Wit and Whimsy

A Tough Tote with a Touch of Sass.

Hamish glanced at the bag I had set down as I entered the staff lunchroom, and reacted apparently without engaging a single critical faculty:
“That looks like a female bag”, he offered, immediately followed by a minor facial spasm, which suggested that his brain had just caught up with his inane verbiage.

Spray-can Hits Raw Nerve

I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would choose the tedious complexities of a conversation about the trans-generational trauma unleashed by colonisation and the 250 years of subsequent oppression of First Nations Peoples over a simple, reassuring narrative about dole-bludgers desecrating our national heritage with their Marxist filth.

To Motherhood

I have yet to see so much as a brass plaque commemorating the unsung heroines of motherhood, to whom we are all indebted for whatever approximation of human civility they manage to wrest from the delinquency of our self-absorbed adolescence.


“Nothing about us without us”, he spat, flicking the words in my direction, like holy water intended to burn holes in my heathen postulations. We were discussing the plight of Queensland’s Queer communities and the challenge of building and sustaining support systems in regional outposts.