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What with the Ashes being a let down, the One Day Internationals more interminable than ever and Federer just too bloody good, serious students of TV sport might instead turn their attention to the National Scrabble Masters Tournament.
In a country which periodically agonises its way through debates about its history and frets regularly about the quality of history teaching, it is remarkable how resistant we are to embedding notes and pointers on our past in the urban and rural landscapes.
2:41 am. There was an luminescence in the room. I made one of those random, unaccountable mental connections that such occasions often evoke.
In an age of continuous and ambiguously justified war, the ANZAC commemoration has become highly politicised, infiltrated by party politics and populist bravura.
It was hard to notice the recent death of Colin Thiele, arguably Australia's greatest children's writer. In a philistine nation under philistine leadership, Thiele’s quiet cultured tone and its sad silencing could not compete for proper, courteous and deserved recognition with the phony vernacular outpouring that is supposed to be our true voice.
"With collar up round my ears against the nip of the morning, I enter by the side door. It is a historic moment. I am the first writer-in-residence at a butchers shop."
While musing on current events in Lebanon, Brian Matthews' globe of memory begins to spin back to a time and place perhaps not so different to today.
A week in which Mark Latham becomes the Leader of the Opposition and begins talking about ‘rungs of opportunity’.
‘Lookin’ forward to your cup of coffee, Ed?’ ‘No money, Harry.’ ‘Don’t need any, mate.
‘Pavillon now OPEN. Surving FOOD and DRIN’. This sign, propped up outside Spencer Street Station, was attracting a lot of passing attention the other morning.
By and large I disapprove of diaries or, to be more precise, I disapprove of the effort required to keep diaries.
Little voice
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