Book review

RICH PATTERN

Family Party Mix

I'm trialling a new method of avoiding conflict about household jobs with my family. It's basically just ignoring them. (The jobs, not the family). By Liz Foster.

In the past, when feeling overwhelmed by the sheer volume of casually kicked-off shoes in the living room or screwdrivers on the kitchen bench, I used to blow my stack. Now, I leave them to pile up until I can't stand it anymore, when they all get swept up and thrown en masse into the relevant person's room. (A truly aggravating side effect of this approach is the sarcastic eye roll accompanying the droll 'calm down Mum', but still, needs must). The only alternative to this is to A) tidy away everyone else's stuff yourself, or B) nag. A) is effective but leaves me grumpy and resentful. B) is totally ineffective and leaves everyone grumpy and resentful. I'm reminded of a hilarious clip on YouTube by comedian Troy Kinne. His girlfriend is ranting about having to do all the domestics as well as work full time, cook the dinner etc while he reclines on the couch. Happily he shows her his secret - a 'magic' laundry basket. “I don't know how it happens, but somehow, the next day, dirty clothes are just clean and folded!” he says. “You're not serious,” says his girlfriend, staring at him. “I couldn't believe it at first either!” he exclaims. “I would have told you sooner, but I didn't want to jinx it!” There must be some magic afoot, because when I move around putting away other people's stuff, I'm invisible. But as soon as it comes to throwing anything out, my haul is spotted from fifty metres. Anything put out for the council clean-up just boomerangs straight back inside. When I put out some leftover carpet from a renovation ten years ago, my husband went right back outside and brought it back in. He'll even check through all the rubbish bags I've filled (but only once they're outside). Maggie Dent, the childhood educator and one-time busy single mum of four boys quickly realised chores like washing were in fact never ending. Including steps like folding and ironing just created more backlog and took up precious time. So instead she would dump all the clean washing on the spare single bed, like a giant pick 'n' mix. I love that idea. The magic laundry basket and coffee table remain elusive on eBay, but I could turn the spare room into a Family Party Mix. All I need to do is close the door.  A BOOK LOVER’S REVIEW

Nine Perfect Strangers

BY LIANE MORIARTY

I am a big fan of Liane Moriarty’s work. I have read all eight of her novels - some of them twice - and always eagerly await the next. . Review by Jacqui Serafim.

The first one I read was What Alice Forgot - a hilarious, yet poignant picture of how we can change between our dewy-eyed 20s and the demands of the family-driven 40s. Moriarty delivers a perfect portrait of playground politics and competitive parenting and how easy it is to forget what matters as we forge ahead ticking the boxes on our oversized to-do lists. Then there’s the grittier reality of Big Little Lies (now an award-winning TV series) which explores domestic abuse, playground bullying and the judgement of other parents. In Moriarty’s latest novel Nine Perfect Strangers, her varied characters are all in pain and searching for answers. Moriarty is a genius at drawing character - unique, whole individuals with pasts and dreams and self-delusions, responding to their circumstances and the people around them. As a resident of Sydney’s suburbs, where so many of her novels are set, it is particularly special to recognize my world and my community in her novels. Moriarty’s new novel, Nine Perfect Strangers, demonstrates again her gift for character, but this time takes the story outside the suburban setting. Nine people are brought together to participate in a 10day transformational health and wellbeing program at Tranquillum House in the northwest of NSW. There’s Frances, a romance writer in her 50s, battling a failing career, a broken heart and menopausal symptoms. Ben and Jessica are a young couple struggling to save their failing marriage. The Marconi family are bruised and broken by devastating loss. Lars Lee, a charming divorce lawyer, is facing the potential breakdown of his own relationship. Carmel is an exhausted mother of four whose self-esteem is crumbling in the wake of her recent divorce. And Tony, a lonely, ageing, formerly famous AFL star who has lost all sense of meaning and purpose. As this eclectic group come together to try and change their lives in some significant way, we are introduced to Masha, the self-styled guru who runs the resort, with her own secret past and a radical plan for her guests. As Masha pushes to effect transformation in her guests, the action escalates beyond anything the nine could anticipate. But for me, this almost caricatured megalomaniac visionary, Masha; her slave-like assistant, Yao; and the ‘transformational program’ which crosses all boundaries, are just not convincing. I didn’t love this book as much as some of Moriarty’s previous novels, but there is still a lot to enjoy. In her classic style, the characters are engaging and largely sympathetic. Tranquillum House is the 21st century’s answer to the monastic retreat where food is limited, alcohol is banned and silence is mandated. Lost individuals willingly put their lives and independence in the hands of questionably qualified practitioners. Moriarty’s take on the wellness retreat, and what attracts us to it, is both hilarious and terrifying . 

ONE HUNDRED WORDS...

I stood before the prison that had been her ‘home’. I seethed at the negligence, then my vision blurred. I couldn’t go on. I had to do this and then I would never have to deal with this place again. I wiped my eyes and walked in. I was shown two garbage bags slumped in a corner; just so much rubbish. Was everything there? What about her watch? Damn them! The unbagged items were a jigsaw of Mum’s life on the floor, the pieces floating together on a gentle stream of tears. I left the nursing home. No one noticed. Anne Tavares, Lane Cove

Maddie was excited as she ran towards the shoreline. Living in Sydney’s western suburbs meant a trip to the beach was a treat, even if it was almost winter. She closed her eyes and inhaled the sea air. Smiling, she turned to wave to her mother who was sitting on the promenade. The icy waves lapped at her feet and she jumped back, squealing. She didn’t want to get her new jeans wet – it was a special day after all. After five years of fortnightly visits, today was the day they would finally be bringing her father home from prison. Robyn Wishart, Hunters Hill

Slowly the realisation that it’s just around the corner, time is running out, it’s do or die. ARGHHH…. The HSC! The stress, the long hours, reading of the texts, understanding the English Discovery rubric, it’s never ending. Picking universities, picking university courses…you need what ATAR for that course?! Food. Lots of food, snacks, snacks, snacks! Printing past papers, we’re out of ink again! Late nights, early mornings. Deep breathing. No time to exercise, shower or go out. Nagging must stop now. Oh thank goodness this is my last child doing the HSC. I’m not sure I could do it again!

TO ENTER Email your story with your name, address and phone number to editor@thevillageobserver.com.au CONDITIONS Stories must be exactly 100 words about any subject and in any writing style. They must be original and unpublished. There is no limit to the number of stories that you contribute during the year. Each month, selected entries will be published in TVO. At the end of the year, all entries will be judged based on their originality and creativity. THREE WINNERS WILL RECEIVE A $50 BURNS BAY BOOKERY VOUCHER.

Arriving in Brisbane, upon exiting the aircraft, I slipped on my sunnies which had been in the top pocket of my jacket. Straight away, I noticed something strange with the light but put it down to the change from the aircraft to the terminal. I approached the rental desk and chatted with a vivacious young lady. Ten minutes later, I left to find my car. Stepping into the bright sunshine I realized the trick of the light was in fact caused by ONE lens having fallen out of my sunnies! Goodness knows what that young lady was thinking about me! Bruce Bradshaw, Lane Cove

Cooking - thinking of what to cook... W likes something hearty B likes something filling J likes something yummy. I like it all. Cooking - shopping for what to cook... W likes unusual things B likes familiar things J likes variety. I like it all. Cooking - as healthy as what to cook... W should have something less salty B should have something solidly J should have something lightly I should have it all. Cooking - eating what I have cooked... W enjoys my cooking joyfully B enjoys my cooking contentedly J enjoys my cooking tastefully I enjoy my cooking. Chris Louie, Lane Cove She bounded through the scrub, the searching spotlight showing her desperate flight for safety. In a single action, the doe kangaroo flung her tiny joey into thick bushes. The men in the ute did not notice, and careered onwards, swerving around logs and trees. The animal instinctly led them away from her young. A wire fence loomed close. With a striding leap, she cleared the fence and disappeared into dense scrub, away from the men and their rifles. Much later, with danger over, she hopped back. With animal instinct, her joey was found. Together again, they melted into the night. Robyn Sleet, Lane Cove

“Knock, knock!” he said with a grin. “Come in,” she replied. The gathered guests at the party fell completely silent and shuffled nervously, all eyes now drawn to the situation unfolding. Not only had the young man started something intended to be comically intriguing, he had also just revealed the first person in history who didn’t understand the very fundamentals of the most average and oft used joke construct of all time. The young woman continued to stare at the man, who had broken into a nervous sweat. The party quickly dissipated, unsure of how, or even why, to continue. Troy Graham, Lane Cove

The drystone walling ends, the scene changes. Muddy farm entrances appear, with the authentic, organic smell of the land. Thatched roof cottages, a redundant water wheel stationary in the shadows of a centuries old Norman church. An ancient graveyard, displaced headstones with weathered names and dates. So many died so young. The manor house is signposted and there the inevitable ‘pub’, wonderfully named, evolved from a former coach house, imagination discerning the distant echo of the blacksmith’s hammer, of sparking hooves and trundling wheels. But we are mere observers of this rural idyll, this former other world, this English village. Vic Egerton, Wollstonecraft