New home, new environment, kids happy in school, Lyn studying, everybody happy.

All we’ve needed to complete the sea change was for me to find a new job.

Let’s be honest, working for the Tax Office was only the base line– it was drudge work, more often than not, soulless and uninspiring, and whilst I might have liked the majority of people I worked with, it was no longer enough– a 75 minute train journey each way to a workplace that was in great danger of becoming just another rostered call centre was not how I envisaged my working life. I liked the people, but the work and the infrastructure has become increasingly restrictive, increasingly unskilled and droneworthy. Something had to go. I had to go.

I’ve been looking. And I’ve found.

From tomorrow, I’ll be the Community Development Officer in the Arts & Culture Office of the City of Rockingham. Ill be working with a team whose responsibility it is to enable artists within the local area to access the range of skill sets, grants, and busines structures available, to help them to become self-sustaining. I’ll also be part of a team making sure the public art within the region continues to reflect and emphasis the values and attrributes of the City.

Cool job, but the title will look terrible on a t-shirt.

I grew up in Rockingham, at least, I lived there between the ages of 8 and 21. When we moved there, in 1979, it was a town of 26 000 people, connected to the somewhat-distant state capital by a bus service that can only be described as sparse. Now there’s over 100 000 people in the area, it has its own University campus, and is a large part of a conurbation that stretches to Clarkson 100km to the North and Mundurah 30km to the South. Art flourishes within the region, particularly public art. It’s a vastly changed place from the one I left 17 years ago, but then, I’m a vastly changed person.

The truth is, I’m 39 now. I’ve settled into the town, and house, in which I hope to spend at least the next 20 years as my children grow up and move into their own adult lives, and grandchildren begin to arrive on the scene. I want to enjoy my life. I want to create art, and be with my family. I want the space and time to become the successful artist I’ve wanted to be for a decade. To support these goals, I want to be at a job that rewards me and doesn’t take 75 minutes just to get home from.

It’s taken me until almost 40, but I might finally have found the final piece in my puzzle– a job that satisfies me and gives me the chance to do something concrete in a field of endeavour that means something to me. Time will tell, but maybe, just maybe, I’m set.


I’ve not been the same since libraries started stocking DVDs. Especially as they seem to like stocking DVDs of all the old comediy shows I grew up with.

Thanks to Rockingham Uni Library, we introduced Blakey to the wonder of Morecambe & Wise the other week, and I’ve been on a jag ever since.

Here’s one of their best moments. Bring me sunshine? They always did.


Apologies for missing Wednesday– things and stuff and junk arose, which I’ll mention in the next post or two (it’s dead exciting). Until then, enjoy:

The problem with poison is that it can grow stale. The first one hundred times, you know, it was interesting. Then you start recycling. You start tasting the same poisons you’ve already had. You start having de ja vu.

“I’ve died this way before,” you think. And you have. That’s the problem. There are only so many poisons in the world, and so many ways to take them.

So you start to combine them. Mix hemlock and cypripedium. The first is cold, you remember, and the second burns. You combine the two, hoping for something crazy, something that will take your head clean off, separate your teeth from your jaw. All that happens, instead, is a mild burn. The fire from before, that first fire, it’s absent. All that’s left is something lame, something unoriginal, something worse than pure.

— Poison or the Knife by BL Hobson