“It’s doomsday man”, I overheard a bloke say on his mobile phone as I walked through Surry Hills tonight. He was obviously waxing lyrical about the power blackout that affected much of the city for about two and half-hours this afternoon/evening.
As I walked home to Surry Hills from my work in Ultimo, the first thing I noticed was the traffic chaos. Without traffic lights, no one seemed to know quite what to do. Everyone walked with a degree of uncertainty in their step, darting in and out of the traffic. Cleveland Street was a mess. And the next thing I noticed was how few of the shops were prepared for a blackout. Most were just sitting there in the dark, it seemed.
I think there might have been a bit of candle panic buying going on, too, as I overheard a woman coming out of Coles speaking on her mobile phone and in quite a panic declaring Coles were completely sold out. So while Coles was shutting down, the pubs were packed to the rafters.
My pathetic attempt at having some light in the midst of the blackout.
In the midst of it all, I did a brief cross to 666 ABC Canberra.
I was on Cleveland Street when the power came back on, to a rousing cheer from patrons at Bar Cleveland that was loud enough to be heard from across the road.
On a very positive note, I noticed lots of people in my street out and about chatting to the neighbours. And the birds seemed to sing more loudly than they would otherwise have been at this time in the afternoon or evening.
For over three decades, I have made a living asking the questions. As a radio broadcaster and manager, I prided myself on having the “full picture.” I believed I understood the varieties of the human condition, and I certainly considered myself a “good ally” to the disability community. I did lots of interviews, I helped develop content, I used the correct terminology, and I slept well believing I was on the “right side of history”.
Then, two years ago, the script changed.
Becoming a lower-limb amputee didn’t just alter how I navigate the physical world. It exposed my own profound blind spots. In some ways, it shattered the illusion of my allyship and replaced it with a stark reality that no amount of research could have prepared me for.
Before, when I walked into a studio or a meeting room, my authority was taken as read. But as I returned to work, I started to find my capability was being questioned or debated before I’ve even reached the microphone.
But today, on International Day of People with Disability (IDPWD), I am reminded that my learning curve has only just begun.
I am taking part in a panel discussion here at work at today, sitting alongside colleagues who live with a range of different disabilities. Listening to their stories, I know my experience—visible, physical, obvious—is just one fragment of a much larger picture.
I have had to learn that disability is not a monolith.
There are 5.5 million Australians living with disability. That is more than 1 in 5 of us. But if you are picturing a wheelchair, you are missing the vast majority of the story.
90% of disabilities are invisible. They are neurodivergence, chronic pain, sensory impairments, and psychosocial conditions.
It is not just about birth. While many disabilities are congenital, the majority are acquired. It is the only minority group that anyone can join at any moment—a car accident, a stroke, a fall, or simply the process of ageing.
By treating this as a “niche” issue in our newsrooms, we are ignoring 20 per cent of our audience. We are missing stories of innovation, resilience, and systemic failure because we are too busy looking for tragedy. Or “inspiration porn”, as disability advocate Stella Young oce described it. referring to stories about people with disability who are “amazing”.
Do you need to have a disability to report on it well?
No. You don’t.
You don’t need to be an amputee to understand the importance of a ramp, just as you don’t need to be a politician to report on parliament. Good journalism is about empathy, rigour, and curiosity, not just lived experience.
But let me tell you: it helps.
Having lived experience acts as a filter. It helps you distinguish between a “heartwarming” fluff piece and a story about systemic neglect. It stops you from asking “What happened to you?” and starts you asking “Why isn’t this building accessible?” It shifts the focus from pity to rights.
So, as I join this panel later today, I have rewritten my own editorial guidelines.
If you are an able-bodied journalist, your job today is to listen—really listen—without the filter of sympathy. And if you live with disability, speak up. Your perspective is not a “special interest”; it is the vital, missing piece of the national conversation.
For me, and others, this is where the story begins.
Today, my interest in genealogy took me to Dundas Valley near Eastwood. In particular, I wanted to find out more about the land granted to my GGGGG-grandparents, John and Martha Love, who came to Australia in 1791.
John Love, who was a member of the NSW Corps, was granted 30 acres of land at “The Ponds” (February 20, 1794) and a further 90 acres of prime land at “The Field Of Mars” (March 14, 1795). Later, however, he leased the land out to Captain William Kent, the nephew of Governor Hunter. The land was in the modern day suburb of Eastwood, with the historic “Eastwood House” now located on the land given to him.
A few weeks ago, fellow researcher, June Love alerted me to a plaque of some sorts which recognised the early land grant at “The Ponds” awarded to our common ancestor.
June wrote…
If my memory serves me well, the land at The Ponds was sold to Gregory Blaxland, nephew of The ‘Blaxland’ Lawson & Wentworth fame. William Cox who built the first road across the Blue Mountains also gets a mention. All the records of land transactions involving John Love were able to be viewed at The Heritage Centre, Parramatta. There is a Notice erected by Parramatta Council in Dundas Valley near the Rugby Club where John Love is listed as an original land holder (30 acres), and overlaid on the original land grants survey is the present subdivision. Because Eastwood historical records are quite comprehensive, the succession of ownership of the 90 acres on which Eastwood CBD is now situated is well documented.
Getting there was reasonably simple…
Dep: 10:45am Central Station Platform 9: Take the Central Coast And Newcastle Line train (CityRail) Arr: 11:06am Eastwood Station Platform 3
Dep: 11:19am Eastwood, West St Nr Eastwood Station – Take the 545 bus Arr: 11:28am Dundas Valley, Yates Av Nr Alexander St
Walk to Quarry Rd, Dundas Valley – 352 metres
The signpost is very near the Dundas Valley R.U. Club – maybe known as Parramatta Leagues Club (sub-branch) – in Quarry Road, Dundas Valley near the intersection with David Street. Signs are dark blue with semicircular curve over the top and the sign at eye level. UBD Map Ref 192 F9. Nearest main Street intersection Evans Road and Yates Avenue. Although somewhat defaced more recently, it was still readable. Bronze in colour with black dots showing surveys, and resembles a lithograph (On the side where you are facing south/west as you read it). (A bit of a story on the reverse side)
At the start of The Ponds Walk at modern-day Eastwood in Sydney there is sign which records the names of the original European settlers and the land which they were granted. John Love is listed as one of the original owners of land there.John Love’s land grant was Lot 108The Ponds, a name which I suppose it derived from several ponds of water, which are near the farms, according to Watkin Tench 1789.
What happened to John and Martha?
John’s career in the NSW Corps was at best mixed. Arriving in Australia as Private, he was promoted to Corporal (March 25, 1791) and then to Sergeant (June 26, 1791), though reduced to being a Private several months later (December 27, 1791). According to the book, “Sydney Cove 1791-1792″ by John Cobley, this later demotion resulted from depositions about an incident which occured on April 30, 1791 on board the Matilda. I have yet to discover what this was.
He was discharged from the NSW Corps on July 14, 1798, though he later re-enlisted, as the 1799 Muster records him as a Private in the Col. Francis Grose Company of the NSW Corps. Years later, he was reportedly mentioned in the Sydney Gazette (1814) for his capture of a deserter from the 73rd Regiment, one of a group of 17 bandits.
Despite being a member of the NSW Corps, whose job was to uphold the law, John Love had several convictions himself.
In common with other members of the NSW Corps, the “Rum Corps” John Love was involved in the production of rum. On Monday, June 1806, he was arrested and fined 100 Spanish dollars (one of the currencies in use at the time) after the discovery on his property at the Field of Mars of a still and other appartus for distilling liquor. The incident was reported in the Sydney Gazette of Wednesday June 6.
On Monday, in consequence of a like information, several Constables were sent to search for a still and other apparatus on the farm of J. Love at the Field of Mars; from whence a large boiler was produced, supposed to be for the purpose of distilling. The owner was in consequence ordered to find bail for his good behaviour.
In December 3 1816, John Love was convicted of stealing government cattle in collusion with two of his convict servants (Joseph Jones, Patrick McGinty) and all were sentenced to hang (NSW Records Reel 6006; 4/3495 p. 421).
His family appealed successfully for clemency, though it appears he may have been sent to Newcastle on the “Lady Nelson” for a period of time.
On account of some favourable circumstances in mitigation of his offence I am induced to extend Grace & Mercy unto him and to grant unto him the said John Love a Pardon for his said crime as the sole and express condition that the said John Love shall continue to reside as a convict in the Territory of NSW and the dependancies during the term of his natural life and be kept at hard labour ‘Macquarie’” The pardon was to be null and void if he were found outside NSW.
In a petition to the governor, the Superintendent of John Oxley’s farm requested the sum of 100-pounds to be repaid for the forfeited property.
Several years later on June 11, 1822, he was also fined Đ2.10 Shillings for employing a bushranger named Murphy (possibly, Patrick Murphy who later worked on nearby Harrington Farm).
It’s difficult to know whether these brushes with the law were the consequence or the cause of long-term economic problems.
The Court of Civil Jurisdiction, for example, ordered that the Seymour Farm had to be sold in 1814 to recover debt.
Ex parte William Packer, in the matter of Joseph and John Love: Pursuant to an Order of the Court of Civil Jurisdiction, ande in the above matter, the Provest Marshal will cause to be set up for sale by public auction at the Market Place, Sydney, on Thursday the 25th instant at Twelve o’clock, a certain farm and lands, called Seymour’s Farm; containing 80 acres, more or less and situated in the Field of Mars (unless the Debt Costs and all incidental expenses are previously liquidated.) Wm Gorr, Provest Marshal.
And after John’s conviction for stealing cattle, Martha was forced to mortgage the farm (on August 13, 1817) and a mare and foal were sold to Thomas Moore for 45 pounds.
Further evidence of their economic woes came in 1824 when their young son John (well, reportedly their son, but perhaps more likely their grandson since he was too young to be there son) was placed in the Orphan’s Home and died, aged 9 with dysentery June 29th, 1824.
Aged 74, and living at Appin, Martha died on November 28, 1822 (V1822 5579 2B/1822) and was buried at St Luke’s Church, Liverpool.
Just over four years later, John Love also died, aged 94 on January 4, 1827 (V1827196 2C/1827) and (182772 11/1827).
Sir Thomas Mitchell Reserve, The Ponds, SydneySir Thomas Mitchell Reserve, The Ponds, Sydney
My holiday took another unexpected turn today, as I found myself on ABC North Coast radio for most of the afternoon and early evening doing half-hourly flood warnings.
It was a bit of a flashback in some ways as I found myself once again on the radio saying place names like Bungawalbyn, Coraki, and Wiangaree. Since I was born and raised in the area, these are places’ names which, thankfully, roll of my tongue, but there were a couple of places’ names I had to check on. Not because I wasn’t sure, but rather because I wasn’t sure if the way I’ve always pronounced them was still correct.
Flooding near the rowing club, Lismore
Tumbulgum is a case in point. As a child, I was brought up to pronounce it always as “Tumble Gum”, though I note there are variations such as “Tum-bool-gum” and “Tum-bull-gum”.
Another good example is the nearby town of Moobal, which I’ve always pronounced as “Mobil” (pronounced a bit like the service station). Though I note as you drive through the town, they’ve taken on a “bovine theme” associated with pronouncing the “moo” in “moobal”, these days.
Less obviously, I’ve always had a natural inclination to pronounce Ballina as “Ball-nuh” (dropping the middle syllable), and, like many others, to sometimes drop the first “l” in Alstonville, so it becomes almost like “Austinville”.
Another interesting local variation is the pronunciation of the names Monaghan and Callaghan. As a child, these names were always pronounced: “Mona-gan” (not Mona-han) and “Calla-gan” (not Calla-han”). Monaghan was a well-known local business name, by the way.
I guess part of this is because of my family’s cultural background which dates back about 100 years in the area on my dad’s side and about 80 years on my mum’s side. In the case of Monaghan and Callaghan, these were obviously local variations on the usual pronunciation of names, a bit like the way Italian names – lots of them in my extended family – were Anglicised.
I think regional language variation is a fascinating area of research and would recommend a terrific ABC website called Wordmap I was looking at it for a little while tonight and saw a few things which made me smile. There are the very obvious variations in the name given to processed sausage. In different parts of Australia it’s variously known as Devon, Windsor, and Fritz, while in this part of Australia, it was usually known as “Byron Sausage”, though I note you mostly find Devon in the supermarket these days.
As I looked at some of the words I noted the phrase “Ward Eight” as a localism that refers to the former mental illness facility at the Lismore Base Hospital. “They’ll put you in Ward Eight” is a phrase I remember from my childhood. But I note someone wrote to that website to say they’d never heard of it referred to as “Ward Eight” saying they grew up near Lismore and only ever heard it referred to as “The Richmond Clinic”. Well, I remember that phrase too, though it came along in the 70s and 80s perhaps. Prior to that, it was most definitely “Ward Eight”.
Signs of a clear sky
I guess part of the linguistic variation now evident locally has occurred in the last forty years, because of the population influx you generally associate with the Aquarius Festival in 1973, and then more recently as people have made a lifestyle choice to move to the area from South East Queensland and other parts of New South Wales.
It’s now late on Monday night, and having experienced a bit of nostalgia, I’m off to bed. The rain has eased again. Hey, there was even a bit of sunshine earlier today.
So we’re still going through old family photographs, and a definite and perhaps worrying trend has emerged from my childhood. The photographs are cute, for sure, but why do so many of them feature me holding, sitting on, or being photographed with a bucket? Though no one remembers exactly why, but apparently I had a childhood thing for buckets. You learn something new every day.
I’m not a huge fan of television drama, unlike many of my friends and colleagues. Many often make recommendations about things they’ve seen on the various streaming services. Often, they don’t quite understand the blank face I respond with to something “everybody is talking about”.
That wasn’t always the case. In the early days of this blog, I wrote often about my (almost) obsessional interest in the English police drama, “The Bill”. I’m not sure why I don’t watch as much fictional television drama, these days, except maybe there’s too much to keep up with?
From time to time, I’ll latch onto something. For example, I really tapped into the Swedish youth drama, “Young Royals”, though preferring the first series over the second. The first series seemed a little more edgy, dealing with the situation where the second in line to the Swedish throne becomes the crown prince, and whose situation is complicated by the fact he’s gay. The second series seemed more like a re-run, based on the success of the first. A third series is planned.
More recently, it’s the American drama, “Succession”, based “loosely” on the story of the Murdoch family. Amusingly, I was watching something on Youtube the other day which, in the context of the Dominion defamation case, described Rupert as a “real life Logan Roy”. Life imitating art, not the other way around?
In the earlier series of the drama, it was pretty clear how awful they all were as people, as they “competed” for who would take over the business when Rupert, er ah, Logan dies.
In the latest episodes, it’s become pretty clear how under-prepared all the children were for a life after the death of their father. Even though he “prepared” them, it’s clear none of them are all that bright, or suitable. They lack the life experience and maturity that would be required to run a multi-billion dollar organisation. They are only in the position they’re in because they were born into that position.
The “training” they received from their father, and the experiences they’ve gained along the way, has, of course, put them in a unique position to respond to the situation. But ultimately, fundamentally, they’re not necessarily the best people for the job. The parallels with any royal family, or any dynastic business (big or small) are clear.
Despite all of the character flaws, the program has been a joy to watch, for the complex characters themselves, the writing, and the way it’s been directed and filmed.
As we’re now approaching the end of the fourth and final series (shown in Australia on Binge/Foxtel), I thought it timely to write about it, recommending it to you, in the same way my friends recommend shows to me. Hoping your eyes won’t glaze over?
There is a particular kind of trap that many of us who travel for work fall into.
You know the one: the “work-hotel-pub-work” cycle. You fly into a new city, spend all day in meetings, grab a quick bite at a local bar, and then head straight back to your hotel room to open the laptop and keep going until your eyes blur.
I’ve been a hard worker my entire career, but this week in Darwin, I decided to break the cycle. I made a firm resolution: the laptop stays at work.
I first came to Darwin in the late 90s, and I’ve been lucky enough to return many times since—including a stint in management at the ABC.
When the offer came up to head back north to help bed in a new team, I didn’t hesitate.
Even with a cyclone looming and heavy rain forecast, the lure of the Territory was too strong.
As it turns out, the weather has been spectacular. We’re in that magical window where the humidity is present but the sky is clear, with temperatures sitting comfortably in the mid to late 20s.
After a full-on day at the office, I realised that if I spent my evening staring at a spreadsheet in a hotel room, I’d be missing the very essence of why this place is so special.
One of my main apprehensions about this trip was the logistics of bringing my mobility scooter. I knew it would be essential for getting around in the heat, but the “white-knuckle” paperwork involved—securing approvals and lithium battery clearances—had me worried. I shouldn’t have been. The process was seamless.
From the security checks in Sydney to the flight itself (where I ended up with three seats to myself), it was one of the most pleasant transcontinental trips I’ve had. Having that independence to zip around has changed the entire experience of being here.
Following my “no laptop” rule, I finished work and headed straight to Shenanigans for a glass of wine—a nostalgic stop for anyone who knows Darwin’s CBD. From there, I took the scooter for a long run along the Esplanade.
There is something grounding about sitting by the water here. When you look out past the nearby islands, you realise just how close Darwin is to Indonesia and East Timor. It feels less like the “edge” of Australia and more like a gateway to the rest of the world.
The CBD has changed—a few more empty shopfronts than my last visit three or four years ago—but the adventure remains.
I’m finding the best local coffee spots, meeting the new team, and ensuring that this trip is about more than just the “grind.”
It’s a reminder that no matter how hard we work, we have to leave space for the “magical” moments. For me, tonight, that meant a sunset, a scooter, and a closed laptop.
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Sometimes a power shortcut brings out the best [and the worst] in people. Did they switch it off again at 20.30 to get it back on at 21.30 for the Earth hour?
Sometimes a power shortcut brings out the best [and the worst] in people. Did they switch it off again at 20.30 to get it back on at 21.30 for the Earth hour?
One advantage to living (or in my case, having an apartment empty for most of the time) on the NOrth Shore…no blackout last night! :-)