is released from my endocrine system at the rate of an overflowing dam. I am the world’s worst mother. All I do is yell at my kids – just ask my neighbours, they’ll tell you. I don’t deserve kids.

8:01:45 – No, really. These kids are great. I’d give them the beating heart out of my chest if they needed it.  Look at them. They can’t help it – they’re kids for god’s sake! I’m the adult. It is not OK to lose my shit.

8:02:00 – I apologise for losing my shit, although I phrase it in kid-friendly terms.  I tell them how much I love them and that I don’t want to be a screaming mummy. If they would do as they were told and not fight with each other, we could all live happily ever after. They all nod. I smile, even though I know, without a doubt, that if I were to ask them to repeat what I had just said, no one would be able to do it.

8:02:30 – We are nearing the school gate and all chatting happily.

8:02:45 – We pull up in the car park and get ready to unpack the bags and walk into school. I am so thankful for the last 15 seconds of family happiness that I feel like a true earth mother. Maybe I am a better mother than I give myself credit for? After all, 15 seconds of no fighting, screeching, tears or punching is pretty good!

I need it, hot and sweaty…

I need it 3 times a week, minimum. I’d do it every day if I could. My husband, Jason, is more than happy to oblige.  Happy wife, happy life, he says.

It’s the same every time, and you’d think that it would become routine and perhaps monotonous after so long, but it doesn’t.

The mirrored room,  that originally intimidated me, now offers familiarity, an introduction to a person I hadn’t truly known, but with whom now there is an in-depth and comfortable intimacy.

Soon the breath becomes deeper, longer, intoxicating. Within minutes the mild dizziness begins, an airiness that is both pleasant and a little un-nerving at the same time – a slight loss of control.

My fingers and toes tingle as though filled with tiny bubbles, and I know that soon, I will be on my way to my own kind of heaven. The place we all need to visit more often.

The breath changes and my body heats up as though smouldering coals are deep inside. My skin warms and the first trickle of sweat works its way from the nape of my neck, over the collarbone and around the curve of my breast. It then slides its way, silently, gathering speed as it falls the entire length of my body.

That one drop of sweat is replaced by another, and another and another until there are tens of little rivulets of briny wetness making paths around a warmed, limbered body.

The urge to stretch, contract, reach, curl up and extend cannot be denied any longer. My body is on the brink of release. The next position both challenges and rewards me. It hurts a little, and requires more patience, perseverance, concentration and balance than I usually have to give.

The release is coming.

We change position, and while it is always in the same order, it offers me a sense of change that I cannot find anywhere else.

Eventually we stop, for a short rest. A moment in time where I can focus purely on the breath, on the magic that is coursing around my body and on nothing else. Nothing, just being purely in the moment that is now. The only now there will ever be.

I flip over and lay face down to take on the most intense positions – the ones where I get to take flight. Backward bends against the force of gravity that leave me exhausted, exhilarated, stronger than ever.

The end is near. My body is hot, my mind is calm, my stress is gone, my muscles fluid Mercury, and I am  ready for the final release. The sweat runs off me, long ago saturating what little material I wear. My hair has reverted to curls under the dampness and my spirit is glowing like a star on a moonless night.

It is here. Now. This is it. My spine twists like a pearl necklace, one pearl stacked upon the other, as I am filled with gratitude for the strong, resilient body I’ve nurtured.

The final rest is where it all comes together – my mind, my body, my spirit, my energy are all reunited. It is my heaven, my inner-sanctum, my escape, where the only thing that matters is the breath. There is no yesterday, no today and no tomorrow. No worries.  No responsibilities. And most of all, no fear. This is the room where I learn to become fearless, where I shed everything that holds me back.

Ninety minutes in a forty degree room, practising the divine torture that is Bikram Yoga.

Namaste.

And all you dirty minded beasts thought I was talking about sex!

The magic Flokarti rug…

In celebration of the pending release of my debut novel, HINDSIGHT, I thought it would be fun to look back on things I’ve done during my time, that were…well…a little bit dumb, a little bit crazy, a little bit ‘what the hell was I thinking?’

Everyone has a dish from their childhood that still makes them shudder at the thought of having to eat it again and for me it was mum’s Chow Mien (or Chuck Mein as we named it behind her back). It consisted of ninety five percent cabbage, three percent mincemeat and two percent lurid yellow colouring. It was a testimony to my love for her to chug it down each week.

Although it threatened to come back up numerous times, I always did my best to finish as much as I could – namely because we were not allowed to leave the table until our plate was clean. Whatever wasn’t eaten went in the fridge until you were hungry again and that was your next meal – and, in the days prior to microwaves, if there was one thing worse than hot Chuck Mein, it was cold Chuck Mein. It was far better to suffer quickly than prolong the agony.

Finally, years later, I reached the end of my tether and couldn’t withhold my inner Chuck Mein rebellion anymore. It took me weeks to work up the courage to deceive my mum -she had eyes in the back of her head, and her punishments were swift and not open to negotiation. Make no bones about it, this mission was dangerous and once started, there was no turning back.

The entire plan had three steps to it:

1)       Take my dinner in my bedroom, as a tweenie is required to do in order to keep up anti-social, venom spitting appearances.

2)      Transfer the contents of my bowl into a napkin.

3)      Feed contents of said napkin to our ever-hungry Red Setter, Mulligan, by sneaking out the back door, out of the view of my mother.

Easy. Brilliant planning. Sometimes the most effective covert missions are the ones carried out in broad daylight, under the ruse of normal, everyday life – or so I learnt on ‘Get Smart’ and ‘Mission Impossible’.

I should mention here that my mum was a HUGE fan of floor rugs – every room had a rug in it, even the bathroom and toilet. There were Persians, Woollen loomy things, hippie looking rugs and the epicentre of 70’s and 80’s interior design – the Flokarti.

Yes, you guessed it – my bedroom floor was adorned with the Flokarti.  A white Flokarti.  For those of you who have remained blissfully unaware of these rugs for the last thirty years, let me demonstrate one I prepared earlier…

A Flokarti rug is made of wool and has the appearance of an Albino Rastafarian – the fibres are twisted into dreadlock looking strands that are approximately three inches long, which meant that it was better at trapping dirt than a Dyson. In fact, I think I lost the entire contents of my pencil case in there once and never found it again.

So, the plan was in action. The Chuck Mein was sitting in the bowl on my floor, steaming it’s little yellow heart out, emanating rancid cabbage and Keen’s Curry powder fumes into the atmosphere.

I carefully laid out the napkin that had been given to me – mum was a stickler for cleanliness at meal times- and steeled myself to transfer said Chuck Mein onto it.

I took my spoon in my right hand and tried to stop the trembling. If I was caught doing this then my life would cease to exist until the day I turned thirty six, and when you’re only ten, that’s an awfully long time. High stakes, people!

Slowly, I spooned the Chuck Mein onto the awaiting napkin, until it was loaded. Pleased with myself, I took a  congratulatory moment, and prepared my nerves for the biggest part of the mission – the movement of loaded napkin from my room to the bowl of the dog, which was a good thirty metres away, punctuated by a small flight of stairs, two doors,  and a long ramp down into the back garden. Like I said, high stakes.

It wasn’t until I attempted to pick up the loaded napkin that I realised I had made two enormous mistakes that would cost me my freedom for the next twenty six years.

The napkin was made of paper and was folded out to maximum size, meaning that it was 1 ply thick.
The napkin was currently resting on top of the beloved Flokarti rug.

Can you see where I’m going with this?

With my little hands lifting the napkin, and the weight and moisture of the Chuck Mein making lift off a physical impossibility, I was left holding the corners of a torn napkin as the Chuck Mein spread itself all over the white Flokarti rug.

Stop! Wait, did that just really happen? Did I just spill an entire bowl of toxic coloured Chuck Mein all over a WHITE FLOKARTI RUG?????  (Cue falling on knees ‘Platoon’ style and releasing a silent ‘Nooooooooooooooooooo’.)

Just at the moment where my heart ceased to beat and my body was paralysed from the eyeballs down, my older brother, Michael, opened my door and walked into my room.

He could see what I’d done and his face must have mirrored mine.

“Shit Sarah! What have you done?”

This was my cue to burst into tears and ask myself the same question.

Through jabbering lips and over stimulated salivary glands, I tried to explain my mission, but it didn’t sound so brilliant with a life sentence sitting on my rug.

“You won’t tell her, will you?” I stammered.

Michael was always fair, but honest. I had hoped that he would help me clean up my mess and it would all magically go away.

“I won’t tell her, but if she asks what happened, I won’t lie,” he said.

Of course it didn’t go away – Mum found it, I got in loads of trouble and the Flokarti had a permanent toxic yellow stain on it for the rest of its life.

And the next time Chuck Mein was served to me? I sat at the table and ate it under the watchful eye of my mother. I remained scarred, just like that Flokarti Rug.

The Angel Mother…

She knew, from the very first moment she held him.  The small, helpless bundle she cradled so lovingly in her arms, the tiny little boy was so much more than a gift from above.  She’d waited, so long, and with such heartbreak for this moment, and it was even better than she’d ever imagined.

And now they were finally  together, she made the promise never to leave him. Not ever.

The sleepless nights spent nursing him were a joy, because she had lived the alternative – a full night’s sleep on an empty heart; a heart waiting to give so much love to the tiny person to whom she now belonged.

His first smile brought tears to her eyes- happy tears for a moment in time shared between just the two of them.  A moment in time that would forever be locked away in her mummy box of treasured memories and later recalled with such clarity, that each time it was retrieved, it felt like the first time, again and again.

His first step, his first word, the first time he said, ‘I love you mummy’. The bond that had formed between them was one that could never be broken.  All precious beyond words.  Sacred moments.

She kissed away every little tear that rolled down his rounded cheeks, soothed away every scrape and bump with a special mummy kiss and a bandaid that restored a smile to his sweet little face and huge brown eyes.

She came running when he called out for her in the middle of the night, frightened by a bad dream. She held him in the safety of her arms until his breath slowed and he returned to slumber.  Then she sat and watched over him as he slept; because she had promised never to leave him. Not ever.

His first day at school was a jumble of emotions. The pride at seeing him take his place in the world, and the fear of having to let him go.

At the end of the first day she wrapped her arms around him tightly, as if she could retrieve every moment of his day and store it in her heart for the next day, when they would again be apart.

She attended every school athletics carnival, swimming day, and award presentation. She spent hours sewing costumes for dress up days; every thread laced with love and gratitude for the gift she had been given.

She spent hours in the wind and the cold, cheering from the side-lines during football season, until her voice croaked, her pride swelling each time he got close to the ball.

During the relentless Australian summer, she would bake in the heat to watch him play cricket and give him a cool drink and piece of fruit at each break.

His first part time job – delivering news papers and milk before school. Her beautiful mummy heart bursting with pride at how responsible her son had grown up to be and at all the promise the future held for him. The excitement at what magical times lay ahead.

The first girlfriend, the first broken heart. A feeling of helplessness as her words and love gave no relief. His pain endured. It had to. She knew this, for him to learn, to grow, to mature.  Her heart was heavy with the burden of this knowledge,  but she knew  that she too must endure this pain so that she could learn, and grow and mature into a mother of a teenage boy.

Then, the unthinkable happens. Her body is ravaged by an incurable disease. But she doesn’t think about herself. Her only thought is for her son.

She fights with all her strength to stay because there is still so much to do. So many memories to build.  So many milestones yet to reach– graduating from school, the start of a career, falling in and out of love, a wedding day, and the most magical day of all, the birth of his own child – the grandchild  that she would give anything to hold in her arms.

Within only a few short months, her body is broken. No matter how determined she is to stay, no matter the love between mother and son, it is not enough.  The disease takes her life, and the boy’s life is changed – forever.

The years pass and the boy grows into a man.  He achieves his professional dreams. He falls in and out of love.  His wedding day  is just as beautiful as his mother could ever have imagined.

He experiences the miracle of new life as he welcomes his own little boy into the world. The heavenly mother watches over the baby each night,  as his chest rises and falls in time with each little breath.

She has not missed a single moment of her son’s life.  Not one. She has been there for every milestone, every day of happiness, every day of sadness.  She has watched, beaming with pride, as her son grew into the man she always knew he would be, because even death itself could not break the bond between a mother and her child.

She will continue to watch over him, and his family, because she is his mother and she promised him that she would never leave.  Not ever.  And one day, when it is his time to leave this life, she will once again wrap her arms around him and welcome him home.

Please, ladies, remember to get a pap smear and breast examination every two years. If your instinct tells you that something is wrong - please seek a second opinion.

In loving memory of all the Angel Mummies.

xxxx

A Blue Light Fiasco…

In celebration of the pending release of my debut novel, HINDSIGHT, I thought it would be fun to revisit some moments in my own life when a little Hindsight would have come in handy…

As a fifteen year old, I did some pretty dumb things, such as smoking cigarettes in order to be ‘cool’, wearing too much make up, again in order to be ‘cool’ and spending my money on ‘Smash Hits’ magazines because I loved to daydream about marrying a rock star- either John Taylor from Duran Duran or Brian Mannix from Uncanny Xmen (cringe!).

But the dumbest of all would have to be getting horridly drunk before attending a ‘Blue Light Disco’ – a disco run by…da, da, daaaaaaaaa….the Police. Watch out! Genius at work.

It wasn’t my intention to completely obliterate myself, but it happened nonetheless. You’d think that the fact our destination was called ‘The Blue Light Disco’ and we knew that it was run by the Police would have been a sufficient deterrent, wouldn’t you? Apparently not.

As a crowd of teenagers waited for the bus to the disco at the back of the Bundoora Hotel, two of my friends and I disappeared into the back alley to consume an entire bottle of Southern Comfort. Yep- an entire bottle.

Like I said, genius at work.

I can’t even remember if we mixed it with Cola or just did the really classy thing and chugged it straight out of the bottle.

I had slightly less than the other two and so was not as mind-bendingly drunk, but I also wasn’t able to remain in a vertical position without assistance, preferably from a large, sturdy brick wall.

My best friend arrived – sober- and saw the mess I had gotten myself into and attempted bring me back to life by walking me around in the fresh air. It was a lovely gesture, and a true insight into our friendship, but no amount of exercise or conversation was going to undo the damage I had done to myself, but I guess every little bit helped.

Finally the bus arrived, by which time the full effects of the alcohol had hit my friends and I. Why we still got on the bus and didn’t attempt to leg it home, is still beyond me. What sort of a teenager, drunk and breaking the law by consuming alcohol, would then voluntarily go and present themselves to the Police?

Geniuses, that’s who.

So, as I watched one friend bring back up most of the Southern Comfort she had consumed – which landed perfectly in her white, high heeled court shoes, and another pass out on the bus, did it occur to me that we had done the wrong thing?

Probably – I can’t remember.

The parents of the other girls were called to come and collect them, with my step father coming along for the ride because he knew that I had gone with these girls. While they literally poured her into the car, I did my best ever impersonation of a sober person.

It was Oscar worthy. Truly, if an actor can win an award for playing a drunk while sober, then they really ought to challenge themselves and try to play a sober person while drunk. It’s an art and a science all rolled into one cosmically terrifying event.

I think the excessive adrenaline pumping around my body managed to sober me up a little and I was able to answer their questions as to how it happened. My standard response was, of course, “I don’t know.” I wasn’t going to lag on my friends.

So, we get back to my friend’s house and her mother, who worked in a bar, tried to identify the alcohol by smelling her daughter’s breath. She must have been gifted with extraordinary olfactory superpowers, because despite vast amounts of Vomit breath coming her way, she was still able to identify the culprit as some kind of Scotch. She wasn’t far off the mark.

I went home with my stepfather, who, miraculously, was still none the wiser as to my condition.

Our punishment? You can imagine it wasn’t pretty. Other than the mother of all hangovers, that was the end of our Blue Light Disco escapades. In fact, it was the end of life as we knew it for a good amount of time.

My very own punishment – I later became a Bar Attendant and lost count of how many bottles of Southern Comfort I had to open in the eleven years I worked in bars. Thousands at least – and every bottle came with a complimentary gag, stomach churn and evil flashback to a night when a little Hindsight would have come in handy.