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Since taking over our family farm I have been using Jemalong wool exclusively to market our annual woolclip. This is due to personalised attention to detail and flexibility due mainly to Jemalong understanding our needs as a business.
Subscriptions and back issues are also available to read online, on desktop and mobile devices. The heart of the magazine is in the Central West of the state, but a great story knows no boundaries. We are continually amazed by the innovation, inspiration and spirit that we find time and time again in communities both within the Central West and further afield. It is our passion and privilege to bring these stories to you. While every care is taken in the publication of Central West Lifestyle magazine, the publishers will not be held responsible for omissions, errors or their subsequent effects.
Pegasus Print Group, is an environmentally responsible printing company that is committed to helping achieve a sustainable environment.
Paper and paper-based materials carrying the FSC symbol can be tracked back to their source, guaranteeing they come from forests which are managed to meet the social, economic and ecological needs of present and future generations. Welcome to spring and the spectacular reawakening of nature before our very eyes! Our hearts go out to all the drought-affected families across the state. To the many farmers, graziers and associated communities which have been put under enormous financial and emotional pressures, our thoughts are with you at this very challenging time.
Central West Lifestyle is currently looking at ways we can support drought-stricken communities in this time of need, and will be providing updates on our social media channels in the near future. Narrabri Feature As usual, our Winter Feature was very well received, not only in the Narrabri Shire and nearby areas but across the state. It certainly was a thrill to be able to feature Narrabri, my hometown, where I Elizabeth grew up and where I was a primary teacher in the early s.
People are still as welcoming and friendly as ever. The profiling of the iconic tourist attractions reminded us of why the Narrabri Shire is such a popular tourist destination. We had an enormous number of readers comment on the awe-inspiring photograph of Sawn Rocks pages , Winter edition.
A huge thanks to Josh Smith for his spectacular image. Gundagai, a town of bridges. The historic Prince Alfred Bridge foreground , the rail bridge and the Sheahan Bridge, now part of the highway connecting Sydney and Melbourne. Spring Feature We trust you thoroughly enjoy the pages in this edition featuring the Cootamundra Gundagai area.
We enjoyed getting to know the wonderful identities, business people and locals. Thank you to the Cootamundra and Gundagai Regional Council for their prompt recognition of the opportunity to showcase their area and for their collaboration throughout this planning journey. On the road To truly understand businesses and communities we take great pride in being able to interact personally with our many supporters, including councils, businesses, newsagencies and readers.
We clock up many thousands of kilometres and in doing so, experience the unique social fabric of these amazingly diverse and innovative country communities. Thank you for being so friendly, helpful and, above all, visionary. We have learnt so much about the transforming effect of water in this area. We will be presenting to you an array of agricultural enterprises and you will be meeting the forwardthinking people who propel these businesses to success. We will dedicate pages to the Leeton Feature and we can assure you it will be compelling reading.
We would love to meet you if you attend any or all of these events. What you can look forward to As we need to plan and work so far ahead, we can announce at this point that the Tumut Tumbarumba area Snowy Valleys Council will be featured in our Autumn edition.
We will savour the opportunity to explore and discover the gems of this area and there are so many! Enjoy all that spring has to offer and remember to spend quality time with those that matter to you. By the time of my arrival, the locals were in a heightened state following a brief visit by the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall, who were in the area before opening the Commonwealth Games.
My introduction to both towns was at the races, held on consecutive days in each town. The colts and fillies had a chance to temporarily forget about the testing dry times as they quaffed bubbly, compared fashions on the field and watched the real stars of the show thunder down two very picturesque race tracks.
There are many worthwhile places to visit and things to do, including the museum, the old gaol and the Gabriel Gallery.
Dr Gabriel left his lifetime collection of priceless glass plates buried in a cellar, where they sat untouched for half a century only to be discovered by Gundagai historian Cliff Butcher. His son Robert and wife Jessica today house the collection of photos in the upstairs of their main street store, providing a fascinating insight into the life of the early 20th century pioneers. Thanks to new technology, modern day photographers will never encounter this problem, able to leave their work on a one terabyte hard drive, smaller than a deck of cards.
Only a year or two away from his centenary, Joe Reardon OAM continues to amaze everybody around him with his boundless energy and unrivalled community commitment. Cootamundra, the birthplace of Sir Don Bradman and home of the Cootamundra wattle, is another great place with lots of history and grandiose buildings. The post office is certainly one of the grandest in the land. It was great catching up with the new owners of Twin Hills thoroughbred stud and meeting an inspirational character who has been classing the family clip since WW2.
On a lighter note, it was pleasant to go shopping without the worry of parking meters. You will enjoy reading about these wonderful places but a visit is even better. I will finish with a quick note on the power of community. In Germany recently, fuel prices were hiked up and a million motorists simply abandoned their cars on motorways.
Yesterday, I was at the Armatree Hotel, in a sleepy little village between Gilgandra and Gulargambone, for an afternoon of music headed up by the hugely talented Sara Storer and The Bushwhackers. Nearly local farmers and their families had come along to have a short break from feeding stock and support the War 4 Water campaign. Some things are worth fighting for and this is one of them. Until next time, make the most out of life. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up, show up — and never give up!
Supp lying solutions for c reating healthy living soils, p lants, animals and commu nities Call or. Just a note to thank you so very much for including John and I in the launch of your Winter edition featuring Gilgandra and Coonabarabran areas. We loved the vibe and positive messages — the sense of pride by all attending was palpable. You and your talented team set wonderful standards that encourage others to rise and shine, and to even better appreciate our neighbours, near and far.
With each new edition of CWL, I am amazed at the way your writers and photographers — how I love the amazing photos that speak another language altogether! We, as readers, benefit hugely from the gems, the fresh perceptions we glean from CWL about the authentic, rich and diverse characters and locations that make up country NSW. But will have many happy hours travelling vicariously, fossicking back through skimmed Winter edition articles, in the meantime.
The Winter feature on the Narrabri Shire encapsulated the diversity, beauty and opportunity of our major centre Narrabri and also the two smaller centres of Wee Waa and Boggabri, which make up Narrabri Shire. The page feature is made up of tourism, industry and locals who are both colourful and successful in their individual ways. The results of the feature of Narrabri Shire in the Central West Lifestyle Winter edition have been outstanding with record sales within our shire, many copies being sent to family and friends and comments from other shires who have purchased a copy expressing their desire to now visit Narrabri Shire.
It is truly a magazine that will be a conversation piece on coffee tables throughout Australia for many months to come. I would sincerely like to thank Alex and Elizabeth and their team for the expert way that they have showcased the Narrabri Shire, also the businesses and individuals for embracing the opportunity to showcase Narrabri Shire as a shire of opportunity, uniqueness, beauty and a place that they are proud to call home.
Being a Narrabri girl myself for over 10 years, but now based in Port Macquarie, your magazine initially caught my eye via a social media post featuring one of my school friends on your front cover.
Your magazine held my attention, however, for your exceptional post-inquiry customer service and the amazing Narrabri feature in the Winter edition. I was genuinely surprised by the depth of stories; from hotpink slugs how could I have missed these! Thank you for bringing my old home town alive to me again.
What an amazing community, and to the team at Central West Lifestyle I say keep up the exceptional work. Michelle Chapman, Port Macquarie. It has been a pleasure to have worked with the editorial team of CWL and to have contributed to their Autumn edition, featuring the Yass Valley region. Our district has always been prominent in the production of traditional superfine Merino wool and these days many of us who have an environmental and welfare stance are reaping rewards by engaging with Italian and other European garment manufacturers.
Your magazine does much to draw attention to the quiet, hard and innovative work of many farmers. We thank you for that. This area has a wonderful sense of community. The Cootamundra-Gundagai region boasts a community that is proud and strong.
We can talk about community spirit, we can talk about how wonderful our regions are, the landscape, the heritage, our tourist attractions, the diversity of the people and the industries. But what are these attributes and what makes these qualities unique to our region?
I speak to people, I welcome guests at functions and am the representative for our local government area. No matter where I am or to whom I speak, the message is always clear. This area has a wonderful sense of community, its residents are loyal and not afraid to stand up for their region. They are hardworking, friendly and welcoming. They come from diverse backgrounds, are involved in an array of organisations, industries and are passionately proud of where they live.
If that translates into community spirit, we have it in spades in the Cootamundra-Gundagai region. As a local stock and station agent, I have the opportunity on a daily basis to travel around our region.
While I may be working, I can appreciate the environment in which I live and work. I can appreciate the diversity of the landscape — the fertile rich river flats, the high mountain country and gently rolling hilltops and plains all producing an assortment of agriculture that our country relies on.
From the breathtaking scenery high on Adjungbilly Hill, to the sparkling yellow rolling plains when the canola is in flower, our region is spectacular.
Sport and recreation are well catered for, with every code of football played in our region, as well as netball, basketball, bowls, tennis, swimming and a host of other sporting activities.
We are extremely fortunate to have two magnificent golf courses. The Cootamundra Country Club, the oldest golf club in NSW since , features a course that is gently undulating, with some hills, fully watered Bent greens, tees and wide Kikuyu fairways.
Our region offers a range of accommodation choices, from well-appointed motels, caravan parks and camping grounds to free camping spots. We are extremely proud of our region and are pleased to be able to showcase this amazing area in Central West Lifestyle Magazine. Cootamundra and Gundagai and the surrounding villages of Coolac, Wallendbeen, Nangus, Adjungbilly, Stockinbingal, Muttama and Tumblong are steeped in history and surrounded by diverse and distinctive landscapes.
Cootamundra, the birthplace of cricket legend Sir Donald Bradman, pays homage to the cricketing legend with a museum and the unique Captains Walk featuring 42 bronze sculptures of Australian Test cricketers. The Cootamundra Arts Centre and Tin Shed Theatre started its life as a wool store, the impressive facade and space inside attracted a group of local arts enthusiasts to restore, rebuild and rejuvenate the space that it is today. Cootamundra is a thriving and lively town set within a natural environment./p>
I hankered to tackle the job of Premier for a start. The young men all said they would vote for me when I put up. Our Member was one of those who advocated extending the franchise to women, so I adored him and we were great friends. He said I was one of his best canvassers.
Scorning tame-hen accomplishments and lacking special gifts of God, which lift a person from obscurity to fame through an art, a sport, or an invention, I returned to the thought of general greatness. Pa was very proud when old campaigners said I was a chip of the old block. He was strenuously in favour of woman suffrage. Ma expostulated with him for taking me about. She said we soon would not have even a poor roof to cover us. My Grandma got to hear of me and wrote letters blaming Ma. When Great-aunt Jane next stayed with us she did her best to save me.
You'll get the name of a man-hater if you don't take care. You condemn a woman if she doesn't worship men. She is the one in the wrong to hate the darling creatures, though they're pretty hatable by all accounts. Then if a girl is fond of men that also disgraces her.
I do like logic and fair play. The men don't act as if they hated me. The old ones as well as the boys all are friendly wherever I go. When Pa and I were driving around the electorate together he talked about LIFE and said that my idea of being Premier was not fantastic. The political enfranchisement of women was inevitable, and women free could do what they liked with the world.
Votes for women was a magic talisman by which all evils and abuses were to be righted. Women no longer would have to pander to men through sexual attraction and pretend to be what they weren't. They would burgeon as themselves. Those were splendid days. Pa said I must educate myself in readiness as by the time I should be of age I could stand for Parliament and discover if I had ability as a statesman. As a beginning he suggested that I should study history and the lives of great people to learn how they conducted the business.
To this end the poor dear once again postponed a new suit, which Ma truly said he needed to prevent his being mistaken for a scarecrow, and brought me home an armful of books, including some autobiographies. The histories I left for later consumption, as the people in them are always so long dead and are nearly all kings and queens and military or political murderers who have no relation to the ordinary kind of people like those I know in Australia.
The biographies of real people nearer our own day, and especially the autobiographies, where people told about themselves, filled me with excitement. Judging by the way Ma always misunderstands my deeds and purposes and intentions, and by what she and Aunt Jane tell me that other people do think or will think of me, it seemed that an autobiography was a device for disseminating personal facts straight from the horse's mouth.
I read ardently, nay, furiously would better express the way that one tackles the things one wants to do. Fry passed in review, evidently by dull old professors. These were a long time dead. Lives nearer to my own day had more appeal—until I read them. What I absorbed from autobiographies was not how to be great so much as the littleness of the great.
Every one of those productions, whether the fiction that passes for reality or the decorated reality that is termed fiction was marred by the same thing—the false pose of the autobiographer. Now, we are always warned against egotism as something more unforgivable, more unpopularising than vulgar sin. Yet everyone is a mass of egotism. They must be if they are to remain perpendicular.
Henry Beauchamp later explained this to me. He says that little Jimmy Dripping is a much more important person to little Jimmy Dripping than the Prince of Wales is. If this were not so he says that the end of little Jimmy Dripping would soon be mud; that each fellow's self-importance is the only thing that keeps him going.
Well then, why make such an unholy fuss about egotism? Ma despised egotism because she had none herself and happened by an accident to be perfect. Pa and I seemed to have whips and whips, but of the wrong kind. The best kind, the most profitable is like the hippo's epidermis.
Another word for it is hide—HIDE. It works so that you think your own performance of sin or stupidity is quite all right, and only the other fellow's all quite wrong. Pa said that that kind of egotism was a magnificent battering ram for worldly success, but to have it you must be born without a sense of humour and without the ability to see yourself as others see you. I was beginning to suspect that a sense of humour was more profitable to the other fellow than to the owner. The business of egotism needs to be regulated by give-and-take in real life or there would be general obstruction of all conversation and social intercourse, but that does not apply to an autobiography, at least not in conjunction with logic.
The fact of an autobiography is in itself an egotism. People perpetrate autobiographies for the sole purpose of airing their own exploits. If they go off the track of displaying the writer they likewise cease to be autobiographies. Such documents are usually mawkishly egotistical instead of frankly so because they attempt the scientific impossibility of being unegotistical.
Too, in autobiographies, the hero of the narrative tries to deprecate his goodness, while at the same time he often endeavours to depict himself as a saint worthy of wings. If he has a penny-dreadful parent he nevertheless paints himself as adoring him or her and by honouring one or both is a contestant for the doubtful prize of long life, which the bible promises people for enduring their immediate progenitors in any circumstances.
And I never could see in strict logic how that works. I have examined all available autobiographies since then but not one have I found by woman or man, scientist or simpleton, which did not assume the same pose. So little greatness did I find in the lives of the great as related by themselves that for a time I was diverted from the idea of becoming great myself by the notion of constructing a fictitious autobiography to make hay of the pious affectations of printed autobiographies as I know them.
Who has not read an autobiography beginning thus: I determined to flout these pretences with an imitation autobiography that would wade in without apology or fear, biffing convention on the nose. The days were goldenly long and warm, I was rabid for mental and physical action, and there was none in that state of discontent in which it had pleased God to place me.
It makes me question His amiability in placing His victims. In addition to riding I swam in our weedy water-holes among leeches and turtles where there was also an occasional snake, but of mental pabulum there was no crumb to be found, except in books, I was a voracious reader, but after all, books pall on one when that one is throbbing to be doing something exciting.
From 'Possum Gully to Spring Hill and round about to Wallaroo Plains there wasn't a real companion of my own age, nor any other age. The dissatisfaction of other girls stopped short at wondering why life should be so much less satisfactory to them than to their brothers, but they accepted it as the will of God.
None of them was consumed with the idea of changing the world. The idea of writing a book to make fun of the other books grew with cossetting. Ma said she had sufficient experience of my ideas to be chary of them. Pa rubbed the top of his head contemplatively and said, "If you are man enough to write a book, I'll get you some paper.
You can't run before you learn to walk. A ream of paper is a large quantity to one who has never written a book nor met anyone who has done so— sheets all to myself. The pleasure of good penmanship on all that lovely white paper edged me on to begin upon my spontaneous career of slinging ink, of which this volume is to be the petite finale.
Ma admired classical features. Perhaps that is what misled her into a poor match, and why, no matter how often my looks are praised as lovely, she will not rank me as a beauty.
She says such talk is to make a fool of me. So to be done with the uncertainty, I accept Ma's dictum that beauty lies in actions, and as my actions are all wrong, where could be my beauty?
Nevertheless, bang went another convention. Men cared only for prettiness in girls, yet our house was a rendezvous for young men from all over the electorate and beyond it, who did not honestly come to talk politics with Pa, though they pretended that they did. I wasn't in danger of being embittered by a lack of admirers, nor of platonic men friends, as I was simple enough to think they were at the start.
They teased me about dropping the Premiership and taking to writing. Ma said there was no sight more nauseating than lovesick men all cackling and he-hawing and pretending they were angels who wouldn't let her pick up her thimble; while by-and-bye if I should marry one of them, most likely he would leave me to chop the wood and would turn her out of his house.
It was a spring without a spring. The breezes had a strong dash of summer, but the cloudless skies looked down with an excess of that pitilessness which the Persian poet has advised us not to call upon. Not a speck the size of a man's hand came up for weeks to give even false hope, and the half-opened leaves withered on the rose bushes and orchard trees.
The starving stock lacked strength to bring their young to birth, and the moan of dying creatures throughout that country side was a reproach to whatever power had placed them there. The earth was as dry as ashes. Isolated shrubs and plants, that had been the pride of settlers' drudging wives and daughters, died in spite of efforts to keep them alive with the slop water collected after household use.
The wattle trees, however, because they were natives, were putting forth an unstinted meed of bloom with an optimism rivalling "God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world". Masses of lovely yellow fluff swayed to waves in the breeze and wafted perfume too chaste for the seventh heaven of oriental belief. This loveliness lacked competition in the grim landscape. I culled sprays to press between the leaves of some old book, and wondered would there ever come a day when I should be as homesick for a bower of wattle bloom set in a frame of gum trees as I was now wild to escape to other lands of castles and chateaux and Gothic cathedrals.
The drought made work in the garden superfluous. I had leisure to utilise that ream of paper. The burlesque autobiography grew apace. My idea of ridicule speedily enlarged as a reticule into which anything could be packed. I could express my longing to escape to other lands and far great cities across the sheening ocean to strange ports above and below the Line, where big ships and little go for their cargoes.
It was an opportunity to crystallise rebellion and to use up some of the words which pressed upon me like a flock of birds fluttering to be let out of their cages. There is artistic satisfaction in liberating words: It was absorbing to allot parts to characters. Uncertainty when to interpolate "Odds fish, ma'am," or "Gad Zooks," put me off a historical track, though I had started in an ancient castle on an English moor.
I was also in a quandary about style, but at that time dear old Mr. Harris came to spend a few days with us prior to leaving the district. I let him into the secret. He was sympathetic in one way and discouraging in another. He said that the pursuit of literature was a precarious staff of life, but an engrossing hobby, if one had the leisure and the means. He asked me where the scene was set, a question I did not understand. He said if I would trust him to see the first chapter he could probably tell me.
We walked among the wattle blossom in the gully beyond the vegetable garden till we reached the top, where there were some rocks. We sat down, and he said, "My dear Sybylla, I have read your beginning.
Though immature it has promise. I nearly stifled in agonised expectation of his condemnation. My whole feeling had come to the surface as sensitive as the nerve of a tooth. I knew he would never be mean enough to tell Ma the full depth of my foolishness. Without waiting for my reply he continued, "I'll tell you, my dear little girl.
The castle in England is a castle in Spain, and 'tho' 'twas never built,' imagination makes it more enthralling than things near at hand. Why not try reality? Instead of the wind moaning across the moor, why not the pitiless sun beating down on the cracked dusty earth? Australia is crying out to be done: England is done to death. This was an expanding idea, like opening a window and letting me look into a place I had not known before.
You could picture them with a vigour and conviction that would be refreshing: I am not sweetly good, and though Ma thinks I am possessed of a devil, I have never done anything really unrespectable.
For example, I could never have been so unkind as to throw that dictionary back at the teacher like Becky Sharp did, though I wish I could do that kind of thing. It must be splendid. They would not like to see themselves except as white-washed saints—like the yarns on the tombstones. I'd have to imagine people to make them interesting.
I shouldn't be surprised if they turn out to be more real that way. But there is one thing, my dear, be Australian. It is the highest form of culture and craftmanship in art to use local materials. That way you stand a chance of adding to culture. The other way you are in danger of merely imitating it, and though imitation is a form of flattery to the imitated, it is a form of weakness or snobbery in the perpetrator. You must find your own way and your own level. The material is in you: I could hardly wait till the end of his visit to plaster the ideas he had put into my head upon the original burlesque.
Ma said that Mr. Harris was right to a certain extent, that to pretend to be what one was not was the height of vulgarity, but she couldn't see that an interesting book could be made of reality: Why not do something practical?
Pa though, is always willing to believe that the latest venture must be better than the preceding. I set out to do the equivalent of taking two photographs on the one plate. I was to burlesque autobiography and create the girl of my admiration, and fill in with a lot of lifelike people as a protest against over-virtuous lay figures.
One thing I have always envied in girls is the ability to fly into a towering rage. At school there were two bad-tempered dunces and they enjoyed my brain effort.
I lived in terror of their temper and did their sums with alacrity. Poor Old Harris was careful not to stir them up, and they did pretty well what they liked. So my heroine was to be the antithesis of conventional heroines. All my people were to be created in the image of reality—none of them bad enough to be tarred and feathered, none good enough to be canonised. But people are never what they think themselves, and by the results which accrued it would seem that it is equally difficult to present a character as you intend.
Up to that date I do not remember being so fully interested in anything. I had a secret delight. I ceased to talk about it even to Pa. He and I had quite opposite tastes in stories. No, I could not write dashingly enough to interest Pa. Ma was reading an annotated edition of Shakespeare, and that took her above my sphere of effort. Bewitchment shadowed the paper as I progressed, I could not do what I liked with the people.
I often found them as troublesome as Ma found me, and I think in the end they made rather a pie of my theme, though I did not know it at the time. The book was a companion as well as an entertainment, a confidant and a twin soul. You know how a piece of lace that you have made yourself has a charm lacking in a much better piece made by someone else? So with that book. I used to climb on the hay in the shed behind the stables on Sunday afternoons and read it over—like doing all the parts in a play myself, though at the time I had not seen a play.
I must have had a lot of ingrowing egotism, and it came out in this way as the pimples or boils that are common to boys. Our home was of wood and of the usual pattern and situation in a particularly ugly portion of the bush. We were dished in a basin of low scrubby ranges which are familiar to the poorer settlers where the fertile patches are land-locked in a few big holdings by hard-headed fellows who got in early with capital and grants and convicts.
Instead of hedges we had dog-leg and brush fences, and stumps in the cultivation paddocks. There were fowl-houses covered with tin to render them safe against sharp-snouted spotted marsupial cats; the mess-mate roosting trees also had wide rings of tin around the trunks to save the turkeys by night.
Cowsheds were roofed with stringy-bark. Fields of briars and rugged ranges were all around; a weedy water hole in the middle; the not-yet-bleached bones of beasts were a common decoration. No roofs but our own were within sight. It was a raw contrast to the English scenery on which I doted, with its thatched cottages, trailing roses, gabled farm houses, towered ancestral halls with Tudor chimneys amid oaks and elms and cawing rooks and moors and downs, wolds, woods, spinneys and brooks.
Such reality as mine would look mighty queer in a book, something like a swaggie at a Government House party, but it was as easy to describe as falling off a log. The people belonging to this scenery were so ordinary and respectable and decent that a yarn about them could not possibly attract the attention of a reader.
The probability of readers must have popped up somewhere along the track. I had had no thought of them when I started.
I'm sure nothing but genius could make the 'Possum Gully kind of reality interesting, and as I am only a jokist I had to bring out the paintpot of embellishment to heighten or lower the flat colourless effect. There are times when our own case is so blinding that we are unable to feel or to see outside it. We are shut within ourselves. Sometimes these moods are merry and sometimes sad, but always self-sealed. If merry, so all-sufficient is our hilarity that grey skies or black nights have no power to damp our inward fire.
But let us be sad, and the brilliance of the sun seems callous. We cannot reach outside ourselves. I had a fever which fed upon itself like the green-eyed monster, and it was a great relief to be shedding it like a snake-skin. A desire to have someone to read the result came upon me towards the end. I don't know whether this was gregariousness or mere egotism, like my cat's when she brings home a kitten and dumps it for us to see.
I was more selective than the cat. She doesn't pick her appreciators. She drops her kitten among us regardless of passing boots, and also regardless of who may be in the boots. I adore her and indulge her and so have been surprised that she did not bring me her kitten. I was more demanding. I wanted someone who would understand. Who better than our greatest Australian author? I quite understood him since ever I was old enough to lisp a line of his ballads, what more sequential than his understanding of me?
In the innocence of my heart, or it may have been the heartlessness of my innocence, I confidently sent him the manuscript. Having worshipped at his shrine with a whole-heartedness which we can enjoy but once in life, I felt sure of welcome within the gates of his interest. I'd have given him any or all of my treasures, even my black-dappled-grey filly, a doll, a book of girls' stories or a little box covered with velvet and sea shells.
When I come to think of it, these were my only treasures, and he could not take the filly with him to London whither he was going. I was excited by his acceptance of the manuscript. I once gave Ma a little story for her birthday. She thanked me, but did not look as if it were an enjoyable present, and never said whether she read it before burning it under the copper. I hoped the great Australian writer would read my offering before burning it, as I had taken pains to write it nicely—no blots or scratchings-out.
This matter of the autobiography settled with satisfaction, I regained my chronic distaste for the kind of life into which it had pleased God to stuff me. The entertainment of fashioning my characters and acting their parts gave me the idea of being an actress. Acting appeared to be the only avocation open to a girl who was not a musical genius nor trained in anything but domesticity. Heaven knows why I had such a notion, for I loathed hypocrisy, and in my circle, acting was another name for this.
I had never seen a play nor a mummer, nor even read one—a play I mean—except Shakespeare's. It must have been the delirium of day-dreaming. My delirium escaped me one day and really startled poor Ma. We had a State child called Eustace to help about the place, or hinder, Ma said.
He had once been an elephant's leg in a school play in Goulburn and considered it a great lark. I concocted a scene, in which I was to accidentally fight a duel with him. He refused to fight unless I wore trousers. I put on Pa's, but Eusty said Odds Fish, no dashing blade would fight with such a spectacle. So I tried a pair of Eusty's in which I showed a bit of knee like a fat boy. Eusty called me Greedy Guts.
We staged the drama in the hay shed. Pa was concerned that we might have set alight to the straw. Ma said never, never let her hear of me again putting on trousers; showing my person, failing in self-respect before a State School boy!
My defence was that to act Shakespeare whom everyone respects next to the bible , I should have to don doublet and hose. Ma was shocked to discover such foolishness in me. I must really be mad. This put me in a fantod so that Ma reported me to Pa and threatened to enlist the clergyman to exorcise the devil in me.
The game is not worth the candle. I must never upset Ma: Pa had a twinkle in his eyes, but I refused to melt. A lack of a sense of humour, like a lack of good-temper, can be used as a waddy.
Later Ma upbraided Pa because he had not severely trounced me. Pa said, "I see nothing wrong with the child's intellect except that it is too bright for its uses".
Dear me, where would a child of mine get notions of the stage—the lowest Pa began to rub his hair gently on end and remarked, "I suppose a sea bird reared in the middle of a desert would retain aquatic tendencies. She was too perturbed about my aberration, as she called it, to leave me to Pa.
She "took me in hand". I resented the evil she discerned in me, felt that she was unfair, but there was no appeal against Ma. She disabused my mind of any notion that I could go upon the stage.
She ridiculed my every feature and every contour. Ma believes in finishing things. She says it is a sign of a weak mind to begin things and leave them half done. Ma has no weakness of mind. She always finishes the hardest task. She finished me to squashation like a sucked gooseberry. I often longed for death or a nunnery as an escape from my depressing lack of desirable attributes. But I was freed from notions.
Never again would I have the conceit and delusions to think of the stage. Never would I have the effrontery to seek any but the humblest jobs. Should anyone flatter me I would know them for what they were at the first soft word.
Ma had ensured me against making a fool of myself by attempting flights, but she had not helped me towards contentment. The native wombat role for me henceforth. Those who are low need fear no fall. I had always jeered at the Blackshaws, our neighbours, by saying they would never make fools of themselves and by adding that those who had not enough stuffing to make fools of themselves at times would never make anything else of themselves.
The finishing stroke in Ma's finishing school was the threat to report me to the nice little clergyman. I loved him dearly. Like Old Harris he was an outlet. I was so worked up that I warned Ma that I'd listen to what she told him.
Ma said it was a grave pass to be dictated to in her own house by a creature she had brought into the world. She demanded an apology. If I expressed contrition to Pa all was washed out, but with Ma it was different. She said penitent gush was useless without reform in deeds. Ma was what she called consistent. The clergyman came next day, and after dinner, when Pa was at the stables feeding his horses, I loitered in the passage to hear what Ma was saying.
Sure enough, she was reporting me as an abnormal specimen. I was infuriated, but the clergyman's voice, in the tone of the Collects—perhaps it was the Twentieth Sunday after the Melbourne Cup—said, "But my dear Mrs. Melvyn, I cannot see anything wrong at all.
That child has such glorious eyes that when they are fixed upon me I always find I can preach a better sermon. You might let her come with me around the parish and to stay with my wife and daughters till I come next month.
During our progress I could find time to talk to her on spiritual things: That was one in the eye of Ma. I was as gay as a lark, and a Willy-wagtail or two thrown in, when serving supper. I awaited breathlessly to hear the results of the clergyman's championship.
There was only a thin partition between my bed and Ma's, and I could always hear Ma's final injunctions to Pa. Tonight Pa opened the discourse. David wants to take Sybylla with him. Pa gave a loud grunt. In a little while Ma complained, "I wish you wouldn't snore so". Pa hadn't begun yet, so Ma was taking time by the forelock, as she often adjured me to do.
I lay awake pondering her words. Surely a clergyman, and such a nice lean helpless-looking little one as Mr. David, would not he guilty of flattery or trying to make a fool of me; and he wasn't a bit like the pretentious Canon, who had once taken Mr. Now, if it had been the Canon!
I remember chortling when I read the table of consanguinity beginning, "A man may not marry his grandmother," but Pa had said that human nature was such that I had a good yarn with Mr.
David on his next visit. I had him alone because a neighbour who was ill sent for Ma, and Pa had driven her over. I confessed one thing that prejudiced me against God was that He had to be fed on everlasting praise.
I had to grow strong in disapprobation, but God had to be praised unceasingly by measley creatures which He Himself had made. The Psalms were ridiculous with fulsome praise. Egotism in me had to be stemmed and denied, but God seemed to be a sticky mess of it.
Another reason I could not respect God was that it seemed so despicable to continually spy upon distressed little girls for the purpose of condemnation. David chuckled and said, "Poor God: He has need of young minds like yours to think their way to Him, not to rebel against Him. He needs your help to free Him from all the stupid misrepresentation. Sybylla, m'dear, God is aching for your loving help.
The problem was thrown on me in a way that had never even been hinted in 'Possum Gully by anyone except Pa, and his theories were discredited by Little Jimmy Dripping's common sense. This devastating idea haunted me day and night. The God made by disagreeable and selfish old men in their own image and erected as a bogey to control women and children retreated before it.
Was there no God, only as He was made manifest by nobility and truth in ourselves? This idea, at first releasing, grew to be terrifying. It left one lost and alone. The European God with all His masculine bullying unfairness was at least something to be sure of, however unsatisfactory. No God except as we demonstrate Him! There was a burden too difficult and demanding to be borne.
No wonder people evaded such a vast responsibility by hypocrisy, or sought less exacting conceptions of God in josses which could be placated by praise and candles and incense and other material bribes. It was a sobering revelation. I loathed 'Possum Gully more and more. The horses were dog-poor.
To ride them at the beginning of a bleak and droughty winter would have been wanton cruelty plus extravagance. March was crisp and cool, with a hint of frost which makes one feel as strong as a young colt, and I rebelled against the continual shining of pot lids, the unnecessary whitening of the hearth, just because Ma insisted upon being the top-notcher. I took to the piano. Ma said that hard work and worry had driven piano-playing out of her.
I said why not turn it the other way about, and drive out dullness with the piano, but Ma preferred to excel in spotless floors and windows. My thumping on the piano irritated her as a love of idleness, and I had to desist.
I hated every bit of the life but the sunsets and moonlight and the wild flowers. The watch-dog's bark was often the only incident of the day with its promise of a caller to break monotony. Sometimes this would be a tea agent or a stock inspector. The regular visitors were Mrs. Crispin come to spend the afternoon.
I resented their inadequacy as society. It was not their fault. I loved them warmly, much more than they loved me, I am sure, and did more for them than they did for me, because I was something for them to criticise and cackle about. Pa said rubbish, if criticism was sifted out of conversation people would be silent from Goulburn to Bourke and Broken Hill and beyond. Poverty can make pioneering a sorry job. In any case it has always been heavier on women than on men.
She had an outback which became back paddocks with familiarity. But all the trying part and none of the adventure of pioneering remained at 'Possum Gully. The inconvenient houses depending on the main strength of drudgery, the absence of comfort or beauty or any cultural possibilities or opportunities for self-development were still enough to induce Back Blocks lunacy in any one above a cow in ability.
Those good ladies all had large families, and their conversations were about recipes for cakes and puddings and little Tommies' tummy aches, and then boasting bees as to who skinned her hands the most in washing her husband's trousers of moleskin. They and their daughters, following in their tracks, were held up to me as admirable.
Broken down drudges talking of uterine troubles and the weariness of child-bearing! I could not accept that as the fullness of life from any God worthy of worship or gratitude. These martyrs to stupidity were extolled in sententious tones as "mothers of families".
They were populating Australia. I said that instead of Ned Crispin and others I should prefer Australia to remain populated by kangaroos and the dear little bears and kangaroo rats that were as thick about us as sheep.
This was the sort of thing that made me entertaining to the 'Possum Gullyites, and troubled Ma. Another winter wore away and a bit of a spring deluded the land. We had saved a few hundred sheep, and wool would be scarce because so many sheep had died. Just as shearing was coming on Pa had a call from an old colleague to help fight a by-election in Junee.
This was a key electorate on Pa's side, and he said he could not let the country down. The shearing would take only a few days, and Mr. Blackshaw offered to oversee it. He too saw the importance of Junee being saved for the right side.
This infuriated poor Ma. She said Pa might as well have been a drunkard who went on the booze at critical times. To leave our sole income to the superintendence of an outsider was not merely undignified, it was lunacy. Ma said I could now see why she tried to save me from my father's tendencies.
She held that a man should first save his home and family, and the country could come second. Pa said if the country was not saved for the homes and liberty Australia might as well be under the Russian Czars.
At any rate Pa went, ran away in a crisis, Ma said, just because he loved to hear himself spouting on a platform. Ma said I would never understand what she had suffered, that life was a bitter thing with a useless husband. I ventured to say that Pa didn't have such a slashing life either.
Ma maintained it was much harder for her, but that I could not understand that. I was piqued by this accusation of lack in understanding. I said I could understand it was easier for Pa because he was so proud of her and thought her so wonderful. He at least had the satisfaction of thinking what a stroke he had done to choose and win such a wife, while she must always be ashamed of herself for marrying so much beneath her; but that did not appease Ma. Quite, quite the opposite!
I gathered that Ma had the added affliction of me as a daughter, which couldn't matter so much to Pa because I took after him. Blackshaw's back was smitten and he could not rise from bed.
All the men at one time or another had a bad back. Ma was a deserted heroine. I know how to pick up and roll a fleece, and Eusty can be tar boy and rouse-about. This did not dispose of the pressing. We had a hand-worked press of Pa's construction which Ma said showed what a helpless botcher Pa was, but all the neighbours used to borrow it, which further shows the standard of the neighbourhood, or that Pa wasn't so bad.
We turned the hay shed into a floor for two men with blades, who wanted to learn so that they could go down the Riverina next year. The skilled shearers had not yet returned to their little homes in the wallaby scrubs around us. These lads had to do their own work and come a distance each morning and they were very slow. All this prolonged the festival. Ma vetoed the idea of my working in the shed. It would have been fun and a relief from the pot lids and d'oyleys.
It sometimes took half an hour to iron one of the prevalent d'oyleys. She decided to attend to the shearing herself and let me do the cooking.
This was a disappointment, as to press one's face into a nice fat sheep all white from the shears is a delight. The two shearers were selectors' sons in their teens. We knew each other minutely, but did not "associate". We were a grade higher socially, but had we shown it they would not have shorn for us, and would have slanged us throughout the neighbourhood.
Ma and I managed to be too busy to sit down to meals with them, and thus was a gradation of the caste system preserved. The shearing was saved but the country was lost in so far as Pa's man was rejected by the electors, and Pa did not have his election expenses paid. The mail was left three times a week in a battered kerosene can nailed on the fence of the main road two miles away—that is if the mailman was not too drunk to sort it.
He liked to keep any special letter a day or two till he read it and then gummed it up again. Other times he was content with tearing a corner off so that he could look in. He enlivened monotony by a lively interest in his neighbours' doings. I was always hopeful of the mail. I don't know why, for the mail box only gives back the fruit of what is sown in it, and I had nothing to sow. It was at least a channel of possibility, a Tattersall's sweep that might throw up a prize, and I hungrily devoured the news of the great, reported in the newspapers.
There was no hope of any eruption in 'Possum Gully, it would need to be an irruption. There was no public road nearer than two miles. There was no stream to attract anglers, nor scenery for a painter, nor rocks for a geologist. My chiefest grudge against it has always been its ugliness. It is ragged rather than rugged, and lacks grandeur. We are too much in the ranges for them to be blue.
They are merely sombre. The one glory that I dote and gloat on is the sunset. I love the sinking sun red as a fire between the trunks of the trees upon the hillside, and by running a quarter of a mile up the track can catch the afterglow of the grandeur of transfigured clouds on a more distant horizon. Great was my astonishment one dull day to find a letter and a large parcel both addressed to me, and with English stamps. The letter had the corner torn off but not enough to divulge the contents.
The parcel had been untied, but I was so surprised that I was not resentful of this. In all my life I had not received so much as a post card written by a hand in another country. I had no idea of the what and why of the parcel, but I trembled with excitement. I galloped part of the way home and in a little gully where the hop scrub was thickest got off to investigate. The parcel was books. Had old Harris gone back to England without letting us know?
But they were all the same book. Each had the same picture on the cover. I had never seen so many of one book except school readers. And the title of the book was my spoof autobiography—and there was my name printed below it!!!! It looked so different in print—so conspicuous somehow, that I was frightened. The letter was from a man I did not know, a business letter, as his name was printed at the top of the stationery.
This gentleman wrote that herewith under separate cover he had pleasure in sending me six presentation copies of my novel with the publishers' compliments. He would be glad to have my acknowledgment in due course.
There in the hop scrub I faced the biggest crisis I have known to date. What on earth was I to do about this? What would Ma say? It was a shock that this thing written as a lark could come back to me as a real book like one written by a grownup educated person. I never in the world thought of an author as resembling myself, not even the feminine ones.
There was a dreadful fascination in peeping between the leaves. There it all was, all my irreverence about God and parents, and the make-believe reality that I had piled on with a grin in a spirit of "I'll show 'em reality as it is in 'Possum Gully. It was as if the pages were on fire and the printing made of quicksilver.
Was this because I knew what was in it, or was it just plain egotism, which no decent girl should have? I wished now that I had written a ladylike book that I could be pleased with. If only I had known it would be printed I should have done so. Those poor lost girls who have a baby without being married must feel like I did. There would be the baby but all the wild deep joy of it would be disgrace and trouble. I thought of dropping the packet near home so that I could burn the books one by one secretly, but the mailman had opened them.
He would ask Pa. No, I must face it. Ma and Pa were waiting for me, as I was late, and everyone looked forward to the mail, though the crop that Pa put in it mostly bore no fruit but bills. She and Pa and Eusty each seized a book. Eusty and Pa regardless of evening jobs, there and then opened theirs.
Bandicoot looks as if he is going to have a foal, and you look as if you are going to fall off and your clothes blow up! How did this book get to the printer? I wonder how much it has cost to print all this trash—it might be twenty pounds, or even fifty. What is hard and unjust is that I have continually to be paying it with you. Ma said, first things first; she must prepare the evening meal while I put the chooks to bed safe from the native cats: Eusty speedily arrived at his opinion.
He had no impediment to arriving at his opinion on any subject. Old Harris said that Eusty was a perfect example of the cocksure Australian youth, possessed of the irreverence which resulted from lack of culture. Pa wiped his pince-nez and looked thoughtfully into space and murmured half to himself, "Of course you are not to blame for inexperience, but it's a very strange thing.
I am tremendously interested in what you have done, but you must not expect anyone else to be. It has just a local interest because you make things seem so true, even things that have no relation to anyone we know, that it is like a looking glass. I really had no idea that you had anything like this in your head. It would have been wiser to consult me beforehand; I could have saved you disappointment.
With his kindness to anyone in a scrape, he added, "You must try again and write something adventurous. Authors write many books before they succeed, so you needn't worry that no one will take any notice of you.
I have sometimes thought of describing the old pioneer life that is fast disappearing, but when I came to put pen on paper something always interrupted, or the experiences seemed such small potatoes compared with the Spanish Main or American pioneering, that they could not carry interest beyond those who actually knew them.
Ma made sure that the pigs and fowls had been fed, the calves penned, the flowers watered, and kindling gathered ready for the morning fire before she read her copy. She said it was lacking in discretion to have rung in such peculiar characters. There would be unpleasantness with worthy people who would think themselves ridiculed. She also said it was unfilial to concoct an uncomplimentary exaggerated fabrication in such a way that outsiders would think it represented Pa and her.
This was very mild and very handsome of Ma, but she is superb in a real crisis, though often irritating in a trivial rumpus. And what kind of a mad notion was it to rig up such a headstrong unladylike girl to be mistaken for myself? Ma said it was hard enough for a girl whose father could not provide for her, without handicapping herself with false reports. I was in danger of being put down as unwomanly, and men liked none but womanly girls. I shall never be a lady and poor Ma will never be anything else.
So I plucked up to contend that it was womanized girls that men craved, and that it did not matter what men thought of me, as what I thought of them would even things up. We won't waste any more time on the silly book at present.
I only hope it doesn't involve us in any expense. The publishers must have little to do, or a peculiar taste.
Put the copies away where no one will see them. A nine days wonder soon fades. I sent a copy to Old Harris. He wrote that it was surprising to see such a novel issuing from the stately house of McMurwood—this alone assured my status. Where is your radiance, your joyous sense of fun, your irrepressible high spirits? The pages seethe with discontents and pain.
Have you been living alone in your spirit, suffering as we who had deepest affection for you did not dream? I cannot recognise you at all in these pages. Why not set our hearts at ease with a companion volume in which you give us your bright and illuminating self? Pa said Old Harris was a wonderful man. Ma said how was a man wonderful who had wasted all his opportunities.
Pa said that Mr. And that was the end of the book. We got on with the drought. It was a hummer that year and took all our attention.
It wasn't the end of the book after all. Because of the drought, and the horses being poor, visiting among the neighbours practically ceased, and it was some time before we knew what was going on. We were further like ostriches, because hard times had suspended our subscriptions to the papers.
Eusty went to Stony Flat—the neighboring community centring in a school—with the Stringybark Hill boys who were meeting in a picnic and football match, and he came home with a briar bush of gossip.
They must have printed dozens more than those you had. Golly, I'm glad I'm not you. All the old blokes despise you and laugh at the idea of you trying to write a book. I knew what it was, as he never read another book in his life, I'll swear. Poor old chap, he apologised and said he would put it on the fire, that he only got it to see if it was as wicked as people were saying. At any rate, my girl, you've made people read a book for the first time in their lives.
Then he got squiffy and thanked God that his daughters were different. It appears that the Wesleyan preacher last Sunday denounced you.
He said that your attitude towards religion damns you. They say you should have been kept under more. I was in an agony of disgrace.
I did not sleep that night. I lay awake shivering with ignominy and listening to the mopokes and plovers. I did not mind what people thought or were so silly as to mis-think about me, it was Ma. To have brought disgrace upon her and to be compelled to remain there and be tied to it in 'Possum Gully was a deadly tribulation.
A prophet denounced where he is known often has a great innings among strangers. Sometimes things are thus and sometimes otherwise. In my case it was both thus and otherwise. I must continue about thus. Following his next sorties Eusty reported that Mrs. Crispin had said to Mrs. Oxley that she had not been to see poor Mrs. Melvyn, as she did not know what to say about that Sybylla. I thought it callous of Pa. At any rate Eusty had great pleasure in the affair. His eyes popped and he danced a can-can after each report.
Elsie Blinder says her Ma says it is indelicate for a girl to write books at all. It seemed to be more wide-spread than the drought, which that season was confined to the Southern Tableland. Each carriage comes complete with a driver and footman, and is drawn by a pair of horses of your selection of white or dapple grey Percherons.
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Our care, compassion and guidance is given not only to our clients, but to the community at large, in the role of sponsorship and support of charities, aged care and youth programs. Both have grown up and lived in the Nepean Valley their whole lives and are passionate about their local area and community. Jim has been involved in the funeral industry for many years, having worked for a number of prominent funeral directors.
Jim was a young age when he first started helping families. I know I can help people during some of the most difficult times of their lives and I find this extremely rewarding. Jim is well respected for his caring and compassionate nature as well as knowledge and drive for excellence.
He has good relationships with many in our community. If there is something you need, he will know how to make it happen. Together with his wife Janet, who brings many years of administrative and event management experience they make the perfect team. Angels from Above Funeral Services Mention my name when you call. TJ Andrews has been caring for families and arranging funerals in Sydney since The founder, Thomas James Andrews, commenced the business in Newtown, initially using horse-drawn hearses prior to replacing horses with motor vehicles in You can contribute to, on someones behalf, to help out a couple in need perhaps by donating your decorations or clothing.
GIVIT is a national not-for-profit connecting those who have with those who need, in a private and safe way. GIVIT works to alleviate poverty in Australia by ensuring every community service provider has what it needs through the simple act of giving. GIVIT is free to use and makes giving easy by allowing you to see exactly what is required by vulnerable community members. GIVIT supports all agencies, services and charities in Australia who work directly with impoverished, marginalised and vulnerable people.
GIVIT makes it easier for organisations to empower their clients and improve quality of life by obtaining the items they require through the website, at no cost. The unique virtual warehouse eliminates the need for organisations to store, sort and dispose of unwanted items, saving valuable time and resources.
Jamjo was established August A light bulb moment while having a coffee one day in April was the official starting point. When googled to see if it was available I discovered it was a tiny town in Sweden. Our main objective is to offer product diversity. Both locally and internationally sourced. We will continue to evolve and create a space where people would like to visit time and time again. Gluten free, Vegan approved, not tested in animals; these Lipsticks will keep the entire wedding party looking fabulous for 4- 18 hours.
We pride ourselves on our work, versatility, customer service and reasonable pricing. Please read our testimonials and email us for a full quotation and our availability and know that when you book with us — you have booked with the best! Beautiful styling and makeup on your special day.
We conveniently provide a mobile service so you can be pampered in the relaxed comfort of your own home or venue on your special day. We provide highly skilled and experienced Hair Stylists and Makeup Artists with between years experience in their fields, so you can be at ease that you are in great hands for your most special day.
We also will do destination weddings. For more details, please go to our contact page and fill out the enquiry form. Apart for my sewing services I also offer Beauty services. Indulge, Relax, Pamper, Treat yourself to some beauty essentials that Lyndaz has to offer. A wide range of services are provided for your unique needs that will keep you wanting and coming back for more.
At Lyndaz, we use only Natural Products that do not cause any known allergic reactions. We have on offer a wide variety of services to choose from or choose a package we have to offer. Commonwealth translating services began in as a result of the post-World War II migration program.
As new migrants settled in Australia the need for language services emerged. In response, the Red Cross and the Commonwealth government began performing translation functions to fill this need.
These services were consolidated into the Commonwealth government language services in December when the Department of Immigration and Border Protection known then as the Department of Immigration , took responsibility for these functions. Today this service is known as TIS National. People settling permanently in Australia are able to have up to ten eligible documents translated, into English, within the first two years of their eligible visa grant date.
From 1 July the Free Translating Service moved to an online delivery model. The website allows clients to self-lodge applications. Having an Auslan Interpreter attend a funeral can be free or funded but they charge for weddings and other ceremonies.. The NSW Deaf Society has advised that Auslan interpreters are their specialist area and are used when deaf people have a preferred method of communication using Auslan.
Or if they do not have NDIS, interpreters usually do this work pro-bono through ASLIA the sign language interpreters association as many interpreters give back to the community in this way. For funerals, NDIS again covers this cost. If the deaf person does not have NDIS, the Deaf Society provides up to 3 hours worth of interpreting for free based on the circumstances. Anything exceeding this time is up to the deaf person to cover the costs.
NSW Deaf Society maintains a no fee interpreting policy for funerals where a deaf person is attending a funeral. For more information contact our Customer Service Officers at interpreting deafsociety. Terms and conditions apply. Commitment to the Deaf Community. The Deaf Society is committed to supporting the Deaf Community, as well as giving consideration and assistance to people experiencing financial hardship.
Here are some of the ways we can support you;. NAATI is owned jointly by the Commonwealth, State and Territory governments and is governed by a board of five directors, who are appointed by the owners.
It is a national organisation with offices across Australia. They have staff on standby 24 hours per day, 7 days a week to receive bookings. Their panel of interpreters and translators are NAATI accredited and experienced for all assignment environments. Their database is claimed to hold the record of over interpreters nationally and over of which are in NSW, including rural areas.
Fees They accept Visa, Master Card. Call for a quotation. Quotations can be obtained over the net or by phone. Felkin is the brainchild of contemporary jeweller and metalsmith Lucy Fellows. Lucy aims to design contemporary minimalist jewellery that is both unique and timeless. Her brand is trying to bring back transparency, craftsmanship and integrity into the consumer market.
Facebook Web admin jewelsandbridal. Katie Rose Jewellery is both fine and fashion handmade jewellery, specialising in creating unique bespoke pieces for the wearer to adorn, in an expression of ones self. Completing studies at the Peter Minturn Goldsmithing School in Auckland, Katie Rose went on to work for various jewellers in Sydney and is now working for herself bringing her creations alive using traditional methods with a beautiful twist of contemporary design.
Using only high quality conflict free precious metals and gemstones, Katie Rose endeavours to make each piece unique and to an exceptional standard. SmallPrint make unique silver keepsakes that capture fingerprints, hand and footprints and so much more in silver. However, if you are looking to have one of our Original Fingerprint items made, it will require one of our jewellers to take the fingerprint for you, I can put you in touch with your closest jeweller if there is no one covering your specific area at this time.
Click the link below to double check if there is a jeweller in your area. We are also responsible for the laws setting out the requirements for getting married in Australia. Anything you read elsewhere that is inconsistent with this site is not accurate. Few people today do it better with a guitar than Alan Plummer, after years of performance experience and teaching. After a start in the Sydney rock scene, years of touring saw Alan go back to his first love, the classical guitar.
Inspired by great masters such as Segovia, and meeting John Williams and Julian Bream, he put in the years of practice and study necessary to become a competent classical player and teacher. Notable performances includes musician in residence at The Star Hotel and the Regent Hotel now the Four Seasons , while also working at the Hilton and Westin Hotels, the Utzon Room and Bennelong restaurant at the Sydney Opera House, and many of the finest restaurants and function rooms.
The repertoire available is the best the guitar has to offer. This includes the works of Bach—originally for lute—the romantic 20th century Spanish, South American, and Cuban composers, and many contemporary writers. This represents some of the finest and most demanding music ever written. Add to that interpretations of the very few rock songs that can sing through the solo guitar, and virtually everything the guitar can do is covered.
Tartan is Campbell of Cowdor. The sound of a cello is as beautiful and romantic as it is haunting and Dave is amazing, so why not get the best. Amazing credentials but you could have him play at your Ceremony. Dave Loew is an Australian cellist with a career that spans 36 years.
I'm Linda Wood, the Editor of this blog – Southern Highlands Digest. I will let you know what's on around the Highlands, introduce you to people I meet and. Annual classical chamber music performances in Bowral and at Mittagong Meet at William Street, Bundanoon. Any medium to large breeds are capable of competing in this sport So come & join us for an afternoon of fun in the forest, it's an Just let the one of our committee members know & we'll work on the problem. The usual monthly meeting of the above council was held at Mittagong on the The public of Bowal and district are promised a [?] Thursday evening next, 24th.