Instincts are strong. A city boy has to make do.

1. Charlie does the “Sheep Creep”.

2. Ahhh. Take 5, Sheep.

3. There’s nothing quite like job satisfaction..

 
Linking with

On Monday I turned 21 for the second time around. (That’s how I’m going to put it, ok.) This birthday feels more significant than 40 and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the sense that change is coming.

A huge apricot rose by my window bloomed magnificently- way out of season- just for me. Maybe we’re both late bloomers.

A very dear friend organised an intimate table for a ladies’ High Tea for Sunday. It was the most thoughtful thing. Yes, I do love a High Tea (who wouldn’t?) but she wanted to do this because the weeks surrounding my 40th were a health disaster. Thanks to shock liver poisoning from a rare allergy, I was sick and yellow and couldn’t have a party. Recovery took weeks, even months. On the night, my husband and I just took a hotel room for a rest, a massage, a sleep in and brunch. It was very nice indeed, yet not quite right. Perfect for an anniversary perhaps, but big birthdays are meant to be had with friends.

I looked forward to High Tea for weeks. I thought I was excited about the whole lot but as soon as I arrived and saw my beautifully dressed, smiling friends, (anti-candida notwithstanding) I knew the rows of sweet delights were not at all why. I had the company of a handful of lovely, busy people all taking the time to stop and be with me. It was a gorgeous afternoon and I felt enormous gratitude. Not just toward my beautiful friend who arranged this, but universal gratitude for my good fortune in knowing such wonderful people, who are happy to know me back.

Later, two of us left standing went to cross off another activity on my wish list: to celebrate a Eurovision Grand Final party, with Twitter, at a gay bar in front of a wide screen. Man that was fun and interactive. For some inexplicable reason, there were young folk in animal onesies EVERYWHERE. Or maybe the unicorn was quietly one half of the UK coat of arms? Poor old  Bonnie Tyler. No one votes for the UK. One lone Irish supporter loyally waved his flag. But the cheering for the Irish drummers and Romanian Vampiric Opera singer were wild. SO much fun. Thank you S for being my date!

Monday morning, a lovely timing co-incidence occurred. My dad came around as he often does, to update me on the house building and ask me why coffee isn’t ready yet. Then he fixed our bathroom taps and sat down. Next, my mother turned up. How about that. There I was, alone with both my parents’ undivided attention. Who CARES how old I am? It’s still cool!

It’s been over half my life already they haven’t been together- they’re more like brother and sister now. The point is, they are happy to see each other and cross paths often. They call each other for updates on my Dad’s elderly parents (who are still my Mum’s surrogate parents- hers are long gone).

Mum’s known my grandparents since she was sixteen and to them she’s still the daughter they never had. Some people find this hard to get their heads around. I guess it’s when that happens I realise how unusual it might be and again how lucky I am, to have such a close knit and unconditional family. Yes I got some lovely treats and trinkets, but family and friends who care about you will always be the greatest gift. It’s just when birthdays come around, I get spoilt all at once. Sometimes, all you do need is love.

Linking with Essentially Jess for #IBOT.

The month of May brings so many highlights on my personal calendar. There’s the Celebrate Me festival that runs between Mother’s Day and my birthday next week, but it’s also Eurovision time of year again! Host country is Sweden, which is the perfect segue to my next topic: Agnetha (aka Anna of ABBA).

Abba’s stratospheric rise to fame followed on from their Eurovision victory back in 1974. By 1976 I was an obsessive fan at age 5. (I don’t know if it was going to happen anyway, or if it was due to my dogged insistence, that) we attained a copy of their best studio album, Arrival. I learned all the songs word for word and was once even recorded in a home studio singing Money Money Money. I’ll never get over the loss of that red cassette tape. At age 5 I was going places!

I was in love with Anna. I wanted to BE Anna. I had Anna’s HAIR. Like this:

Image Credit

Despite their creepy, mumpy appearance I still would have broken someone’s arm for one of these:

Image credit

In March 1977, ABBA mania hit its peak in Australia during the local leg of their world tour.

The Australian tour and its subsequent ABBA: The Movie produced some ABBA lore, as well: Fältskog’s blonde good looks had long made her the band’s “pin-up girl”, a role she disdained. During the Australian tour, she performed in a skin-tight white jumpsuit, causing one Australian newspaper to use the headline “Agnetha’s bottom tops dull show”. When asked about this at a news conference, she replied: “Don’t they have bottoms in Australia?”1

I’d have done anything to meet her. I’d have elbowed and stomped my way through the crowd. Nothing would have stopped this determined ankle-biter (just ask Humphrey Bear).

Screeching the time machine back to a halt in May 2013…
Guess what? I’ve a treat for you- she’s back and looking hot! That familiar voice hasn’t aged a bit. There’s something in that Swedish lifestyle, I’m convinced; see what Volvos, saunas, vodka, herring and porn can do?!

She’s just released a single from her new album, released this week (no doubt timed to coincide with Eurovision fever), entitled simply “A”. But don’t call her Anna. Her name is Agnetha. And don’t call her AG-NEETHA, as we’ve all been doing. We must now be worldly enough to use the correct Swedish pronunciation, ANYETTA. We’ve been told, people.

If I could ask Agnetha one question, it would be:
How did you feel about that storyline in Priscilla: Queen of the Desert?
(In which Guy Pearce’s character (in)famously wore a fictional prized possession related to Anna, in a vial around his neck.) I wonder if she’s ever discussed it?

Here is her new single, When You Really Loved Someone.

The Eurovision semi finals are on tonight at 8.30 on SBS in Australia, at 7.30pm. I will be live-tweeting my giddy thumbs off and hope to be broadcast again like last year. (@TwitchyCorner, #sbsEurovision)

Read this recent  interview with Agnetha

1 Wikipedia,  footnote 23: DVD documentaries: The Winner Takes It All (2002) and Super Troupers (2004)

Break out the Fairy Welcome mat, it’s looking like tomorrow night is the night! Though Miss6 feels like she’s waited an eternity to catch up and lose her first tooth (at least a year now), for me it doesn’t seem all that long ago we were teething and getting new teeth (hard to forget).

If you didn’t already know, Miss6 is a huge Fairy Fan and I’ve done nothing to dissuade her. She has a Tinkerbell figurine stationed at the windowsill to meet and greet. She’s had her little Fairies Welcome sign out for some time. It sits on the green roof of her miniature dolls house, furniture carefully set up in case any Tooth Fairy visitors want to chill out and take five from their arduous schedule. Perhaps some refreshments will be supplied tomorrow night.

Fairy Chill Zone for the Resting of Weary Wings

The last few days grubby little fingers have wiggled and jiggled that tiny toothipeg for all their worth. It’s nearly dangling so it couldn’t possibly hold on beyond tomorrow. There’s a specially marked zip-lock bag ready and waiting in her school bag in case it happens during the day.

One thing I’ll be changing with this child #2 is my stupid idea of hiding the tooth under the pillow. With Mr13 “The Spiller”, we were afraid he’d knock over a glass of water. Thinking it far safer to eliminate potentially shattered glass from a round kick of the Night Ninja, we instructed him to tuck his tooth under the pillow. Under his head. Where his arms were wrapped all over the place.

It was a game of great skill, tip toeing quietly into his messy room in the dark, an obstacle course of strewn objects in my path. Then approaching the sleeping child and somehow trying to extract a buried tooth from the bedding under his head, simultaneously placing coinage under there… well it was dicey! There’s no backing out of being caught with your hands under the pillow, is there?

Mr13 was lucky. There was a trail of stars from the window sill to the bedside. He’d wake in the morning and love to collect them. Once there was a cut out of a tooth and toothbrush on the floor, which Mummy cleverly guessed was a reminder from the Tooth Fairy to brush more regularly!

There didn’t appear to be a Tooth Fairy in continental Europe. My father in law told me a child’s teeth would be thrown on the roof. He couldn’t remember the reasoning behind the tradition (note to Google). But tomorrow- as we all know first timers jump to the front of the queue- I will be poised to dial the Tooth Fairy hotline for some really, really important business.

Linking with Essentially Jess for #IBOT.

It was Mothers Day yesterday. I always brace myself for Mothers and Fathers Days- with everyone local it’s always a feat to balance. This year, at least my husband was home. Last year and the year before I took myself and the kids out for brunch, just the three of us, before heading out to see two grandmothers and a great-grandmother. This time while parts of it were pleasant, much was frustrating and difficult too.

I got spoilt by my daughter and her first big shopping spree at the school Mother’s Day Stall. She was so proud to lavish me with gifts and artworks.

Running on schedule for once attracted a moment of sheer disaster. As I attempted to apply makeup before leaving for mum’s lunch, the boy simultaneously cut himself doing something he shouldn’t, then screamed. Because a week’s worth of the dog’s insides had errupted in the kitchen doorway along with half a rubber ball. Nice! Happy Mothers Day from Charlie! We were late for Yum Cha, two of us struggling to find an appetite and my brother kindly suggested I allow more time in future to be punctual. (I’ll make a note of that.)

Thankfully, Yum Cha worked out in the end, then Mr13 and I visited my ninety year old grandmother at her aged care home. She’s always so happy to see me. For once, my ninety-four year old grandfather said I looked nice instead of tired and not good! The final stop was at my mother-in-law’s with my sister-in-law, her son and his girlfriend. All in all, the day worked out alright despite the boy being awake until 1am.

After a busy weekend in multiple places trying to please as many people as possible, I prized my Monday recovery day of silence and solitude. Instead I have two at home with dodgy tums. Not dodgy enough to hurl, thank goodness, but manageable enough so that the whining, bickering, arguing back and getting into trouble with barking dogs and hissing cats has not abated. With my brain throbbing, I’ve locked myself in the study, leaving them to self-occupy/ make up/ kill/ maim/ read quietly/ eat each other. (If they do eat each other at least I don’t have to cook dinner as well.)

And I’ve just found the first thing that makes me really smile today- a splendid stupid-animal-video. This one has really worked, so I thought I’d share it with you… just in case it saves you too. Happy Monday!

I’m disturbed. This time beyond generally speaking.

There’s a fine line somewhere, dividing the tipping point between the healthy pursuit of our best and the consuming, obsessive need to be better than everyone else. Last week in my post about “success” (Average Is A Dirty Word), I hope I explained this.

Today my news stream is full of folk desperate to be a cut above the rest (at whatever cost). Sometimes they’ve achieved their goals but are still unhappy (surprise). I keep seeing people go to extremes to engineer themselves and their children, into what they believe is superlative. It screams of performance anxiety. This is quite different to wanting to do ourselves proud. Mixed up messages and extremes that make my head spin.

We won’t tolerate a whiff of  “mediocrity” (whatever that is). Lest we drown amongst the dull masses, we must stand out. That’s okay; there’s a whole raft (see what I did there?) of stage/pageant mothers, tiger mothers, crazed tennis coach parents and baby tutoring, preschool administration bribers looking out for the next generation. Their offspring’s lives are mapped out from birth.

”I feel for children who aren’t allowed to be children. If children feel pressured their self esteem and confidence drops and they aren’t able to be who they naturally are. Then you start to see emotional issues and challenging behaviours.” – Michelle Gujer, Manager of the Docklands program, Gowrie Victoria*

“Simple activities done at home such as singing, reading books, I spy games, nursery rhymes and sitting with mum to type an email to grandma are richer language experiences than formal classes and flashcards.

”You can train babies, like you can train a dog, to respond to certain words, but why would you want to do that?” she says. ”There is no advantage because children first need to develop a conceptual knowledge to understand and that comes with myriads of experience. Until you can play with language, you can’t read or write.”
Bridie Raban, honorary professor of early childhood development at the University of Melbourne*

I don’t like Tall Poppy Syndrome either. Once again, a side-effect of people so displeased with themselves they need to cut others down for achieving. Yet here’s a Poppy who might benefit from a dose of humility. Today’s Daily Mail and Herald Sun both carry stories by the wannabe-mediocre Amy Molloy:

It’s hard being a lonely and joyless high-achiever. I wish I could be mediocre. 

“Some people can struggle to be around the super-successful,” she writes. “They think I’m looking down on them and maybe sometimes, subconsciously, I am. My very high standards are not limited to my professional life.”

But this reads to me like Amy might struggle to be around herself:

“She goes on to complain that “being successful is torturous. It’s isolating — you lose weekends, holidays and (if you’re not careful) your social life.***

Boasting that she “makes more money than she needs”, Molloy laments that “within weeks of every promotion or pay rise I become agitated, as my feet itch to move forward”.**

If our achievements are not sufficient, we can always resort to changing our appearance… completely. Here is Vanilla (oh the irony) Chamu, a Japanese model.

 Vanilla Chamu has undergone more than 30 procedures in a bid to look like a ‘living French doll’
 (Taken from the UK Daily Mail, as per link)

Vanilla before and after. (Image from the UK Daily Mail, as per link above.)

Huh? I hear you thinking. Yes- if the UK Daily Mail reports are correct, these pictures are of the same young Japanese woman, before and after her Caucasianisation. Her own mother wouldn’t recognise her. Finding her natural-born Asian appearance unacceptable, she modelled herself on a “French doll”, nipping and tucking herself into one- and she’s not done yet. If heaven forbid, she dies on the operating table- will she die happy?

Once again I ask is this where we’re headed…next stop: genetic selection? No, I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. Or happy. Just as long as it’s not ugly, or dumb. Or mediocre.

Read More:
* The Age: http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/little-learners-in-the-rugrat-race-20130505-2j11q.html#ixzz2SUSSJ9l7;
The Age http://www.theage.com.au/national/education/is-your-baby-ready-to-read-at-three-months-20130505-2j1hq.html
**Herald Sun: http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/i-wish-i-was-mediocre-like-my-friends-how-i-envy-their-failure-writes-sydneys-amy-molloy/story-e6frf7jo-1226635919602?sv=42cbdfc8c2d22b1a5036e7e1f8b63d6e#.UYc3ttSRZOo
Daily Mail: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2319929/A-book-deal-23-More-cash-spend-But-AMY-MOLLOY-says–Being-success-lonely-joyless-I-wish-I-mediocre-like-friends.html
*** Or maybe you took care of that when you labelled your friends ‘mediocre’?

Linking with Essentially Jess for I Blog On Tuesdays.

If the poem says “They f*ck you up, your Mum and Dad”…well I don’t reckon kids just sit around polishing their halos, either. This gig aint for the faint hearted, nor the weak of stomach. Even if you’re not good at finding your intestinal fortitude under pressure, they’ll put you through boot camp, alright.

Like the time my high-speed son broke his leg at his third birthday…directing the festivities on over to hospital. Not my idea of a progressive party at all.

Cradling my boy (by then completely slumped with exhaustion), I gasped as the doctor flicked on the lightbox. Without a word I saw the dark, narrow ribbon wrapped around a white sapling. I cried. The x-ray confirmed a spiral fracture running from below the knee, to above the ankle. My poor baby. He was placed in a cast from hip to heel, which made toilet training and washing a mighty treat, I can tell you. But they bounce back quickly, they do.

To cheer him up we decorated his cast with a mountain scene. I drew him a proper scale, winding train track along it so he could run his beloved wooden toy trains up and down his leg all day. Within days he’d worked out how to zoom around backward on his derriere, leaving a chalky trail on the floorboards. So much for slowing down, huh? He’s forgotten it all, but I never will. ( I caught him trying to jump onto the trampoline from the garage roof the other day, so not much has changed.)

What do these buttons do?

Anzac Day was another such delight. This time the girl’s turn. After patriotically marking the occasion by trying to kill each other all morning, I’d had it and sent my two to opposite ends of the house. There was blessed peace for all of five minutes before yet further screaming rang out from the backyard.

“What now?!?” I looked at my husband. We’d not had 15 minutes of peace yet.

I followed the sound of screams to find my daughter on her back on the grass, clutching her head. Then I saw the blood: through her hair and on her hands, trickles and drops running onto her clothes. Luckily, most of it was unseen by her as it came from the top of her head and splotched down her back. I quickly scooped her up, thankful for the screaming and ran to the bathroom, sagely uttering FUCK FUCK FUCK while holding my crying, bleeding six year old.

She’d illegally swung on her dad’s punching bag, her dismount a disaster. Fearing cranial trauma from her impact, I told my husband to call an ambulance but I’m glad he hesitated; blood from the head travels fast. We cleaned her up, found a six centimetre straight cut in her scalp, iced her and raced to Emergency.

Mercifully, concerns of skull damage were soon ruled out. Ultimately she only required a cleaning up and skin glue. (And a tray of sandwiches, jelly and icecream. And a wheelchair ride. And a handsome Paediatric doctor. And a listen to her own heart with his stethoscope. And the next day off school just in case.)

We were so lucky. Nevertheless my strict detox went out the window that night, as a vodka was once again my friend in post traumatic stress.

Child rearing earns you your stripes it does. This week I earned my badge in Blood, and when I’ve fully recovered, I’ll put it in the family album for posterity.

Feel free to share your stories too, but please be gentle?

Linking with Essentially Jess for IBOT

We live in a culture of Success and Achievement. Career pinnacles, celebrity, fifteen-minutes-of-fame, reality show contestants, people looking for their big break. Little kids want to be famous! Everyone seems to be following their dream, or pushing someone else to achieve theirs.

Ribbons, certificates, letters, prizes, titles, dollars, peer approval, a name; we want them. It may be study, rehearsal, hard work or charm that get us there. Or plain old good looks and nepotism. Some find themselves there by accident. Much of it is admirable, some of it not so much. What does it mean?

It means average is a dirty word. Average used to actually mean average, somewhere in the middle. These days it’s an insult. Mediocrity is our mortal enemy, striking more fear in our hearts than sharks, spiders and public speaking put together. It means we might be failures. Heaven forbid.

I’m not suggesting we stop aiming for our best, but perhaps we could be better at dealing with the times we’re not winning. After all, there may be disappointments, rejections and patience required ahead.

Success is not Final Failure is not Fatal

Just as there’s a big difference between determination and entitlement, so there is between philosophy and complacency. Between hope and crushing pressure, plans and reality. There’s also the luck of the draw for each and every one of us. Life is a long haul prospect. If we place our self worth on pinpointed moments, or wholly in the hands of others, we might find ourselves in a really inadequate place.

I‘d love to see us redefine what ‘success’ is. There are those of us who are struggling like hell under the surface, just to appear ‘normal’. There are those of us who start out well behind the starting line in life. Behind the scenes, they work harder than most of us will ever know, just to keep up and not fall terribly behind. ‘Average’ for them, is success. Average for most of us, is merely the days between the wins. Can we please not be so hard on ourselves? Could we commit to more reasonable terms?

Last month I put fear aside and spoke at a blogging conference. I talked about how we all have to start somewhere, and that’s usually small. Some are happy to stay there and that’s fine. As bloggers we are all about stats, readership, reach, networking. But we can’t all have it right away. We can’t all be at the top together, so how about we step back and reframe things, even if it’s just today? No one really talks about this because focus seems to always be on getting bigger. My sentiments were well received, sometimes with praise, other times with sheer relief! Eden Riley spoke earlier and referenced the Slow Blogging movement. It’s a thing! You don’t HAVE to blog every day, blog when you have something to say. Again, more tweets and audible sighs of relief and validation: I’m not a failure, I’m a Slow Blogger! Can I get a Hallelujah?!

Today I helped out a friend. I’m thrilled she let me, because I was able to do something that might make her happy. (The being seen part has this suburban recluse holding onto her knickers a little bit today.)

Life has its twists and turns*, and for me (not a business person or an athlete) it’s not too much about big moments or numbers. In fact the less it is, the better. It’s about being okay with right now.

If additional needs parenting has taught me anything, it is this. I understand that everyone travels their own road. There’s always an opportunity to see things in a different light, and success? …is utterly subjective.

* This is not the post I planned to write. I did not expect to spend hours of today in the emergency department with my poor six year old who’d split her head open. (She’s fine. She got skin glue and the doctor was handsome, so recovery will be quicker.)

Your thirteen-year old speaks to you with disrespect. You:
a)     Are incensed and pull rank or dole out a punishment.
b)     You ignore it.
c)     You laugh it off.
d)     You are proud as punch.

While it may seem an odd reaction I was c) & d), and after a little reflection I now know exactly why.

Late last night, our parental duties fulfilled, my husband and I finally sat down with treats to watch the rest of The Voice on playback in peace. When I say treats, I mean that he ate a Belgian-chocolate-coated, full size Magnum (deluxe ice cream on a stick) and I had this sad little sugar-free, carob-coated crispbread to trial.

Yes I freely admit I’ve been irritable on this (boring) sugar, yeast, wheat, dairy, alcohol (and the rest) detox*… So when Mr suddenly snapped off a chunk of my sugar-free treat to try after scoffing down his real-deal dessert, the dirty dog… I may have used some language which prompted Mr13 to come out of his room.

He stuck his grumpy nose through the sliding doors:

“Shut your swear-hole. I’m trying to sleep.”

I’ve never heard him speak like that before! (To anyone, let alone me.) There was a pause. Then, like the Mother of the Year I am I burst into fits of incredulous laughter in his wake. Who was that?!

========================

My boy has always been naïve, without malice, clueless to all non-gaming- related teen culture and a vehement anti-swearer. A delightful combo that invites teasing and worse from fellow students.

“Why are teenagers so rude? Why do they need to swear so much?” he asked in his first year of secondary school last year. I know, right?!

I don’t openly swear in front of my kids, but I now take less care to self-censor in the presence of Mr13- especially if he happens to be awake long after bed time. He wants me to stop this bad habit but I won’t- I’m stubborn like that. I don’t pepper all my language- just when all the occasions call. It’s an adult privilege of choice if you ask me, just like a glass of wine is. I think we’ve earnt it.

I worry about him remaining too child-like in an adolescent world. He knows where babies come from of course but most grown-up culture soars over my son’s head. So much so that every now and then I feel the need to gently introduce him to all sorts of adult concepts, with humour, to keep him up with his peers and to not find life too much of a shock.** Example: This weekend we watched The Fox and the Hound for family movie night. Tod and Vixy emerge from their first night in a burrow together. She’s glowingly happy and says something to that effect. So I cheekily muttered to my husband: “Especially after last night.” We glance over at the boy, the boy pauses, knits his brow, then his jaw falls and eyes pop as the penny drops. We smile. He’s somewhat disgusted. I am pleased. He’s coming along.

It’s these sorts of moments- all kinds of them- that give me hope for his future as an independent adult. It takes him longer to catch up, but catch up I hope he does.

My boy was rude to me last night. He asserted himself; he did not melt down. He spoke to me with the attitude and language appropriate for his age. It was unexpected and adorable, with all the fearsome potency of a bear cub making his first squeaky little growl. This time- it was an absolute gift.

Linking with Essentially Jess for IBOT.

*Anti-Candida diet
** Well, me and the racy bedroom scenes in Big Bang Theory: *Huge sigh, “Not again”, covers eyes*

In the 80’s, there was one Aussie rock chick who kicked arse and made no apologies: Chrissy Amphlett of the Divinyls. I always thought she was enigmatically brilliant. Sometimes she seemed quite off the planet with her style and some say she scared them. Mainly she was a fearless, sexy, talented performer and rule-breaking rock’n’roll pro, with a unique sound. Her voice was melodic but husky, an undeniable gutsiness right through it.

In my mid to late teens I played a Best Of tape over and over, with Sleeping Beauty, Boys In Town and Science Fiction my favourites.

The Divinyls were inducted into the ARIA Hall of Fame in 2006. They certainly made their contribution to the Australian, and later world, music scene. I remember hearing at the height of the original Melrose Place’s popularity, they used “I Touch Myself” to soundtrack an episode. I thought what an odd match, but how very cool they’d broken into the American mainstream.

It’s reported today that her family, including cousin, (somewhat family-friendlier) performer Patricia ‘Little Pattie’ Thompson have released the following statement:
“Our beloved Chrissy peacefully made her transition this morning. Christine Joy Amphlett succumbed to the effects of breast cancer and multiple sclerosis, diseases she vigorously fought with exceptional bravery and dignity. She passed gently, in her sleep, surrounded by close friends and family, including husband of fourteen years, musician Charley Drayton, her sister, Leigh, nephew, Matt, and cousin Patricia Thompson (“Little Pattie”).*
So unfair. So un-rock’n’roll, to use all the fight in you to live a long life…and then to miss out. She didn’t deserve that. Cancer sucks.

The Age covered her husband’s superb words of tribute:

Of all the tributes paid to Amphlett none summed her up better than her American drummer husband Drayton*:
‘Chrissy’s light burns so very brightly. Hers was a life of passion and creativity; she always lived it to the fullest. With her force of character and vocal strength she paved the way for strong, sexy, outspoken women.’

Chrissy certainly left an impression on me and I was lucky enough to see her perform live at her peak. She taught me what a ‘red brassiere’ was as she strutted around confidently, owning the stage in the thrusting, entitled manner usually reserved for the men folk of rock. On learning she was awesomely cast as Judy Garland in The Boy From Oz, I could not have been more impressed by her versatility. Wish I’d seen that too.

I’ll leave you with a reminder of her at her zenith, light-sabre mic stand in hand, school uniform and signature pout:

RIP, Chrissy and thank you. You were one of my heroes.

* Read more: From The Age Here and ninemsn here