Remember when we did resolutions? I remember being a teen and taking them quite seriously. How funny that seems now.

I’m definitely a planner but that’s very different to having resolutions. A list of things to achieve. At this point in my life I’m happy getting through each week, month, year…living reasonably happily and steadily is my only true desire but I wouldn’t consider that a resolution.

Life has a way of whipping out the rug from under your feet when you feel you have things under control or maybe even getting somewhere. That’s a level of cynicism developed over many years of life whipping out the rug from your under your feet.

So I’m just going to keep on chugging along. Doing the best I can at this single parenting malarkey. Working, paying the bills. keeping the house clean enough so as not to attract the condemnation of the WHO. Spending time with my family and friends who are the scaffolding to my crumbling facade. Listening to music and going to gigs because that shit fills up my empty soulless interior area. Reading and watching stuff on the big and the small screen because, well, see above. More volunteering when I can because sweet baby cheesus us middle class white peeps need to put some effort in FFS (also see above).

Without wishing to cause nausea in any readers I do feel I’ve learnt some hard lessons about myself this year and I plan to keep those lessons front and centre as I go into 2019. I haven’t learnt the meaning of life and I haven’t made any saccharine revelations about the beauty of life but I have realized no one is going to save me from me or from the emptiness or loneliness. There’s just me. I can save myself. I always have and I always will.

If you read this drivel I wish you all the good things for the upcoming spin around the sun. Live. Love. Laugh. Take the piss. Whatever rocks your boat.

Here’s my buddy Frank with his buddy Jon to take us out.


I’ve been waiting for some sort of blog inspiration to strike this week so that I could write something profound but nothing… So just more drivel and bollocks.

I don’t know what to say about this year except it’s been weird and it’s been wonderful. The only negative this year has been hurting someone who didn’t deserve to be hurt but sadly sometimes a drowning person needs to take drastic action to save themselves.

I really feel saved. I saved myself. It’s taken five and a half years (since the wasband left) for me to stop trashing about, for me to stop self sabotaging myself under the guise of “I’m happier as part of a couple”. You don’t know what you don’t know; or more apt, you can’t see what you refuse to see.

I’ve spent a lifetime making excuses for my poor choices when it comes to men. At fifty I’ve finally, FINALLY, realized my worth and my days of pandering to pathetic man children are behind me. Maybe there’s a decent man out there in possession of the characteristics I truly need in an equal partner and maybe there isn’t. But the realization that this mythical creature is not a requirement for my happiness and well being is completely freeing.

There is quite obviously some deficiency in me, some dull psychological knot in my psyche that has prevented me from seeing, understanding, accepting this truth but I’ve seen now, I’ve accepted.

The things that truly matter, so cliche but true, are family and friends. The bedrock of my life. Barf bags located in seat pockets.

There have been a truckload of fabulous moments this year and none of them feature a male of the romantic interest variety. All of them feature my bestest, strongest women friends. Chance or coincidence?

When you step out of a jail of your own making the freedom is intoxicating. Onwards.


The Joker was at the Frank Turner concert on Friday night. I knew he would be. Frank was his gift to me, he loved him before I knew him, so I would have been surprised if he hadn’t gone.

Over the past few weeks the idea that I’d see him there would float across my mind and I’d vaguely consider what I’d do should we come face to face. I had no idea.

On the day of the concert I was busy and excited so it came as a total shock to see him coming in my direction as we were walking from the car park to the venue. Luckily, in terms of avoiding utter awkwardness, we were on the escalator going up and he was walking just below us. Our eyes met and we both said “hi” before anything had actually registered.

Then I didn’t see him until FT was about to come on and I turned to my left and there he was, maybe 3 meters away. He was with the new gf and a friend…thus ensuring no conversation.

Afterwards I tried to analyze and discuss what, if anything, I felt. It’s been over eighteen months since we’d seen each other.

All I could come up with was that I felt ghosts of feelings. I can’t say I felt nothing but I can’t say I felt any true, fully formed feelings. Seeing him brought back memories, some sort of shadow of yearning, nostalgia, something. We had something that I don’t think I’ve had with anyone else and just the idea of him triggers stuff I can’t truly articulate. But there’s no pain or angst or sadness or anger or love left. But there are ghosts of all those things.

I gave him the box titled My Happiness and he didn’t treat it well and I have no one to blame but myself. I’m the only one to be entrusted with that box and if nothing else I’ve certainly learnt that valuable lesson. Two broken middle aged people can’t fix each other or be entrusted with the other’s happiness. So simple.

It was good to see The Joker looking fit and healthy and, I’m going to assume, happy. It was good that I could be near him and not totally fall down the rabbit hole of old emotions. It was reassuring to look that ghost in the eyes and keep walking.

I touched Frank Turner

That sounds much creepier than it should. No need for a himtoo hashtag. He crowd surfed over my head, so what’s a girl to do but help him along with a hand up to his sweaty chest.

It’s been a weekend. Flew to Melbs to do the middle-aged-but-fucked-if-we’re-going-to-let-that-slow-us-down rock chick thing with my partner in crime Sandy.

Started with take three of the Strange Tenants blowing the roof off The Curtin Hotel. I should stop saying wow, but WOW! Just like the old days, hot, sweaty, loud…all the good things.

Stomping the night away with old friends and new. The band was as hot as ever. Better. Age shall not weary them… The cherry on that super delicious cake was the next generation, the kids of the band members joining them onstage.

John’s son Dan plays guitar with the band anyway but his gorgeous twins hopped out to joyously knock out Mr & Mrs. Then they returned for the Moonstop finale together with the beaming prodigal son Alex Hearn. I’ve never seen a happier young man, banging out the percussion next to his proud old man. You should be SO proud Bruce.

An honour and a privilege doesn’t begin to describe how I felt at the end of the night. The history, the passion that these musicians have collectively shared with me for 35 odd years is a gift I hold very close to my heart.

But wait there’s more. Saturday brought the promise of the long awaited Frank Turner concert. It’s been three and a half years since the last time I saw him in Newcastle and Sydney and I was of course excited to see him again but also keen to reclaim him just for me.

We got there early to get front and middle. I was a bit apprehensive about being in the mosh pit but buggered if I’d let the fear of getting squished by a bunch of millennials stop me.

We all know support acts are chosen to make the main act look good but that’s not how Frank works. The divine Emily Barker kicked things off beautifully. THAT VOICE! Then The Hardaches made a lot of very Smith Street Band type noise for a two piece.

Great warm up. Now for the main event.

Frank, who later admitted to a throat infection, came out kicking. Simple: get onboard the express train or get run over.

It was relentless energy, words, music and love. THE FUCKING LOVE in that room! You could feel it. Every word to every song sung by the Melbourne Gospel Choir as he dubbed us.

Then we got our surprise, the legend Billy Bragg, joining Frank and the band for a song. The admiration both men have for each other in plain sight.

Just when you think things might wind down Frank really incited the circle pit and the last few songs were an orgy of pushing bodies and crowd surfers, including Frank, who passed over my head and I just had to help him along. What ridiculous, hedonistic joy!

The end of the show, but not the end of the night. As he said, he’d made a terrible mistake by agreeing to DJ at the infamous Cherry Bar nearby…and that’s where we headed.

Sometimes you get an unexpected happy surprise and we did when we arrived. A band amusingly called Drunk Mum’s were on stage and they fucking blew me away. If the Ramones, Nirvana and Motörhead had a baby after a very drunken one night stand this would be the result. Awesome!

Then the man was in the DJ booth and what fun. No obscure punk stuff only two old fans of Million Dead would be familiar with. No sir-ee.

Just a super fun, singalong set of everyone from Queen to The Jam to Cyndi Lauper. He’s in his daggy, music nerd element and I know if this writing brilliant songs, touring the world shit doesn’t pan out he’d make a brilliant wedding DJ.

Back at Sandy’s, in bed at 2:30 am, I can’t sleep. Buzzing with adrenalin and the feeling of every nerve ending being alive and awake.

Friday night we get to do it again Sydney. “We could get better. Because we’re not dead yet.”