One life: a tale of an Aussie girl in Rome

A journey always starts somewhere…

“Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.”
― Isabelle Eberhardt, The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt

The travel bug is contagious & thanks to my Dad who has been travelling for as long as I can remember, I too caught the bug.

I can distinctly recall sitting at the window as a little girl, waving Dad goodbye as the taxi driver whisked him away to the airport. I would remain behind the festoon curtain until the car had sped out of view and for moments after, I’d sit crying.

This is me ‘The teenage mutant Greek ninja turtle’ ready for action in Athens, Greece at the beginning of my journey.

This is me two years after the start of my journey…
Yes, I’m on my way to the altar…

The happy couple…
I was to learn that the pull & drag of home would never leave me…no matter how strong your love is…

My novel memoir is the story of how a young Australian girl came to marry a Roman and live in Italy for 10 years. It is a story inspired by an old box of letters I found tucked away in a cupboard.

I hope that once published ( hopefully :)) it will encourage other women and men to chase a dream and live vicariously, for we are given but one life…

Mum & Dad were left waiting at the window for 10 years until I came home…

Thanks for taking the time to read.

Tale time: the rain beats down

I love short stories with impact, with enthrall and with suspense.Don’t you?

How many stories offer the thrill of riveting suspense?
How many women live for their children and their husband?
How many live each day waiting? Waiting for what in essence?

“If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.”
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

‘The phone rings, it is pouring with rain outside and the kids are screaming. ‘Hello, Burton household’, she chirps, faking happiness.
‘I’m um..blank..call..ing..to..off..er’.
‘Listen, you are breaking up, hang on’. She mutes the phone with a cuffed hand. ‘For goodness sake, will you shut up , you noisy kids, I’m on a phone call’.
She uncuffs the phone. Muffled screams and taunts continue through the walls to the kitchen.
‘Sorry, what were you saying?’ She continues through the crackles, puffing on her now half lit cigarette.
‘I call from..Sc…on..doo..Maam..’
‘I can’t understand a word you are saying’, frustrated now her words mixed with fury, ‘the line is crackling’. A murderous scream drowns out her fragmented conversation.
‘Awwwww, that hurt, I’m bleeding’. Her phone call ends as she rushes to the adjoining room.
Terror marks the faces of her two frightened children as one lies motionless on the floor.’

Inspiration in a cup of…….

Big discussions are deliberated over a cup of strong brew. Doctors and nurses discuss patient care outcomes and orchestrate positive plans of attack whilst sitting unitedly around a table, take away coffee cups at the ready.

Mmmm, it’s time to sit on a chair at your desk, or on the floor or on the sofa or maybe you do it lying on the bed. Quite possibly you’re doing it with an added tit bit.

I’m talking about having a cup of something while you write, contemplate or ponder. A diverse train of thoughts is conjured up while you sip away. I personally love a cup of hot strong coffee with just a dash of full cream milk. I write and jot whilst savouring the warmth and flavour of my favourite drink. For the duration of that coffee I relax and think or sometimes relax and write. I know others who are fine tea lovers who consume copious cups each day and find solace in each one.

“There is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

Sipping, thinking, pausing, contemplating and dipping.

 

“Espresso is to Italy, what champagne is to France.”
Charles Maurice de Talleyrand

Yes, sometimes I like to dip a couple of shortbread biccies. If I’m writing in the afternoon I might like to indulge in a cuppa with a donut. It’s very naughty but the caffeine fix collaborating with the forces of the sugar reinvigorate the slowing thought processes and provoke the ability to think again.

If on a Friday evening and at the end of a fulfilling and jam packed week I still feel the urge to write, I might pour a glass of red vino or a chilled glass of white. Procrastinating, sitting at my desk and sipping I  begin to dawdle, jot down quotes, formulate sentences and string phrases. It’s amazing how the writing seems to pour out as the glass of wine diminishes.  Is it coherent? I’d have to check on that tomorrow. I flick off the switches, hover the cursor over ‘Shut Down’ and click on the mouse. The screen goes blank and I turn off the lamp.

Good night my electronic friend, until tomorrow.