It’s as hot as hell. Although the weather bureau says it’s only about twenty degrees, I can assure you it’s much warmer, or at least it’s far more humid. We’ve had bushfires, we’ve had high levels of humidity. It’s hideous and I hate it. It’s Thursday night/Friday morning and I have just arrived home.
I have been to the Walkley Awards. I was in quite good company. Although I was tempted to take Kerry O’Brien’s name-tag and pretend it was all an honest mistake, I eventually decided not to.
Nonethless, as Sydney traffic was incredibly busy tonight, I had to catch a cab across town and walk the rest of the way. By the time I arrived I was a little warm. Thank goodness there was a lot of fluid available to the stress my body hat been put under.
I had an SMS from Damien after the awards ceremony was finished mentioning that he saw me on the television coverage. I messaged back, asking “did I look thin?”. He messaged back with the right answer.
Chat chat chat. Drink drink drink. A great fun night. Got home at a reasonable hour and I kept myself nice. Actually, a tip for the future… I set myself an “alarm” on my phone which rang me at 12 and told me “time to go home, loser!”. Which I did.
This was my second drink fest for the week, having also attended the Book Publicists Christmas Drinks which, this year, featured some gorgeous red drinks. It was held at the Arthouse Hotel.
“Stockholm Pride is more political and less humorous than Sydney’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, but it also seems more inclusive,” I explained to an Australian friend who has lived in Stockholm for 12 years.
“That’s not to say Sydney’s Mardi Gras isn’t political,” I added. “It is, but it’s usually expressed with humor and satire.”
Stockholm Pride is more explicitly political than many other Pride events. Most of the major political parties participate, and I even saw former Swedish Prime Minister Mona Sahlin marching. There is also a greater awareness of broader political issues beyond Sweden’s borders, which I appreciate. Organizers recognize that people in some parts of the world do not enjoy the same freedoms as LGBTQ+ people in Sweden.
My favourite “float” is the group which features people with gaffer tape over their mouths marching with the sign “Marching for those who can’t”. Great stuff!
It’s not only political, though, and there’s a fair bit of cross dressing and fun, colourful costumes.
“It gets better” in recognition of young people.Family groups watching Stockholm Pride
Having seen a fair few of these types of parades over the years there’s not a lot that can shock or surprise any more. That said, the sight of a heavily tanned and reasonably overweight completely naked 60-something woman did kind of shock me. In the midst of all the glitter, there was someone completely naked walking down the street! After the shock wore off I was left with a feeling “good on her”, knowing I could never do anything like that myself.
Graeme with rain protection in the form of a handkerchief.
I especially loved being able to watch the show with my friend Graeme who is here right now, along with Sandra and Robert.
Sandra is my “pen pal”, as we might have said thirty years ago before the internet. We’ve been following each other’s blogs for a couple of years now. We met last year in Sweden, and this year in Sydney. And once again now in Stockholm.
“They’re a really great couple”, I said to Graeme, as we bid Sandra and Robert a fond farwell later in the afternoon.
I’ve been going cold turkey for the last few months. It hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been hard. But tonight, on Crown Street Surry Hills, I got a hit, and it was awesome.
I’m talking about the Swedish confectionary, Daim, which, until a few months ago was available from IKEA. In their wisdom, IKEA has stopped selling authentic Swedish food, replacing it with their own “home brand” merchandise.
So imagine my surprise tonight, when I went to my local convenience store to purchase some milk, and I saw Daim on sale on the front counter. “This is Swedish”, I said in a breathy excitement to the bloke behind the counter. He was nowhere near excited as I was, though he appreciated the excitement I was obviously feeling.
Daim is a seriously tasty treat, and there’s even a Wikipedia entry about it.
The Daim bar (originally known as Dajm in the original Swedish, and known as Dime in the UK and Ireland until 2005) is a crunchy butter almond bar covered in milk chocolate. The brand is now owned by Kraft Foods, but originated in Sweden and Norway in 1953, produced by Marabou and Freia respectively. Dajm was created after research into a similar product produced by the American company Heath. Marabou’s Vice President, Lars Anderfelt, asked to license the Heath product in the early 1950s, but Heath refused. However, they gave a list of the ingredients to Anderfeldt. It was tested in Stockholm in 1952 with great success, and later in 1953 it was launched in Sweden and Norway. Then in Finland (1964) and Denmark (1971). While not universally available in the United States, Hershey’s produces a similar product called a Skor bar. Daim bars imported from Sweden (manufactured in Upplands Väsby) are sold in all Australian, Belgian, Canadian, Chinese, Dutch, French, German, Greek, Hungarian, Irish, Italian, Polish, Portuguese, Russian and Spanish IKEA Stores. IKEA America and Europe discontinued the product in 2011. Dime bars were featured in a successful mid-nineties television commercial campaign in the United Kingdom featuring Harry Enfield and armadillos. In it, Dime bars were contrasted with armadillos, with a Dime bar being smooth on the outside and crunchy on the inside, and an armadillo being smooth on the inside and crunchy on the outside. In 2007 a ‘Limited Edition Cappuccino’ Daim bar was released. A limited edition forest fruit bar has also been released. There has also been Coke Daim, White chocolate Daim, Dark chocolate daim, Blueberry Daim and Lemon-orange Daim.
Within minutes I rang Grant and Graeme to tell them, to equal levels of excitement. On arriving home, I realised Kraft, which has owned Daim for a number of years, was now importing them in to Australia. How exciting is that?
How frustrating must it be to be a flight attendant? In the front row of six, there were only two of us paying any attention to the flight attendant’s instructions for the emergency row. The woman to my right was engrossed in her book, the man next to her was going through photographs on his mobile phone. And to the left, there were two with their eyes closed, while only one other person was paying attention. In the event of an emergency, I guess it was just me and one other who would be saving the lives of others.
I was on a flight back to Sydney, having spent the last ten days in Lismore.
Six weeks on from the “biggest flood”, followed by another “big flood” Lismore remains in a desperate state. Though many would like to believe a flood can be easily cleaned up with a mop and bucket, the events that have occurred are beyond that of a flood. Locally, people are describing it not so much as a flood, but as a cyclone or a tsunami.
One of a number of houses knocked off its stilts. This needs more than a mop!
I went for a walk around the “main block” yesterday and there’s only a handful of shops that have resumed business. In the main CBD, there are only two clothing stores that are open (selling limited items), a couple of coffee shops, and a couple of bottle shops. The bottle shops are selling some beer that went through the flood. Not so much of an issue, but we made a purchase a few days which had residual mud under the ring pull. I don’t mind so much, though you might imagine others might feel quite strongly. In case you’re wondering, they refer to it upfront as “flood beer”.
Woodlark Street, Lismore
Molesworth Street, Lismore
I also went for a walk down by the riverside. Last year, while staying in Lismore, you might recall I would often go down by the riverside for some exercise/relaxation. Though you would often see people walking their dogs, there were very few people there yesterday. A couple of kids on their bikes stopped and said hello, along with a couple of women. Twelve months ago, they might not have said hello, but yesterday they were keen for a chat. Along the riverbank, the soil remains sodden, and the devastation of fast-moving river currents remains evident in the grasslands.
Nearby, the old RSL Club (more recently a childcare centre) was being demolished. The water in the nearby swimming pool was still brown. And the city bowling club remained a mess. I read the other day they’ve decided to close down the club and distribute funds amongst members.
On the radio this morning, I heard an academic from Southern Cross University talk about recommendations to relocate the “main functions” of the CBD to the land currently occupied by the East Lismore Golf Course. The land is above a 15-metre flood (the recent flood made it to 14 metres).
On the surface, that makes a lot of sense, though it’s going to take a lot of commitment (and dollars!) for that to occur. Too many “experts,” think it’s a simple case of moving the businesses and shops to a higher location, without thinking through who is going to pay for it to happen.
All throughout Lismore, there is public art, featuring hearts. The heart is part of the Lismore City Council logo and now appears on homes, shops, and in the street, more generally.
In locations like North and South Lismore, there are elderly residents on low incomes who either own or rent and who simply can’t afford to move.
And then there’s the “Vicar Of Dibley” factor. There was an episode of that wonderful British TV series, where the people of Dibley were offered incentives to move to a new location, in the midst of a proposal to flood Dibley. Despite the offerings, they decided Dibley was their home, and the connections were more important than a new house.
As I wrote about last year during the months I lived back in South Lismore, there’s a strong community connection too. Even though I knew South Lismore could flood, there’s part of me that’s still so strongly connected to this community, that makes me think I could possibly still buy a house and live there. But, of course, I’m dreamin’.
Nonetheless, Pat and Jack want to move home. Their house is uninhabitable right now, but they still feel more comfortable in a flood-impacted house in the middle of town than living on the outskirts of a Lismore suburb.
My niece and nephew (not a couple) have already moved back home. Their existence is more like “camping” than living, with limited power. They’re not the only ones who’ve done this. When the second flood came through, it’s estimated that 25% of people who lived through the first flood, were already back home.
It doesn’t make sense to anyone from anywhere else. “The town has got to move”, friends and colleagues from elsewhere have said to me. In reply, I’ve told them it’s not that simple. If like me and many others you’ve lived through previous floods, and you have a house on stilts (built above the 1973 flood level), you still have a feeling you can survive again.
During the 2017 flood, Nancy was insistent that she stayed at home in South Lismore. “I’ve lived through 54, 74 and others, and there’s no need to move out this time”, she said. We reminded her she was much younger then, and couldn’t afford the same luxuries in her 70s as she enjoyed in her 40s.
That’s likely something I’ll need to consider also. East Lismore has always been on my list of possible places to live in Lismore, and if that’s where the CBD moves to, maybe that will make sense for me too.
My plans for the weekend were nonexistent until Wednesday night when I received confirmed details of the funeral of my nephew.
Braiden, aged 33 and his son, Hendrix, aged 4 were killed in a terrible accident in Brisbane a couple of weeks ago.
The tragedy was literally a front-page story in Brisbane / Queensland and the lead item on all the TV news bulletins. Given the legal matters involved, I won’t go into the details of the accident.
My nephew who grew up with some disability challenges he found lots of meaning in his life through his young son.
I arrived at my hotel in Brisbane late Friday night. The next morning, I made my way by bus to Browns Plains, about an hour south, to meet family members who had traveled from Lismore.
It was fascinating to catch the bus through the Brisbane suburbs. Having lived there on and off for a few years, I felt a familiar sense of home. The streets and many of the houses looked just as I remembered them 40 years ago. I thought about how different my life might have been if I had stayed in Brisbane. I might have pursued a career in media or done something completely different. I just don’t know.
The funeral was, of course, a very sad occasion. But it wasn’t a completely somber affair. There were moments of humor and humanity, which helped to make it feel less tragic than it could have been. Afterward, we went to a local pub. It was a wonderful opportunity to catch up with close family and also to meet some family members I had only ever known through Facebook. It was especially interesting to reconnect with a younger family member I hadn’t seen since he was a child. Now grown with a wife of his own, he was so surprised to see me, which was a lovely, pleasant moment.
We headed back to Lismore in the mid-afternoon, taking the scenic coast road through Pottsville and Kingscliff. This was a road I used to drive regularly when I lived in Brisbane 40 years ago, and it has changed quite a bit, though it still has a familiar feel. The most significant change was the bitumen on the roads around Mullumbimby, but the overall vibe was lovely. We arrived in Lismore on Saturday night, exhausted from the day’s emotional journey.
The next morning, after helping out around the house, my niece spotted an event on Facebook: the Tropical Fruits Fair Day at the Lismore Showground. Within minutes, I decided to go. Tropical Fruits is the Northern Rivers’ LGBTQIA+ organization, mostly known for its New Year’s Eve festivities. This was a family-friendly fun fair, so I grabbed my mobility scooter and headed over.
It was wonderful to run into someone I know, a performer named Huey, who is also known as Rubella. It was also fun to be at the showground again. The Lismore Show was an important annual event in my childhood, so it was nice to see the grounds transformed into a welcoming, LGBTQIA+-friendly space. Unlike the New Year’s Eve event, which is known for a more raucous atmosphere, this had a much more family-friendly vibe. I ended up talking to a few people I didn’t know, and my prosthetic leg often served as a conversation starter. People would approach me and ask what happened, and I’d share my story.
It truly was a weekend of contrasts: a Christian funeral in suburban Brisbane on Saturday and an LGBTQIA+ event in the country on Sunday. It was a journey from profound sadness and grief to a celebration of life and community.
“Jim, do you know everyone in Lismore?”, my nephew Sam asked me yesterday, half-joking. As long as he’s been alive, I’ve lived in Sydney. He seemed genuinely surprised at the number of people I knew, as we walked home from the Lismore Showground.
We were at the showground for clothes fitting for his Year 12 school formal.
“Jim, can you come with me, you’re the best-dressed person I know”, he said to me the other day. I was flattered, of course, and accepted the offer.
So on Thursday, we went over to the showground where there were “suit packs” already prepared in the correct size. The packs contained shirts, ties, belts etc. And he was able to select a pair of R.M Williams shoes, too. If he were to have bought this stuff himself, it would come to well over $1,000 in value.
As well as being for the school formal, this really helps set him up with some “adult clothing”.
Part-way through trying on his outfit.
Previously with COVID, and more recently with the catastrophic flood, the kids doing Year 12 this year in Lismore have been through such difficult times. Sam couldn’t stop smiling.
“How and why are you doing this”?, I asked the bloke who was one of the organisers. “Though I’ve lived in Sydney for most of my life, and I haven’t been home to Lismore in 25 years, I’m from here”, he told me. “Where did you go to school?”, I asked him, and he replied, “South Lismore” and “Richmond River”? Sensing he was about the same age, I pressed him further. When we exchanged names, we pretty quickly connected. Adam Worling was in the year below me at both schools.
I thanked him for the work he and others were doing. As we shook hands on the way out, I said I hoped we would see each other again. Who knows? I think he lives in Surry Hills, so maybe we’ll see each other at the supermarket? But in the meantime, we’re now friends on Facebook.
As Sam and I walked home, we stopped to talk to a few other people I know. That’s when Sam had the lightbulb moment that, despite living all these years in Sydney, I’m still pretty connected to Lismore.
