[Not so long ago I wrote a post entitled, ‘It’s ok to be disliked’. This current post develops the theme of being honest with yourself and others as a strategy guaranteed to generate success. Remember, a tadpole is not a failed frog.] The room is full with busy busy networkers working up a sweat in the vigour of their enterprise. The room itself is some sort of club on the eleventh floor with multi-million dollar vie
“Returning home at night to the village, seeing the first light in a house is like the beginning of a conversation.” Man and Language –Max Picard Storyfox copywriter Sydney sat back and watched the conversation swell into a torrent as his wife’s Aunty from the village burst the banks of her initial reserve. The talk was all of the past, as it is when family and friends gather after years apart. Story is our village.
Mum stayed in the car on Flagstaff Hill, overlooking Belmore Basin and the harbour. Pushing eighty-one and mobility in decline, she doesn’t want to slow us down. I suspect the cold’s a factor too, not to mention a secret ambition to snatch 40 winks while we’re away. The wind is at us immediately. She’s got southerly in her. The day is all of Sunday, late afternoon, greying, and wintry. Dad and I have both been longin
Their nervousness is greatest when they first take to the field. The score is zero – zero and there is everything to play for. Confronted by the empty page, feelings of panic inevitably surface. What happens next could be anything, or it might be nothing. Walking into Reception, unknown and unheralded, hidden behind his cheerful bluster, the salesman, a man so often despised by those he’s keen to serve. Resilience is
“He who perseveres to the end will be saved” Storyfox copywriter Sydney is one for silence, most certainly. Heavy rain on the iron roof throughout the long weekend was a form of silence. The streets around Epping were gushing streams feeding underground rivers in pipes that roar stormwater all the way, one presumes, to the sea. (Don’t talk to me about the driest continent and desal.plants when we fail to harvest what
I’m pretty sure his name was Sebastian, the brother who was living in North Africa. I think it may have been Morocco. Something dark and primal within dragged him there, something unwilling to sustain civilisation. Cheap cost of living was no doubt the ticket. The family had lost track of him. Bastian of light no longer; tower of dark collapsed in a corner, in cheap digs in the town eight kilometres from the monaster