“Tom Hughes was Lucy Turnbull’s dad”, I whispered into the ear of my friend Graeme. Though it wasn’t specifically mentioned on the Mardi Gras History Walk, it was something I knew which added to the story. Historian, Robert French was talking about a meeting of the Liberal Party of NSW held in the early 1970s. Tom Hughes, as Attorney-General was considering a range of homosexual law reform, Robert explained, and was being opposed by conservative forces in the Liberal Party. The irony of the situation now facing Lucy’s husband, the Prime Minister, and the similarity to the situation facing her father almost fifty years ago was not lost on me.
There’s all manner of phrases about “learning from history” and how “history never repeats”. But, honestly it does. And if you look to history about how different types of people have reacted to issues/situations in the past, you can better understand human nature, and some of the human motivations for current issues.
And that’s why I like history in general, and the annual history walk for Sydney’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, organised the by Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, in particular. I’ve been on a few of these walks previously, and they’re always very interesting.
Robert French is a gifted tour leader, providing the perfect combination of anecdote and understanding, locating the issues of the past within a contemporary context.
Drawing upon the work of some terrific people like Gary Wotherspoon and Lex Watson, Robert really makes history “live”. Even my friend who came with me on the walk, who was somewhat sceptical about why he should get out of bed earlier on a Sunday morning, said he really enjoyed the tour.
Next year marks forty years since the first Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, and undoubtedly there’ll be lots of commemorations (and celebrations) around the event to be held in the first week of March 2018, and rightly so. But before Mardi Gras, there was a lot of other activist activity, and so while I think Mardi Gras is important, I think it’s worth recognising the previous work of lots of others, and that’s what you learn on walks like this. Fabulous stuff.
This morning at breakfast, our proud host, Tor, shared a fascinating historical tidbit: ‘The king of Norway once sat at this table,’ he declared, pointing to the centerpiece of our meal. ‘This chair is the most photographed in all of Norway,’ he added, segueing into the intriguing past of the guesthouse where I currently reside—a structure once occupied by German soldiers during the Second World War.
Tor continued his narrative, revealing that when they acquired the property thirty-eight years ago, they stumbled upon a cellar inventory. To illustrate, he produced a bottle of Pepsi Cola. Examining the fine print, we learned that Pepsi production persisted during the war in Hamburg under license, a surprising detail.
As I sat at the table surrounded by mostly German (and one Spanish) tourists, I pondered the significance of Tor’s revelation. How did they, descendants of a complex history, feel about being reminded of the Nazi occupation? Does the weight of history linger, passed down through generations? Lacking both the courage and inclination to broach the subject, I recalled the cautionary tale of “Fawlty Towers” and its notorious episode.”
Narvik HarbourAll roads lead to Narvik in NorwayNorumgården B&B
Adding to the mix, right in the heart of Narvik, there’s an impressive museum dedicated to the town’s wartime history. However, as I explored the museum today, a subtle unease settled in. Amidst the displays of weaponry, including guns, tanks, and bullets, it occurred to me how someone with a fervent fascination for war might find the place appealing, albeit for all the wrong reasons. It briefly concerned me that some might view this museum as an opportunity to indulge in wartime battles and fantasies.
Devastation of Narvik in the War Museum
My focus gravitated towards the numerous photographs adorning the walls. I yearned to examine the faces captured in those frames, seeking a profound understanding of the individuals on both sides and gaining insight into their lives during that era. The image that left the most profound impact on me was that of a prisoner of war—a young man, scarcely twenty years old, almost reduced to skin and bones. This poignant snapshot stirred deep emotions within me.
Prisoners in War Museum in Narvik
Photographs in the museum also demonstrate just how badly damaged the town was due to bombing, which also surprised me.
Propaganda in Narvik War MuseumPaper Shoes in the War Museum in Narvik
The museum is certainly a worthwhile visit, by the way.
As for the one-hour LKAB sightseeing tour I embarked on, I’m a bit less convinced of its merits. LKAB is the prominent mining company operating in Kiruna and Narvik, supplying approximately 3% of the world’s iron ore at the moment. The Kiruna mine is touted as the world’s largest iron ore mine, although I sense your eyes may be glazing over at these details.
The tour offered an intriguing behind-the-scenes glimpse into what is evidently the town’s most significant employer. It was fascinating to observe the men working in the mines. Additionally, the tour took us around much of the town, providing clarity on the significance of various monuments. Many of these monuments seem to pay homage to the miners and workers of the community, with some statues exhibiting almost Soviet-like attributes in celebrating strength and hard work.
Narvik is unmistakably a predominantly working-class community, evident in both the visual imagery and the faces of its residents as you stroll down the street. The people here differ notably from those I encountered in Sweden. I haven’t come across a single individual with the typical bleach-blonde Swedish appearance. Instead, there’s a prevalence of mousy brown and red hair. The faces range from quite pale to deeply tanned, with little in between.
This distinction was apparent when I visited the supermarket today to grab a few things for lunch and dinner. Despite the guest house owner’s assurance that all Norwegians speak English well, I found myself needing to speak slowly and deliberately when searching for a couple of items.
“Are you English?” Irene, our tour leader, asked, to which I responded in the negative. Not many Australians seem to venture this far north, though I did spot the name of someone from Maryborough in Queensland above mine in the war museum guest book.
The weather today was spectacular, and it’s expected to improve tomorrow. My plans for the day include more relaxation and possibly the fjord tour, depending on the weather. Unlike the earlier part of my holiday, this leg is all about unwinding. You truly know you’re on holiday when figuring out what day it is becomes a delightful challenge, and that’s precisely how I’m feeling at the moment—completely relaxed.
Even though I didn’t really have any plans for the day, I ended up going out for both lunch and dinner. “Feel like having lunch tomorrow?”, a friend texted me last night. And then earlier today, there was another text, “Feel like an early dinner?”. I don’t think I was a “second choice date”, I just think friends are finding themselves in the same position as me when it comes to planning their social lives.
The thing about getting older (I think) is that you no longer have the “need” to plan a big night out on Friday and Saturday with your friends. The “need” to organise dinner parties, restaurants and the like disappears with age, I think. You’re just as happy to go out for dinner during the week and spend your Friday or Saturday night at home. I still like going out on a Sunday night, though. I will often go out for dinner on a Sunday night, as I think it “expands the weekend” just that little bit further.
So for lunch today, it was dumplings and noodles in Chinatown, and then tonight it was pork belly, pasta, and brussel sprout salad at Cafe Sopra/Fratelli Fresh in Kings Cross. In both cases the meals were terrific. I especially loved the simplicity of the pork belly (pictured). Tasty, and not too many flavours.
Fratelli Fresh
After a late lunch, and then an afternoon nap, I caught up with a friend for dinner tonight at 6.30. By about 8.45, we had finished dinner and were headed home. She needs to be up early tomorrow for surf club control, and I just like getting up early these days. 5.30, 6.00, suits me fine. Though I sometimes sleep in on the weekends. Maybe I’ll get up early and take some photographs of Sculpture By The Sea. Either way, it was nice to be out and about before the Saturday night crowds. “I can be home in bed by ten”, I told my friend. I never quite made it, as you’ll see from the posting time of this blog-post, but I DO enjoy a much quieter Saturday night than the ones I might have enjoyed twenty years ago.
This was the third time we’ve been to Becasse, a terrific restaurant on Albion Street, Surry Hills. And it was probably the best.
We started off the night at the newly refurbished, White Horse Inn on Crown Street, Surry Hills. After being closed for about six years, what was once a reasonably dodgy pub has received a $2 million makeover. Following in the footsteps of the refurbishment of The Clock, and with another planned development, Surry Hills is, belatedly, turning into a bona fide yuppie area.
Becasse is a modern Australian restaurant devoted to serious, classically french-inspired food. NZ-born Head chef Justin North gained experience in some of the best restaurants of Sydney and France, before opening up Becasse with maitre’d Georgia a few years ago. Only opening for dinner four nights a week, a highlight is the themed degustation held on the first Sunday of each month. Usually they look at the food and wine of a particular French region; this time, they chose a flying visit of five of the most famous areas in France.
Veloute of Haricot Blanc with a Foie Gras Chantilly: Served in a small teacup, this luke-warm soup was a standout, with flavours of potato and shallot combining well with the dollup of fois gras in the centre. At once elegant and hearty, it set the tone for the meal.
Loire Valley Terrine of Arctic Char and Confit Potato with a Mille-Feuille of Arctic Char Brandade, Fennel and Caper Sauce: a simple and well-executed slice of layered raw Arctic Char (a type of fish with the texture of sashimi and the flavour of trout) and potato, wrapped in vine leaves atop an intense and tasty white sauce. The Arctic Char Brandade turned out to be a spoonful of pink goo similar to salmon pate between two impossibly fine wafer lattices. Both superb. Served with 2002 Domaine Pierre de la Grange Muscadet that let the food take control.
South-West France Ravioli of Scallop and Lemon with a Ragout of Spiced Pork Cheeks: a salty dish that got saltier as we kept eating (the crispy proscuitto on top no doubt contributed), however it was perfectly offset by the aromatic dryness of the wine. The closest approximation of the 2002 Chateau Lafitte-Ceston Pacherenc du Vic Bilh Sec in Australian terms is viognier, a great white food wine that is rapidly gaining popularity down under.
Burgundy Salad of Pressed, Caramelised Confit of Castricum Lamb Leg with Soubise Puree and Black Olive Vinaigrette served with 2002 Domaine Metrat et Fils “La Roilette”, Beaujolais: sounds more extravagant than it was – we couldn’t escape the fact that the lamb tasted like kebab meat. But excellent nonetheless, the soubise puree (a rich onion sauce) and vinaigrette offering great flavour. The wine was superb – I’d definitely try good beaujolais again.
Rhone ValleyBallottine of Oxtail with Caramelised Calves Tongue, Sweet Corn Veloute and Red Wine Jus served with 2001 Duclaux, Cote Rotie: the heaviest of the courses, and one of the highlights. Don’t be put off by the offal: oxtail is a richly decadent meat and the calf’s tongue was like thick bacon. As usual, the Cote Rotie (a classic shiraz-based appellation in the northern Rhone) was fantastic.
Poached Nectarines in Jelly with Champagne and Vanilla Granita: great palate cleanser.
Bordeaux Tart Tatin of Anjou Pear with Clove Ice Cream and Poire William Anglaise served with 2001 Chateau Doisy Daene, Barsac: never thought I like clove ice cream, but there you go. One of the best desserts we’d ever had, all the better for not relying on super-sweetness to impress. The wine was a good match, sweet yet with a smoky finish that never cloyed.
Vem Vet Mest, July 15 2014 from SVTI spotted this on the Swedish TV Quiz Show, “Vem vet mest?” http://www.svt.se/vem-vet-mest/ which goes out nightly at 7pm (and is repeated throughout the day) on Swedish national TV.
It’s a show I watch to practice my Swedish language skills, as it includes Swedish text to support the voice.
I don’t think I need to translate, except to say somehow, I don’t think this question would have made the cut on Australian TV.
In case you’re wondering, she didn’t know it was “Die Hard”.
When I first started this journey as an amputee, almost three years ago, I had a very simple, perhaps naive, mental image of how it would go. I thought I would go to the clinic, get measured for a prosthetic limb, and that would be it. I’d have “my leg,” and we’d walk off into the sunset together for the rest of my life. I saw it as a permanent piece of hardware—like a car or a kitchen appliance. You buy it once, and you’re set.
I soon learned that the reality of life as an amputee is much more fluid. In these first few years, I’ve discovered that a prosthetic limb isn’t a static tool; it’s an ever-evolving interface that has to keep up with a body that refuses to stay the same size. Currently, I am in that familiar state of limbo—awaiting approval for yet another new limb—and it’s given me time to reflect on why I’ve already been through so many.
The Shrinking Reality
The “problem,” if you can call it that, is actually a sign of progress. It’s all about the “stump” (or residual limb). In the beginning, the limb is often swollen from surgery and carries muscle mass that it no longer needs to move a foot or an ankle. As you start walking and becoming active again, that limb begins to change shape and volume with surprising speed. It “matures,” which is a polite way of saying it shrinks.
Getting fitted for my first prosthetic in August 2023.
The “Socks” Game
As the leg gets smaller, the socket that fit perfectly a month ago suddenly feels like a loose boot. To manage this, we use a range of adjustments. We start with liners, and then we move to “socks”—specialised ply-knit covers worn over the liner.
On a cold morning, I might start with a 3-ply sock. By the afternoon, as my volume shifts with activity and temperature, I might need to layer on a 5-ply or even an 8-ply. It’s a constant game of Tetris played with your own anatomy.
There have been times where the fit was so precarious that the comedy of the situation took over. I’ll never forget the day in the office foyer when a colleague asked what I was doing. My deadpan response—“My leg has fallen off”—turned a loose bolt and a failing fit into a “minor surgery” story that left us both laughing.
Walking on my first prosthetic in September 2023.
Albert, Bertha, and the Art of Replacement
Eventually, however, the leg shrinks so much that no amount of socks can fill the gap. The alignment goes off, the stability vanishes, and you find yourself back in the casting chair.
When I finally moved into my “definitive” legs, I decided they needed more than just serial numbers. I named them Albert and Bertha, after my parents, Albert Bernard O’Brien and Bertha Ann Dunn (aka “The Wet Leg”.)
I remember the first outing with the waterproof limb in December 2024. Standing in the pool, I was mesmerised by what I called the “aquarium effect”—watching bubbles rise from the pylon as the water displaced the air inside. It was a strange, beautiful milestone that reminded me that while I lost a limb to sepsis, I gained a new way of interacting with the world.
Wearing my “weg leg” in the swimming pool.
Awaiting the New Step
Right now, we’ve reached the limit of what socks and liners can do, and so I am hoping for NDIS approval of a new socket that better fits my current state of being. The wait for approval can be frustrating. It’s a period of “limbo” where you are physically ready for the next stage, but the bureaucracy has to catch up. Yet, looking back at the photos from 2023 and 2024, I see the progress. I see the transition from the “Enable” temporary leg to the personality of Albert and Bertha.
I’ve made peace with the “multiples.” They aren’t just redundant equipment or a sign of a “broken” process. They are markers of my recovery. Each new socket represents a version of me that has walked further, worked harder, and moved more than the one before it. I might have thought I’d only ever need one leg, but I’ve learned that to keep moving forward, you have to be willing to leave the old versions of yourself behind.
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We’ve been on a few local gay history walks but not for a couple of years. They are well planned and very enjoyable. The best was when a couple of very old gay men were among the group. That walk did not involve much walking and the two older guys really made the walk extra good with their anecdotes, trivia, and local knowledge.
We’ve been on a few local gay history walks but not for a couple of years. They are well planned and very enjoyable. The best was when a couple of very old gay men were among the group. That walk did not involve much walking and the two older guys really made the walk extra good with their anecdotes, trivia, and local knowledge.