I couldn't escape the crush (in both senses of the word) the first time I heard it. I was dumped, pulled under and dragged disoriented across the sandy sediment of my adolescent existence. See My Baby Jive was excoriating.
I'm eating a cheap and nasty pizza – a fitting feed for a failed novelist. I’m watching The Panel. About three slices in they introduce a New Zealander called Bic Runga. I’m enraptured.
I thanked her for taking the trouble to find me and silently wondered if her seeking me out was a country-town courtesy, a form of hospitality that may not happen in the hustle and bustle and traffic of a city. I did not flatter myself to think she may have seen more in me all those years ago than I’d realised.
Red carnations mean the deepest of love. I would love it and care for it and it would be an eternal living symbol of my deep love for Adam and his love for his fans.
Tired. Burnt out. I want out. I don’t want to be here. I need something new. What’s next? No solid plans. Wing it. Improvise. Until the money runs out. Or until I get bored doing nothing.
As a ten year old I was quite oblivious to the meaning of Galveston – a cry out from an American soldier in Vietnam who is recalling happy memories back home while on the battlefront.
Save for the weeds, not much grows in our front yard. The soil is rubbish, almost literally. “What’s the plan?” my neighbour says cheerily, as I'm weeding.
Hazel Wood takes us to England, 2010 and the dramatic story of her brother's near-death experience.
Dad’s always said that he doesn’t dance. I believed him.
With every parting handshake Brendon would tilt his head slightly, lift an eyebrow and advise me to "stick to the shadows".