On Saturday I went to the ABBAMAIL convention, Mad 05 (mini ABBA Day 05), which was great fun. This was about the fourth or fifth ABBA convention that I’ve been to and perhaps the most interesting.
Previous ones I’ve been to have had clearly defined themes, whereas this one was a little more general. To coincide with a visit to Australia by ABBAmailers, Ryan and Andrew, this was an ABBA update, complete with recent video footage from the premiere of “Mamma Mia” in Stockholm. The convention, however, was inhabited clearly by a group of “ABBA fans”, with most preferring classic ABBA and solo performances and recent public appearances to the recent solo work of Agnetha and Frida, in particular. When Agnetha’s video clip for “What Now My Love” was shown, for example, there was clear discomfort in the room. The three-and-a-half minute “pash fest” in the Swedish forest (very Scandinavian cinema in its style) was not warmly welcomed.
And yet, curiously enough, a recently released tabloid program about Agnetha (and her stalker) seemed to appeal to the voyeur in ABBA fandom. I thought it was disturbing, however, to watch fans laugh at the stalker, Gert, dismissing him as a nutter, when there was something about him which, to me, suggested a much deeper, and more concerning, psychosis.
However, on a personal note, I really enjoyed the footage of the Swedish Mamma Mia opening. Although I did feel a little sad when Agnetha and Frida didn’t appear on stage along with Bjorn and Benny. In their own eyes, I sensed a little disappointment their contribution to ABBA wasn’t really acknowledged.
Another highlight for me was the BAO performances at Skansen, especially the presentation of the recent Svensktoppeng hit, “Du Ar Min Man” and Benny’s comments about the musical, Kristina appearing on Broadway with Helen Sjoholm playing the lead role.
As opposed to Lily and Pat who I have met previously, I also got to meet some ABBA fans who I’d never met before, including Norma Parker and Chris Patrick, though I was disappointed not to have chatted with Angus Kidman, whose work I have enjoyed for a number of years.
In the time since I have been quite social. I caught up with Yvette for brunch on Sunday afternoon. Pat was staying with me on the weekend, and between the three of us, we had a great time chatting about lots of things, including Yvette’s recent month-long trip to Mongolia.
I also caught up with Ryan and Graeme last night for a drink or twelve and tonight it was a blogger meetup. So yeah, I guess it’s been a reasonably busy few days.
Mini ABBA Day – James, Judy, Andrew
Tomorrow is looking like a great day, with a lunch planned with a prominent figure in Sydney local government and tomorrow night, Colin and I are going to the Opening Night of the Australian Opera’s production of “Death In Venice”.
“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to leave and go back to my room for a brief nap”, I said to a colleague at about 3 o’clock on Monday afternoon.
I’d reached that point of tiredness when my head had started to nod uncontrollably.
I put it down to the early morning arrival on the plane which got in at about 1.30 am. It was then a further 60-90 minutes of travel and settling into my apartment before I got into bed, and then maybe an hour or so later before I fell asleep.
I got into work at about 8.30 am and worked quite hard throughout the day until eventually, I knew I couldn’t go on any longer.
It might also be the mid-afternoon drowsiness you often find engulfs you when you’re in the tropics. The first time I visited Darwin was in 1998, and I remember we often factored a nap after lunch on our travels around the area.
“Maybe it’s also because I’m getting a bit older?”, I said to some friends over dinner last night.
It was 34 degrees in Darwin yesterday. “Hoping it’s not too hot for you?”, Rod, a reader of this blog asked me on Twitter. “No, just perfect”, I told him. In the midst of the dry season, there was a lovely breeze throughout the day. Quite a contrast to the fairly miserable conditions we’ve had in Sydney lately.
And it really is the best time of the year to be here. The weather is great, and there is still a fair bit of Darwin Festival activity going on. I’m seeing a comedy show on Tuesday night, and a play on Friday night, and then on Saturday, I’m going on a tour of the National Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander Art Awards, an annual event I’ve visited on a few previous occasions, and which I’ve written about here.
Coincidentally, one of my former colleagues is also here, as is one of my current colleagues who is currently on long-service leave. They’ve both undertaken massive road trips recently. One is currently driving across Australia and back with her husband. The other had recently been on a golfing tour of outback Queensland with another former colleague, and is in Darwin, ahead of a cruise along the coast to Broome.
Over dinner tonight, we joked she seemed permanently on holiday these days. “It’s five years since I retired, and all of the previously booked holidays are now coming to fruition”, she told us, noting that a bunch of COVID-related holiday “credits” were now being “paid out”.
Neither saw their retirement plans involving a transformation to becoming full-time “grey nomads”.
They’re both active travellers, and enthusiastic about life, and it was wonderful we were able to catch up over a glass of wine and a meal at Darwin Ski Club.
Watching the sun set into the sea, at the Darwin Ski Club.
It’s late in the afternoon, it’s four degrees and it’s sunny. In fact, you could almost say it was warm. The weather is in stark contast to yesterday when it snowed for most of the day. By late afternoon, the snow was no longer looking as exotic as it once did to a lad from downunder.
So I retired to my tiny room in Hotel Micro (the one without windows) for a few hours of watching Swedish television. Although definitely budget accommodation, Hotel Micro has very clean shared bathrooms and a killer internet connection. I guess it helps that most of the other people staying here are quite old, so perhaps less likely to be using the wifi. After a few hours though I was bored, and thinking a little bit of inclement weather wasn’t going to stop me enjoying my holiday.
So about ten o’clock last night I went out for a walk. There was an almost an eerie silence around as the streets were all but empty. Most of Stockholm had retreated indoors. It was Sunday night, after all. By ten o’clock, however, the snow had stopped falling. There was, however, a thin layer of snow on the ground and on cars. There was “snow graffiiti” all over the place, including my favourite I spotted in Gamla Stan where someone had written “little dick” on the back windscreen of a BMW. As I stopped to take a photograph a bloke came out of a nearby restaurant presumably to apologise. He quickly recognised what I was doing and we shared a great laugh.
Stockholm really brightens up at night when there is snow on the ground. In the same way that in summer the long days help make the city bright, at this time of the year the snow seems to do something similar.When I woke this morning there was still snow on the ground, though some had disappeared with the early morning sun. And what a day it was for the sun, as people in Stockholm came out to worship the sun. Everywhere I went today I found individuals or groups standing around with their eyes closed, and with their necks crooked so their faces were completely facing the sun. For a moment I thought I’d be transported back in time to observer some kind of ancient “sun worshipping culture”. I guess after three months of long, dark, cold nights I’d be the same.
Once again today I did my two favourite walks. First around the streets of Sodermalm. I swear if I lived in Stockholm this would be where I’d live. And second, the walk to and from the Djurgardsbrunn, one of the world’s most beautiful walks I think. It’s maybe four or five kilometres (I’m not sure, I’m not good with distance) as a round trip. It’s a beautiful, peaceful walk, and not to crowded either at this time of year. I had a coffee and bun for afternoon tea at the rowing club. And that’s where I took my jacket off briefly and let my skin get as much Vitamin D as I possibly could in a reasonably short period of time.
I’m back in my room for a moment for a freshen up ahead of tonight’s concert I’m going to see at China Teatern. The show is a benefit for cystic fibrosis and features Björn Skifs (he sang the original “Hooked On A Feeling”), Swedish Eurovision winner, Charlotte Perrelli, and some of my personal favourites: Magnus Carlsson and Alcazar amongst others.
Little dick
Gamla Stan
The ice continues to break up
Streets of Sodermalm
Stockholm viewed from Sodermalm
Duck footprints in the snow
News today from Sweden is all about Tiger speaking out. His wife is Swedish, of course.
Yummy mummys wearing gummys
Worshipping the sun
Soft Kok and Bar. I know it is childish, but I laughed nonetheless.
The story of Melissa Noonan is a great look at how you might handle a sudden, life-changing event without overcomplicating the narrative. A major trauma accident at a train station in Melbourne completely altered her path, but her approach to the aftermath was grounded in logic, a sense of humour, and a focus on daily progress.
Her life shifted instantly during a routine attempt to catch a train on a hairpin bend. As she told me for The Limb Shift podcast, to premiere in October 2026.
As I went to step on, the doors closed and I went between the train and the platform. I was fully conscious at the time. I was just fortunate that someone saw it happen, hit the emergency stop button, and called an ambulance. It was a bit of a miracle, but I ended up with a hell of a lot of injuries.
The severe physical impact left her with a complex set of trauma injuries that required immediate, intensive medical intervention.
I broke my pelvis, ruptured my bladder, ripped the calf muscle out of my left leg, and lost my right foot. I also had a lot of degloving, where the muscles were stripped back. Obviously, train tracks aren’t clean places, but they managed to keep me alive until I got to the hospital. The doctors planned to operate in three eight-hour shifts, going all night to try and get me as stable as they could. But my body wasn’t having a bar of that, and I kept crashing. So, they decided to bring me out of theatre and put me in a medical coma, which I stayed in for about sixteen days.
While she was unconscious, the medical team had to make rapid decisions to manage a spreading infection. Her parents were called in the early hours of the morning to give the green light to alter the initial surgical plan.
I remember my mum telling me later that she got the call at about three o’clock in the morning. They told her they’d already amputated below the knee, but because the infection was so severe, they had to go higher—above the knee. They asked if she would give the green light to do that, and basically, she just said, ‘Do what you have to do to save her life.'”
Coming out of a prolonged coma involved a strange transition period where surreal dreams mixed with the reality of her new physical situation. When she finally became fully conscious of her surroundings on a Saturday night in September, she already had a practical grasp of what she was dealing with.
Even when I was in the coma dreaming, I knew my right leg was gone above the knee. I just knew it. My left leg had a lot of external metal fixators and wire work on it, but I knew the right one was missing. One of the nurses came in and said, ‘Has anyone told you the extent of your injuries? Like, do you know?’ And I said, ‘Well, my leg is missing and the other one doesn’t look great. So, I don’t know what else there is to tell.’
From that point, her focus shifted entirely to the long, slow work of physical rehabilitation. She spent three and a half months in the hospital before transferring to a rehabilitation centre as an inpatient for another six months.
For me, getting up on that mechanical leg the first time was really tough. Because my good leg wasn’t great at supporting me, I spent a lot of time with my physio trying to build up that strength. The thing is, when you’re lying in a hospital for that length of time, there is just so much muscle wastage. I was pretty fit beforehand, but you lose all of that. It’s a real day-by-day thing.
Her medical team told her she might remain in a wheelchair and wouldn’t return to work for at least two and a half years. Melissa simply treated it as a challenge, negotiating a deal with her boss to return to work full-time after just eleven months.
Returning home meant temporarily moving back in with her elderly parents at the age of thirty-seven because her own home was physically inaccessible. It was a period of adjusting to a shared house while her father was dealing with Parkinson’s disease.
It was finding my feet in more ways than one. Because, you know, at the age of thirty-seven, who goes home and lives with their mum and dad? It was just weird—weird all around. Not in a bad way, but it was trying to navigate that space as well.
As she regained her independence, she made a point of letting her friends and family know exactly how she wanted to be treated.
I made a point of saying pretty early on, ‘Look, I’ve worked really hard to try and get my independence back. I know that it’s really easy for you to want to help, pick up stuff, and do things for me, but I need to keep doing this myself. I need to keep trying to do it myself. If I get stuck, don’t worry, I’ll ask—to be honest, I’ll probably yell! But until then, just leave it. Let me do it.’
While recovering, Melissa noticed a distinct lack of accessible information and community connection for amputees. She decided to address this gap methodically, speaking with healthcare providers and other patients to analyze what was missing. This led directly to co-founding Limbs for Life, an organisation she has now been running for over two decades.
Her personal approach to living with an above-knee prosthesis has always focused purely on utility rather than hiding the reality of her situation.
I think technology has advanced so much, but even before it did, people were becoming less self-conscious. Back in the day, there was a lot of talk about getting a foam cover. They’d say, ‘We can put that on your leg and make it look real.’ But let’s face it—it’s not a real leg. Let’s just call it what it is. I tried the cover for a minute, but I just went, ‘This is crazy. Get it off! Who am I kidding here?
Twenty-five years after her accident, Melissa continues to manage the daily physical wear and tear that comes with the long-term use of a prosthetic limb. Her advice to others dealing with similar physical challenges is realistic, direct, and focused on self-awareness:
Our bodies get older and things get a bit tougher, so don’t wait. If there’s an issue with your prosthesis in any way, shape, or form, remember that we know our bodies better than anyone else. If it’s not right, it’s not right. I think for people to get the most out of life, they first have to accept what’s happened, and then they can adapt to it and move forward. It’s not great—I get that. But guess what? It can be amazing.
Lately, I’ve been recording some incredible interviews for my Limb Shift podcast. This episode features the brilliant Madeleine Stewart. Born with a limb difference, Madeleine wore a prosthetic arm for several years before deciding it wasn’t for her. She is a talented actor, comedian, and passionate disability advocate—and, quite frankly, she’s awesome.
“It’s not inspiration, it’s not pity, it’s normal. It’s saying you’re different, but we accept you and you’re just like us”. This philosophy serves as the cornerstone of Madeleine’s mission, a vibrant and unapologetic voice currently reshaping the Australian creative landscape.
Born in 1994, Madeleine entered the world on the twenty-sixth of May weighing just 1.1 kilograms, a “miracle baby” with one arm. Today, she stands as a multi-hyphenate artist—a comedian, actor, advocate, and filmmaker—whose work challenges the reductive narratives that have long defined the disability experience.
Growing up, Madeleine’s connection to the disability community was virtually non-existent, leaving her to navigate the complexities of her identity largely on her own. Her early life was spent navigating constant medical intervention, primarily at Westmead Children’s Hospital, where she was fitted for prosthetic arms she found largely alienating.
“I thought hospitals are for sick people or for people in pain, and I wasn’t sick and I wasn’t in pain,” she recalls. “I thought I felt normal, I felt healthy, I felt like every other kid, but I was treated differently and I couldn’t understand why”.
The physical impact of these early prosthetics was also significant and painful. Madeleine describes how, as a young girl, the devices were forced into sockets that caused rashes, itchiness, and ongoing pain while “hanging off the joint of my elbow”.
Beyond the discomfort, the practical limitations were stark. She recalls a childhood memory of playing in a “play maze” and becoming caught in the netting by her prosthetic arm, left hanging and calling for her mother while dozens of other parents looked on.
This incident cemented her view that the prosthetic was a hindrance rather than a tool, stating, “I naturally wanted to do things with one hand and I just couldn’t into the two-handed life”.
These medical challenges were compounded by the financial realities of the era. Growing up in the nineties and early two-thousands, before the implementation of the National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS)—an Australian government program designed to provide funding and support for people with permanent and significant disabilities—obtaining prosthetic limbs required a complex and often demoralising process of grassroots fundraising.
Madeleine describes having to visit Rotary Clubs to “sing my sad little song” to secure financial support for her artificial arms, with costs split between hospitals, local charities, and her own family. This constant pressure to justify her need for equipment through charity—often without anyone asking for her personal input or consent—left a lasting mark on her self-esteem. “A lot of effort, a lot of charity, a lot of singing my sad song, and that really cuts away at your self-esteem from a young age,” she reflects.
Her path to self-acceptance was paved by the unexpected influence of science fiction. When she was nervous about entering primary school, her brother introduced her to Star Wars and the character of Luke Skywalker. Seeing Luke embrace his mechanical hand as the tool of a Jedi rather than a sign of brokenness was transformative. “The confidence I had, I truly believed that I was a Jedi,” Madeleine says. “He restored peace to the galaxy. And he has one arm just like you”, her brother told her.
As Madeleine transitioned into adulthood, she found that the professional world—specifically the theatre industry—was far less welcoming. She was frequently told there was “no place for me in the industry”. Rather than retreating, she turned to the one space where she could reclaim her narrative: comedy.
A pivotal moment in her development occurred when she was sixteen and attended a show by Adam Hills, a celebrated Australian comedian and television presenter also known for his advocacy and Paralympic sport coverage. Madeleine waited to speak with him after the performance, and he encouraged her to pursue comedy.
However, Hills offered a candid piece of advice regarding the visibility of her limb difference. “He said that he for years was able to have, in his words, the luxury of being able to hide his disability and get his craft as a comedian like anyone else,” Madeleine explains.
“And he said, unfortunately, everyone’s going to see that you have one arm instantly, so you’re going to have to make jokes about disability”. Madeleine took this advice to heart, finding that “people are like, okay, we’re comfortable with this now. And then you can go on and talk about whatever you want”.
Madeleine’s comedy is marked by a sharp, cheeky subversion of how society perceives disability. This is evident in her creative output, including her ABC documentary and SBS podcast, both of which tackle the often-taboo subjects of intimacy and sexuality for people with disabilities.
She views these projects as vital for breaking down the dehumanising myths that follow disabled people into adulthood. “I just find it fascinating that people think that we can’t have sex or date,” Madeleine explains. “I think that people have these assumptions and people don’t know. And I think that it’s a, it’s a humanity thing. It’s about humanness of all of us”.
In her documentary and podcast work, she explores how a lack of adequate sex education in school left her and many others in the dark. “For me, it’s just like, oh, really? Really? So it’s like just basic sex ed baffled me during that podcast”.
Beyond education, she champions the inventiveness of the disabled community. “I think that is genius, the way that we can solve things, the way that we can go. Yeah, let’s figure this out”.
Madeleine’s work also acts as a rigorous critique of “inspiration porn”—the tendency of media to frame the daily lives of disabled people as inherently heroic. She notes that even her own film, designed to highlight the toxicity of such tropes, was met with praise that missed the mark. “The most common thing people say to me afterwards was how inspired they were on my film. And I just think I literally just look at them and go, did you watch the film?”.
Maddie appears in the film “Diving In” with fellow Limb Shift interview, Adam Bowes.
Despite the frustrations of existing in a world still grappling with ableism, Madeleine remains stubbornly optimistic. She sees the current rise in representation—and the increasing public discourse around neurodivergence and disability advocacy—as a necessary step toward genuine empathy.
“Every disabled person has friends and family and like a community around them, people who know them and care about them. And that that is advocacy too, because you’re showing people around you that you’re not this stereotype”.
Looking ahead, Madeleine is embracing a “semi-sabbatical” to recalibrate her creative output, stepping back from the relentless pace of her previous years to ask: “What do I actually want to create?”.
As she balances the two “trains” of comedy and advocacy, her long-term goal remains consistent: to ensure that the future of representation looks exactly like the inclusive, vibrant world she once saw on Playschool—a world where difference is acknowledged, but fundamentally, everyone is just normal.
Abril Felman
Madeleine’s journey is far from over, but she has already succeeded in shifting the spotlight, forcing audiences to see past the arm, past the “inspiration,” and directly into the reality of a human experience that is rich, funny, and entirely her own.
The audio from this interview will be featured in The Limb Shift later in the year. Click on the links above for Spotify, Apple and Youtube to follow the launch.
An article about the art collectors group I’m involved in has been published in the Newcastle Gallery magazine, written by group member, Ian Andrews.
HawkesburyOne : The evolution of our collecting by Ian Andrews
Joining Hawkesbury One required quite a leap of faith, when long time friends asked if I was interested in joining their new group investing $2000 per year for a period of 10 years and collecting art which reflected the first 10 years of the new century. Saying yes meant hoping the group, most of whom I had never met, would all get along together and all work towards this goal.
Our members come from a variety of backgrounds: Journalism and policy making, law and finance, medical and many more, some were confident and assertive in their pursuit of art; others preferred a more cautious and reflective approach whilst some members were happy to follow the group consensus.
Hawkesbury One usually met at one of the members houses for a Sunday lunch once every four months. During this lunch amongst good food, wine and general conversation a formal meeting was held, chaired by one of the members and minutes were taken.
Initially whilst finding our feet, discussions centred around new and emerging artists, indeed what was an emerging artist, how we would transport the art, insurances, and rotation rosters. These topics and finance remained common as part of nearly every meeting held.
Members would visit galleries, attend events, talk to gallery owners and scour art magazines to find artists they considered met our criteria. If during our meetings an artist was considered for further investigation, a small sub-group usually of 2-3 people was nominated to pursue works by the artist. A budget was given to the subgroup at the meeting so they had a range of prices to consider. After talking to gallery owners, viewing works and exhibitions, the sub-group came back to the group with suggested works.
Emailing images, on line discussions and correspondence through our webpage format all helped the group reach a decision without having to meet. One clear focus of Hawkesbury One has been to purchase works that are key pieces by the artist, works that are truly worthy of collecting and will hold their value. If this aim could not be met we would rather bypass the work. This process on some occasions would take six to twelve months depending on whether key works were available.
A majority vote allowed the work to be purchased. Having the same treasurer for the 10 years made record keeping and payments to galleries much easier.
The collection in some ways has been limited to a domestic size and scale. Gallery size works while discussed were often excluded. Although artworks rotate through our houses every six months we have still tried to be ambitious in the range of works collected. Long and intense discussions were held over whether photography, digital and video art and sculpture were appropriate for transportation, display and storage, but as you can see we managed to purchase the range. Limiting the collection to one or two media forms would not have truly reflected the art of the last 10 years.
Fluctuations in the art market, our financial position, agreement and confidence in a decision being made all meant adopting a changing and flexible approach to the purchasing of our art.
In 2008 after years of self direction, perhaps from exhaustion, we pursued a different approach to collecting. For a period of 12 months we employed an external consultant to investigate emerging artists on our behalf. Being immersed in the new art scene with access to University graduates and young committed artists the consultant provided us with a quarterly assessment of the art scene and committed artists possibly worth collecting.
Another change in approach saw the group keen not to just purchase, but commission our last work. With many members having ties to Newcastle and The Hunter three stainless steel cut-out sculptures all involving an aspect of the Hunter were commissioned. The first work being completed late last year while the chosen artist was resident at the ‘Lockup’, It was made in collaboration with Newcastle University students and involved local companies in its manufacture. The concept of a commission put forward by one of our members would not have been considered several years ago, this rewarding process has been only possible from gained confidence working together as Hawkesbury One.
My leap of faith made ten years ago has now proven to be one my most rewarding decisions. It has provided me with an opportunity to find, discuss, purchase and enjoy works of art I would not have done on my own. Hawkesbury One has been for me the vehicle to have made many new friends, to have interesting and challenging conversations about art, and to have learned a great deal in the pursuit of art for our collection.
