The phrase “carrot and stick” is a metaphor for the use of a combination of reward and punishment to induce a desired behaviour. … Attracted by the sight and smell, the donkey steps forward to bite at the carrot, but of course, as it is attached to the stick, the carrot also moves forward and remains out of reach.

The above, extracted from the internet, epitomises the relation between Indigenous Australia and the authorities. I thought stopping work would give me more spare time- I was wrong. I therefore will simply list a series of recent events, and leave it up to you to ponder and analyse these and identify the carrots and the sticks:

1963 Bark petition
1967 Referendum
1975 NT Landrights
1987 Royal Commission- Deaths in Custody
1988 Barunga Statement
1992 Mabo
1992 Redfern Speech
1993 Native Title
1996 Wik decision
1997 Stolen Generations inquiry
1997 Ten point plan
2000 Sydney bridge walk
2001 Reconciliation
2007 The Intervention
2008 The apology
2008 Closing the Gap
2009 Australia endorses UN Declaration on the rights of Indigenous Peoples
2009 NT Four Hours English only
2010 Generation one
2012 Stronger Futures
2013 Recognise Campaign
2016 Closing the Gap Refresh (no kidding- just like a TV advertisement for detergent)
2017 Royal Commission-Don Dale
2017 Uluru Statement from the Heart

In this timeline, the ultimate betrayal was the dismissal of the Uluru Statement from the Heart by Malcolm Turnbull https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtEOu7CJtEM (Richard Flanagan– Garma Festival 2018) Malcolm could have gone down in history as a great visionary leader instead of the patrician capitalist who was knifed in the back by his own. He blew it.

From a 1922 speech by Mahatma Gandhi:

The greater misfortune is that the Englishmen and their Indian associates in the administration of the country do not know that they are engaged in the crime I have attempted to describe. I am satisfied that many Englishmen and Indian officials honestly believe these are the best systems devised in the world, and that India is making steady, though, slow progress. They do not know, a subtle but effective system of terrorism and an organized display of force on the one hand, and the deprivation of all powers of retaliation or self-defense on the other, has emasculated the people and induced in them the habit of simulation. This awful habit has added to the ignorance and the self-deception of the administrators.

The carrots are- justice, self determination and respect.

The stick is enforced assimilation.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYLKGIf68So (Black fella, White fella- Warumpi Band)

Chau,

Frank

Correction. MDDF OOPS

Hiya friends,

DAA’s response? They hired an Alice Springs contracting firm to go to Papunya and clean it up.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQna4f9b4OU (Tina Turner, Come together and respect.)

Humbly yours,

Frank

Things have got out of hand. We had no idea that when we were meeting Mr King and Mr Bang that a member of the ‘Toy and Replica Gun Control Group” was filming us. 

Only time you don’t wear a hat is when you blow smoke from your imitation Colt.45 after shooting a ( LSL) ‘lesser southern lefty’.

You could imagine our shock when we discovered that the man filming us, went by the name of Mr Himmler. He turned out to be a phoney. WE trusted him We trusted him cos her wore a big hat.

Men of action are not soft-cocks!!

Blokes who wear big hats you can trust. Everyone in Queensland wears a big hat. Because of his big hat wearing, the member for Kennedy implicitly states, “there are no poofters in his electorate”. It’s the poofter element from the southern states who block our attempts to overturn the ban of crackers for Guy Fawkes night, and replica Toy pistols to protect us from ‘Injuns’. We know why they don’t like crackers and toy guns, cos down south they’re all sissies. And my dad told me that the further south you go, the more likely things are to be ‘rainbow coloured’.   So I spose you’d think we’re a bit embarrassed?  Well to tell you the truth we’re just embarrassed that this imposter, this quisling, this piece of filth only filmed half the conversations we had with the American fireworks and toy replica gun lobby.  And this is the cruelest part. We never got to say what we really think!!

We blame southerners. We met at a popular chain of Mexican restaurants, and sometimes we found the food so hot we would grab the sauce. 

What sauce? You may ask. 

Mexican food is pretty hot. That’s another reason why we don’t like to go south. In Mexican restaurants there’s always a Mexican, (southerner) playing the guitar and singing really loud.  That’s what we employ to disguise the high level meetings we have with big hitters. If the people, (the rainbow coloured folk down south) got wind of it they’d decry us as  anti social and unbalanced. When we know their faith in fairness, openness and transparency is just another sign of their sissiness. 

Proof, Queenslanders think through the incontrovertible power of the penis!

John Wayne never used the term negotiation. He’d just pull out his six shooter and blow their brains out. That’s why he never let on out what he was doing. In Green Berets he killed thousands of Viet Kong single-handedly. He would’ve saved our bacon in NAM, cept  the lefty do gooders didn’t think the Vietnam war was just and fair. That’s why we used to like Barnaby.  He killed a whole eco system to prove he wasn’t soft-cock on resources. We admire that in a politician. Single-mindedness. 

At this restaurant, we just grabbed a bottle of sauce, as the food was stinking hot. Tuned out that every bottle we grabbed just got hotter and hotter. The Jalapeño chilli sauce did the rest, we were gasping for water, and what came out of our mouths was what you’d expect from people in pain. You end up just saying anything. Thats why we said, with twenty million from Kingko “we’d have the Australian government by the testicles”. People who govern properly understand that. Good governance has testicles. Then we talked about the invasion of the north by rainbow people and foreigners. Australia is being swamped by Muslims. They don’t wear big hats or carry guns. That’s why they cant, (like Injuns) be trusted. 

Now the lefties reckon we’ re a laughing stock and hypocrites for even trying to solicit foreign money when  we sanctimoniously passed legislation banning such things, 

A thinking man’s Shakespeare.

They just don’t get it. We’re trying to save Australia, from the scourge of wowserism, to protect all Australians from injun attack. If we fail it’s the tipping point. It’ll open the floodgates. Let women into parliament. Talk up the climate change lie. Avert the truth that September 11 was a conspiracy. And the incontrovertible fact that the  Port Arthur massacre was orchestrated by ASIO.

The fact we were outed is a conspiracy against clean living Australians, who wear hats, and are not soft-cock on  the need for any man woman and child to get their hands on a replica Colt .45 or Winchester. Some bloke called Freud reckons guns were just a reference to a penis fixation. He didn’t go far enough, we don’t need guns to fixate about our wedding tackle. Science proves that the penis is the organ through which all God fearing Queenslanders think.  That’s why we stand hard and firm on principle.   

Cecil and I like playing cowboys and Indians. For years he’s been creeping up behind me, (Indians are sneaky on that sort of thing), and plugging me full of rubber arrows. And then, this is the worst of it, he stakes me out in the paddock so that the vultures can peck my eyes out. Just before the odd sparrow or magpie, (they’re stand-ins for vultures) lands, I cunningly, cut myself free, creep stealthily to his wigwam and plug him full of lead. 

We’ve been playing cowboys and injuns ever since we went to the Dimboola Empire  and saw John Wayne in a double matinee. From thereon it was simple, our destiny lay in fighting lawlessness, and performing acts of derring-do for defenceless nubile maidens. 

Sadly though, I haven’t been able to get caps for my Roy Rogers six shooter since they banned toy guns as being ‘dangerous and manifestly anti social’. We couldn’t see what the fuss was about.

That’s me on the left, always played the injun.

But Cecil said it was the final straw. It was bad enough when they banned crackers cos some fool kid blew his fingers off.  That was just Social Darwinism, but when they banned Guy Fawkes night, that was the straw that broke the proverbial camels back. We’ve been fuming ever since. Worse since they replaced Guy Fawkes with that syrupy commercialised sap they call ‘Halloween’. ‘Trick or treat’? 

‘I’ll give you a treat allright’,  as Cec kicked the dunny door in, chucking a molotov cocktail for good measure and blew the bloody thing to bits. 

But this ban of percussion caps for toy pistols has got us beat. 

We thought and thought, 

Then we had this brilliant idea. 

preparing to fight off lefty gun control do-gooders

Why don’t we set up a political party and promote this singular issue? With a bit of luck and help from some powerful friends, establish ourselves as a conservative fringe group that could, may, might, hold the balance of power in the Federal Parliament? As Cec said; “Let’s stuff em, and put the wind up all those do-gooder, lefties and puritans we keep on importing into the country”.. 

But, no sooner had we hit upon this brainwave, and no sooner had I begun to polish the mechanism of my trusty die-cast Colt 45 with the sheriffs badge embossed on the stock, that we realised we were in big trouble. 

In order to be a political party we needed heaps of money, 

And though money may not buy you love, if you’re seeking to reform a crazy do-good, nanny state toy gun and cracker night embargo which some fool made LAW, you re gonna need a lot of money and big influence. 

That’s the we hit upon a big idea. 

“Let’s fo got America, where the ability to kill, maim, and destroy is a fundamental human right, and see if we can get some of their big end of town corporations to fund our fight in the Australian political maelstrom”. 

No sooner that you could say ‘Guy Fawkes’, we‘d raided mums superannuation fund, and found ourselves in Arizona of all places talking big with Mr King of ‘Kingko Toys’ and ‘Militaria R Us”, and Mr Bang from “Bigger Bang Fireworks” and they agreed to help us. Incidentally, all the big names in toy guns and crackers are men. We felt reassured cos John Wayne was a man also. And boys who don’t like six shooters and cracker night are just sissies. That being a fundamental principal of our party platform. 

Now we look like a pack of mugs, done over by a lefty do-gooder controlled media.

Things looked good till we found out subsequently after spending a riotous night at Caesars, that were were being filmed by a member of the “Toy and Replica Gun Control Group”. Our nemesis. He put our night out on Facebook. Since then we’ve been unfairly ridiculed. It was a setup. All we wanted to do was ensure Australians felt safe with ready access to a replica colt 45 or lever action Winchester. In case of Injun attack.   

Now our political campaign is in ruins. People reckon we’re “puerile, penis fixated little boys who’ve never grown up”.  As Cecil said; “its the lefty do good media again, taking away all the fun”. He’s seriously hurt, and has a new plan. 

To follow the federal government in vilifying minority groups, he reckons there’s more votes in it, and it’ a sure fire thing provided we move from Niddrie. 

“Where to”? I said. 

“Who would accept the platform of so called “puerile, penis fixated little boys who’ve never grown up”??…  

Cecil replied defiantly. In one word, he summed up a brighter future. 

“Queensland”. 

We at pcbycp follow the footy very closely indeed. And we’re shocked to hear about this latest bout of trolling directed at Tayla Harris. We are not shocked by Channel Seven pulling the image, that’s the sort of leadership we expect from telly executives.  What shocks us most is that the trolls have gone down the predictable path of pathetic sexist, misogynist name calling and innuendo. It’s typical of the mindset of feeble males and females who are a jockstrap short of the dencorub. The sort of people who have nowhere to go since dwarf throwing was banned at the Coolangatta RSL and World Champion wrestling was deemed inappropriate telly fare to midday watching kiddies 

But the rot began years ago. This is nothing new. 

For those amongst us who don’t follow footy we suggest you read something else, the Coalitions latest policy on decentralisation would be good for starters, after that you can read, (for some light relief) their climate policy. 

Back in 1934, we stood right behind the first ever womens footy team. Even though we (the evidence is still stencilled on the back of Cecil’s duffle jacket), “HATE CARLTON”.

Tayla shall have a stellar carer in footy, not only is she supremely athletic, but her name is of two syllables, having a three or four syllable name would’ve been disastrous 

Which begs the question. Is footy a metaphor for life?

WE reckon it is.

Tayla has achieved what Nicky Winmar did. Become a symbol of a broader societal issue. 

And for that she shall be either doomed or doyen-ed, 

Mick Nolan, BT, (Before Tayla) demonstrates old school footy physique.

Will the public do an Adam Goodes on her?

Not likely. 

Will they do a James Hird on her? Correction,  James Hird did a James Hird on himself, 

Will they do a Liam Jurrah on her, and send her to jail? Not likely she’s whiter than white, 

Ted Whitten (B.T), a ballerina in the air, a thug on the field. OSF, (Old School Footy)

We think they’ll probably leave her alone, but ask her to make no comment on the trolling. Like sledging, trolling seems to be the new norm. The lowest common denominator, and that’s what marks footy’s finest. Whilst we drew death as we watched Jezza take that mark in the 70 grand final, we thought, ‘These new Australians play good footy’. Or we all went out and bought Joncos’ cos Ted Whitten did. We knew that he was a thug in the field, but that’s old school footy. 

Nothing changes. Footy has always been a galvanising force to unite the high brow with the low brow.  That’s why we can laugh with the “Could’ve beens” and  the “Mangreeta footy show” and feel physically sick every time Sam Newman opens his mouth on the ‘other’ footy show, 

Royce Hart, (B.T) the full bottle drop kick.

Perhaps it’s the last vestige of breast beating masculinity. It’s the primitive in footy, the gamesmanship which in the Australian code is all about finding a weakness, even where there isn’t any. Ask Adam Goodes, about the pack mentality exploiting something fundamentally vulnerable in all of us, name calling, and the puerile obsession, (in case you haven’t noticed) with sex in a predominately archaic patriarchal ‘Anzackerish’ kind of society. In this context we understand Tayla as a threat. She’s strong, powerful and beautiful. Penis wielding oppressors are intimidated by that sort of thing. It makes kiddy fiddlers and church leaders blush. It’s not good for the orthodoxy. It begs the question; If Tayla is so good, then something must be wrong?  Perhaps it’s bit like Muralitheran’s bowling. He’s good, and that’s why there’s something inherently WRONG!

But let’s not forget the one singular thing. The most important and singular thing about Tayla, is she demonstrates intelligence and athleticism at it highest. She represents a positive youthful outlook and a window to the future. Our political class have been warning us about this sort of thing for years.   As Jacinta Ardern most recently demonstrated, we are a society on need of exemplars, who articulate beyond the narrow insular band of insecurity, xenophobia and bloke-dom. Tayla may be a symbol of great potential and a lightning rod for women. Perhaps she should move to New Zealand? On current projections Australia might be a drop punt short of the goal post. 

Children’s warning. A mis-directed Drop Punt could prove FATAL!

And as evidenced by messers Bishop, O Dwyer, Sharkie, and Banks, the goalposts keep moving. 

Technically speaking Barnaby Joyce is still the leader. 

You know he’s quite right when he says he’s still “the elected leader” The elected deputy leader of the Australian Government. Even though he got demoted for shagging. Actually we need to qualify here. He had to stand down whilst they sorted out whether he was shagging his press secretary whilst being married? Hang on. That’s not an offence. 

He was shagging his press secretary whilst talking about family values? Well that’s not sackable.

He was shagging his press secretary whilst he allowed millions of innocent fish to die in the Darling? That’s not sackable

He was shagging his press secretary whilst talking about family values, the sin of abortion, and how he’s a deeply religious man? Well that’s not sackable either. 

He was shagging his secretary, pretending to be happily married whilst living rent fee in a mates hotel whilst claiming a travel allowance? Well that’s not sackable either. 

Well then you may ask, what was he given the boot for?

Well, we think it was because he made of fool of himself and in doing so made a mockery of the esteemed position of Deputy PM. What’s esteemed abut contemporary politics you may ask?

The elected deputy leader.

Being deputy PM is terribly serious. When the P.M’s away( whoever it may be at a given time), Barnaby is in power.

You don’t want the ‘beet rooter’ in power when all the above are going on, cos the PM has to be relied upon to make big decisions. Like put coal back on the floor of parliament, stymie any energy policy, denigrate poor people as wankers and bludgers, and stoke the fires of parochialism. 

But Barnaby had got a point, he was,  is , may have been,  the elected deputy leader. This other bloke aint a patch on Barnaby. Won the last by-election by a romp by not telling anyone he was shagging his press secretary and pretended he was living at home with the missus and the kiddies .

Which aint half bad. For fucks sake Give Barnaby back his job. 

You know come to think of it, Harold Holt should still be our elected leader, never lost an election, never officially retired. 

And whilst we’re at it, Lord Kitchener, (god bless him) is still in charge of ANZAC. 

You think were laughing

Matter of fact, when you come to think of it, Who elected who? 

What about the full bench of the Fair Work Commission, what about other politically appointed sinecurists and straps?

Well you may think this is silly, 

But George Pell is still a Cardinal?

Our re-badged wines offer a distinctive individualised touch.

Perfect for a love “that dare not speak its name’!

Due to an unexpected windfall we have come into the possession of a substantial quantity of fine wine. We had no idea how the wine arrived, cept to say that as Clarrie left the front door of our (disused) milk bar to wander down to the dole office to report on his job seeking compliance, (we knew he’d be gone most of the day)  when he returned the shop was chock a block with grog. All of it was stacked in plain brown cardboard boxes. The Boxes had stencilled onto the uppermost side a label, ‘Benfolds Grange Hermitage’. We studied the boxes but could find no sign of ownership. Rather than argue the toss, Cecil suggested we open one of the boxes and to our surprise there was a letter  enclosed. 

It went like this. “Dear Mr Robb, in appreciation of all that you have done to propitiate the belt and road initiative we send you this gift of Benfolds Grange. These two dozen boxes are yours to enjoy and proof of your sterling efforts in supporting our policy of exterminating Uighurs and stomping on Tibetans. In this regard your blinded eye has been of the utmost service, Enjoy the wine. 

Nicer label than Grange, Its washable, and comes in eight different sizes.

P.S you’re sacked’. 

A red hot special for leadership Wannabees!

‘Well’, said Cecil. “I dunno who this Robb bloke is, but we might as well give it a try”. And in seconds flat we had the first, the second, then the third.  It pays to qualify the tasting process, and we decided it wasn’t too bad. 

For those who’ve tossed aside their Jack Daniels for something “Stormier”….

And then quicker than it took to bypass a credentialed Sheila for preselection  in the Coalition, or quicker than it took Julian Burnside to repudiate his allegiance to a homophobic club of misogynistic climate change deniers we had a brilliant idea. To  rename them, (cos we respect copyright) as our own. And unleash them to our faithful readership. 

A heavy drop with a hint of SUICIDE!

So there you have it. For for those looking forward to a bout of confessionals, feeling like drinking full form the body of christ, the blood of Tony Abbotts Paris climate deal redemption, then seek no further.  An exclusive offer to savour some of the most distinctive wines at a fair price.

“Hmm.. Is that the whiff of hypocrisy”?.

Each vintage has been sourced from the most exquisitely refined materials, bottled by hand with real cork and blessed by a rabbi, a reverend and a mufti who have as a basic preliminary walked into a bar.   And the verdict is “ Superb’.  Each wine is individually crafted to uphold a range of distinctive and exceptional characteristics. 

For the Club man or woman we present the “ Burnside”. The Burnside promises a balanced and informed palette with light touches of hubris and sanctimony. Once sipped you’ll saviour fully the delight of an aromatic wine with traces of bats piss. 

Yours to enjoy. 

And savour. 

We’ve been inundated with requests from highly placed individuals seeking preferment and influence through our highly sought after ecumenical board games.

Dear reader we shall devote the next two days to singular issues which DEFINE the spirit of OUR TIMES!. And also to endorse Cecil’s sensible decision to re-read, (and it will be serialised) H.G Well’s portentous tome, “Things to Come”.  Sadly Wells did not predict the about face by celebrated human rights lawyer Julian Burnside on his archaic, patriarchal, penis-wielding membership of an outmoded fetishistic all male club. “But Hey”, so are the members of most churches.  And like the clubs they purport to support, all of them, (RATBAGS ALL) still receive tax free status.

So in celebration of this apostasy of faith we bring you just for your enlightenment, this fragment of our popular board games, and hope that a patron may yet be found to make them a reality.

Ladders and ladders

‘Ladder and ladders’  was an exciting initiative developed by the Catholic Education Office to give kiddies the opportunity to exhilarate in the rapid promotion then on offer in all branches of religious life. Instead of the snakes that would adorn the more standardised ‘Snakes and Ladders’, the board consisted just of ladders. However, between the ladders and the ultimate rise to the top, were little snakes configuring  little circles. Within each circle an object, clearly visible” would indicate a “Sin”, a “Vile Act”, or a ‘Cunning little lie”. Each player had to traverse the series of ladders to the ultimate goal of being consecrated an archbishop, or  in some instances, (a Cardinal). After the ascent of each ladder, the player was asked, by the other players, ‘what they had observed throughout the upward journey’? Those who provided the most plausible fabrication, without repetition, hesitation or departure from the subject were allowed to move on. Those who offered implausible excuses were relegated to the bottom. It was a game that required absolute skill in obfuscation, casuistry and deflection . No copies of the game survive, but it is rumoured some exist as preparation devices for politicians about to undergo senate and parliamentary entitlement  hearings. 

Backyard abortion

The medical kit (colloquially sold in the U.K as the Backyard abortion kit) was a very popular item. Sales soared during the ‘American flood” of 1942-45, and again during the Korean war, when unwanted pregnancies and the dire consequences became commonplace. Designed as an adjunct to the popular ‘Doctor and Nurses Kit’ the ‘Backyard’ offered some interesting and novel features. These included a length of rubber hose, a small jar, a small bottle of ether and a pair of forceps. This all came with an attractive, (as standard in Doctor and Nurses Kit) uniforms and fake moustache. 

The kit was exceedingly popular in both Britain and Australia, as a consequence of being affordable. And  a boon for children improvising with bomb sites and vacant allotments to extend their range of their ‘imaginative play’. In spite of numerous protests from splinter and church groups the game was seen as an ‘inoffensive mirror to contemporary life’, (Archbishop of Canterbury) and children enjoyed mimicking the ritual of “letting the doctor in the back gate”, ‘sterilizing the coat hangar” and ‘helping dad walk to the pub’, whilst the procedure was in progress. 

Unfortunately, it became apparent at the Old Bailey that the notorious Mr Christie had adapted the kits for his personal use with dire consequences. The game was immediately banned as unsuitable, and all product destroyed, However it is rumoured the kit survives in Russia, with a minor change reflecting the current aids epidemic in the country.  The only difference being the ‘Doctor and Nurses’ uniform is substituted for prison guard uniforms. 

Julian pondering the imponderable. ” Is it Green”?

Newsflash. Just off the news desk a Cardinal has appeared in court on the charge of the   inappropriate poking of a fireplace.. The magistrate is deliberating, and the celebrated human rights lawyer Julian Burnside Q.C is standing as a character witness, for his greatest Human Rights Advocacy, “Himself”

Small Blessings, by Emily Brewin, Allen and Unwin, rrp $29.99

Reviewed by Joe Blake

Once again we ask you to raise your metaphorical hat to Joe Blake. Not content with preparing his fire plan, polishing his “are you safe?” terrorist alert fridge magnet and preparing his submission to be the next leader of the Merton CFA splinter group fire brigade, he’s got us into another book review. And this one is a corker!. 

As a consequence we’ve had to put on hold the esteemed bio from Alan Myers QC, “How I became Chancellor” till next week, and hope that none of our readership are discontented now they have their exclusive set of autographed board games as covered in last weeks thrilling instalment. 

Now, over to you Joe, (he begins)………

Once upon a time, the notion of class was always close to the surface in this country. The inequalities in society were recognised as part of its structure, not just the fault of the individual. Because of this awareness, social welfare payments – the dole, old-age pension, single parent payments – were set at a level so recipients could survive. No money was given to private schools. The list goes on. Class consciousness was everywhere. Working class parents worried about their kids getting an education, on two fronts: (a) would it be enough to allow their grownup kids to relate to people above them in social ranks; and (b) would these kids lose contact with their families and the peers of their childhood?

These days, that thinking has changed and the meanness of the Howard years prevails. Blaming the victim has become a new national sport, and lauding those who’ve enriched themselves (usually by cheating) is the new norm. When, in a recent interview with a Murdoch journalist, Tim Winton mentioned the concept of class, the response he got made him feel “as if I’d shat in the municipal pool.” Luckily for us, Emily Brewin hasn’t received the memo about the uncomfortable c-word, and she’s produced a wonderful novel to prove it.

Rosie, a former drug addict, is a single mum to Petey, who’s maybe 8 years old and high-functioning autistic. He’s a lovely kid, but his obsessions sometimes lead to tantrums. Determined to make sure he gets a better childhood than the miserable one she suffered, she’s studying year 12 at TAFE, with maybe uni to follow. In the meantime, the going is tough, living in a tiny inner-city commission flat and working in the supermarket underneath to get enough to live on. If you’ve ever been to those flats you’ll know it’s no fun: privacy doesn’t exist; a bad neighbour is multiplied by 150. It’s easy to lose your mojo here. Added to that, a new problem rears its ugly head. Her ex, the junkie who continually bashed her and sent her out on the streets so he can score, has just got out of prison and is stalking her. Eventually the pressure builds up so much she explodes, and Petey runs away and can’t be found.

Isobel, the other main character, has a different story to tell about class. She grew up in heavily-polluted Altona, where Dad worked in the refinery and Mum threaded plastic cables all day. Mum knows how bad it is to be poor, and she’s dead set on her kids getting the best education she can pay for, even if her hands are destroyed by all the extra work hours needed to get the money. Isobel is very bright, but she never fits in to her elite girls’ school; she’s just not rich enough. Despite (or because of?) not fitting in, she duxes the school, and enters Law at Melbourne Uni. While there, she meets (and marries) a man from Toorak, and life is looking up. They’re both ambitious, and sacrifice a lot for their careers; she even gets to be a partner in her prestigious firm. One day, though, she decides it time to become a mum, and goes into IVF. Coincidentally, everything at that time starts to fall apart. Her mum, who embarrassed her mightily in front of her snooty school companions, is about to die. Her husband becomes distant; it rolls on and on.

Towards the end of this wonderful book, Rosie and Isobel meet up, and, despite the odds, become friends. I won’t tell you about all the twists and turns, but it’s a great story, filled with perceptions and insights that show a hell of a lot of lived experience or some brilliant research. There are so many little details here.

This is Emily Brewin’s second novel, and let’s hope there are plenty more to come. Her debut was brilliant; this is even better. How far can she go?