Paparazzi; Will they ever leave me in peace

Dear Kell and Cat,

Hope this missive finds you both well…. er sober

We really are the lucky country. While our northern cousins wake every morning to deteriorating financial and weather conditions, here the awesome arrival of summer distracts us from the plunging graphs on balance sheets with thoughts of beach, boats and barbeque. At least for most that is, pity my poor neighbour who, so traumatised, forgot he owned his mansion and did a moonlight flit mid week, but he’s the exception not the rule.

My stocks are OK especially when I compare them to some of my peers. I attended the burial of my old mate John Cann on Friday. Cancer got him at only 56 so he’s no longer competing, but of those other old friends, inevitable at funerals, most sported healthy “looking” expanded waistlines not unlike my own. Andy was the exception, crippled with arthritis/whatever he can barley walk and is much too slim. Phil Jack recently redundant from his sub editorship at The Herald’s ‘Financial Review’ who complained of having been reduced from millionaire to half millionaire in the last six months, was still sporting an enviable three piece pin stripe silk suit over his six foot plus gaunt frame and elicited no sympathy from me.

John who as it turned out had two lives, or at least two half lives, mmm quarter lives maybe, managed to rouse an extraordinary send-off from the glitterati of Australia’s acting talent. I had known him well in the first half when he, much like me, was a dissolute rebellious indulgent youth making a living from tat and drugs, as best as he could. In the latter quadrant he took over the family company “June Cann Management” theatrical agency, where it seems, if eulogies are to be believed, he found his feet.

Yes there were a large crowd of ‘mourners’ at Mona Vale Cemetery and they did include many recognisable faces such as Michael Caton, Jack Thompson, Bryan Brown, and other old duffers who’s faces I remember and names I never knew. Along with them were many bright looking younger folk who to me could have been anybody but to the phalanx of paparazzi in attendance were obviously somebody. The wake, represented in the full colour programme as a celebration of the life… revealed to me a John, whose essential loving nature I recognised, in an entirely new movie. If the eulogies of actors can be believed he was a saint and indeed has already the miracle of Claudia Carvan’s flight from Melbourne documented as his first on the path to beatification.

Bryan Brown MC’d as Bryan Brown while Jack Thompson in character for his latest role as a drunk, under bridge dweller in thirties period piece and afraid to leave it for fear of not finding his way back, grunted in anguished terms and full length khaki overcoat. More sense was injected by Noah Taylor, Naomi Watts and the afore mentioned Claudia all three of whom made good use of this Academy Award rehearsal opportunity. Claudia’s was my favourite but when I expressed this opinion to my peers they were quick to counter endorse Noah’s and Naomi’s and I had to concede that Naomi’s several descents into and out of seemingly uncontrollable tears and Noah’s searches for scrunched pieces of blue paper were impressive. There was a lot of blue paper notes Cat, is that something you can explain?


Its not my intention to belittle the motives of the performers in this drama, the John they spoke of was the same one I had known and loved. To me it seems he found that symbiosis that occurs, all too rarely, where life’s work presents to the individual the perfect outlet for their talents. Actors should not be mocked for bringing their talents to bear in such circumstances any more than folk of a critical nature should be banned from evaluating their merit.

Oh I forgot to mention Jeannie Lewis’ well presented version of ‘Non,Je Ne Regrette Rien’ graveside, unaccompanied other than by earthmovers. Seems to be a new land release right next door and as the Estate Agent’s promo says; “dead folk don’t renovate” Also forgot the invitation enshrined in the programme to deposit a flower or a Gauloise, last remnant of Johns drug habit, into the grave


So it was that I had compassionate leave from my endeavours at Bunnings on Friday. Like their ilk in modern cooperates when Bunnings is faced with a pain in the toe they cut off the foot. The mere hint of a union move to apply penalty rates to Saturdays with the support of a Labour Government, though it may be yet two years off, has them creating new policy that no one should work more than an eight hour Saturday shift. I must make up the balance of my once nine and a half hour Saturday across the other three days and commenced this new regime with ten hours of compassionate leave. That’s fair isn’t it?

Had a call from SOK on Saturday night. He’s travelling well and having completed the Darwin pub crawl may soon move to Broome. He’ll keep his job though changing only his statehood. He was pissed off that the wet had come so early and when I mentioned the thirty one degree day we’d had he wished he could have some similar cool weather. I forgot to inquire if he would be back for Christmas.

Lots of love

Your best Aunty



I’d hoped to put you and Mart up at my place over Christmas

But unfortunately were undergoing renovations

In her new position of power as sub editor to Women’s Health and spouse of The Legal Officer of a really really big union Alice suggested to her Uni that some playing fields would be nice and here, the result; in time for her graduation on Monday