Since childhood, I’ve often wondered how I ended up in my family.
I noticed early on that I didn’t fit in and was astonished to realise I had nothing in common with them, apart from the birth thing. Now, I’m pretty certain I wasn’t adopted. First of all, Greeks aren’t the adopting type; and second, my relatives constantly remind me that I look like and carry not only my paternal grandmother’s name, but also her personality traits.
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“He’s a bit of a tough cookie.”
I ignored the comment and maintained the required silence. “So what are you writing?” I shook my head and slid along the wooden bench. I didn’t want the judge castigating me for contempt of court. “Err… don’t you have any warmer clothes?”
The pair of tourists looked at me in confusion. “It’s freezing outside,” I said, indicating my coat, boots, scarf and gloves. “But we only brought summer clothes.” “Rural life still good?”
“Rural? You mean beach life?” I responded during a recent online chat. “It’s very laid back.” Life in Coolum Beach (approx population: 7200) is still leisurely, despite the installation of a third set of traffic lights in town - I’m still getting used to our relatively new roundabout on the main street. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. As a teenager I regularly pulled apart my bicycle and changed the seat, handle bars and flat tyres.
These days, I occasionally poke around in the dirt in my few scattered pot plants on the deck; however, kneading a ball of dough into a respectable-looking chapatti is quite a different challenge. For starters, I'll need a frilly polka dot apron. |
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December 2019
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I acknowledge the traditional Custodians of the land on which I work and live, the Gubbi Gubbi / Kabi Kabi and Joondoburri people, and recognise their continuing connection to land, the waters and sky. I pay my respect to them and their cultures; and to Elders past, present and emerging.
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