Just assume there's more here...

I read a bunch of other stuff. I'm not writing it down. I'll regret that one day, but I'm also really busy right now.

Doesn't Count- Volume 2

Flesh Wounds by Richard Glover.

Memoir, but by a man.

Richard Glover’s Herald columns, which I have been reading for 20 years, are the ultimate in suburban dad. His jokes are dorky and repetitive, built on a foundation of straight white man privilege. Who could have known that his own childhood was such a hurtful, chaotic mess? I assumed that suburbs breed suburbs. I’m glad he found happiness and was able to create a loving family. His wife Debra Oswald seems pretty tops. I am certain that if I put in the effort, I could find Danota. My Google- Fu is pretty strong.

Doesn’t Count List

Five Days at Memorial by Sheri Fink.

Nonfiction by a woman, not a memoir.

I assumed my thoughts on this would be cut and dried- I’m fairly utilitarian, not religious, and certainly persuaded by the idea that prolonging life for the benefit of those still living can be hugely painful. When it comes to me, don’t do everything possible. Just do a sensible amount. I’m grateful every day that I didn’t die in childbirth, and that my children are vaccinated. Interventions all. But what is a sensible amount of intervention? I don’t know, and this book won’t lead you there. I am, however, firmly convinced that of all the people potentially who caused suffering during Hurricane Katrina, one random doctor is not the most culpable.

Mao’s Last Dancer by Li Cunxin

Memoir, but by a man.

The backlash against gratitude has begun, still let me say that I read this and felt an enormous amount of gratitude for my life. Thank you, universe, for not making me born a peasant in rural China during the cultural revolution. I vow to read a memoir like this during every Christmas with my in-laws. Imagine being this tough. IMAGINE.

Watching the English by Kate Fox

Nonfiction by a woman, not a memoir. 

Because I am both an egoist and a doubter, I am suspect about the recreated dialogue in some of these parts. The pub and races stuff sounded particularly unreal. However, I did love all the class information, and I think I’ll buy a copy so I can do all the flip-flip-flipping to the best parts that I love. As the descendant of English/German/Scottish migrants to Australia it’s very easy to identify myself as middle (upper middle?) class. You know who doesn’t leave England/Germany/Scotland in search of a better life? Rich people, that’s who. So rule out upper class. My parents’ and grandparents’ professional careers rule out working class. Both my grandfathers were church Ministers. My paternal grandfather was a chaplain in the Army. I have a photo of him during service in PNG in 1944. It’s one of my favourite things. My maternal grandfather also worked as a church accountant and administrator for head office. My maternal grandmother had a career as what we could today call a “graphic designer”. Back then they called it signwriting. She designed and painted in freehand, advertising logos and fonts on shopfronts and billboards. Wikipedia tells me that “Traditional signwriting is now regarded as art”. Yay grandma. Both my parents started off as high-school classroom teachers and ended their careers as senior education administrators. In any case, while those jobs aren’t the tippity-top of the class pole, they aren’t working class. So here we are: I never say “tea”; I sometimes say “lounge”; I am sufficiently sure of myself to use marker pen in all my children’s clothes.

My husband’s family is more interesting. His family are migrants from Ireland/England/The Netherlands, however his parents are farmers, and his ancestors are farmers all the way back to whenever. He, however, went to Oxford. And Harvard. So, class barriers? Consider them overcome. Thanks Australia (gratitude again).

Christmas Haul

Reckoning by Magda Subanski

Ohhhhhh gooooooddddddd. The idea of repressing a secret for decades fills me with dread. Magda. Ian Thorpe. Ugggghhhhh. Am I doing something wrong? What could I release upon the world and free myself from?

H is for Hawk by Helen McDonald

I have some suspicion about people who grieve too intensely for their parents, under circumstances when their parents die at an advanced age, and the griever is themselves a grown adult. Here are the qualifiers. I am a particularly ungenerous person. I have recurring panic thoughts that one of my parents might die. I am nightmarishly beset by karma.

This is a great book. I tried to buy a copy for a family member after Christmas and it had rightly all sold out at the book shop I was in.