Bring David Hicks home

There is a simple letter writing action on the amnesty international australia website that you can do if you want to join the global call to bring David Hicks home to face a fair trial or be released.

It will take about two minutes, depending on how quickly/slowly you type your name.

David Hicks has been in Guantamo Bay for nearly five years. Which is about the time it has taken me to have two children, one of whom can now read.

General advice only, for information suited to your particular circumstances, please see a professional

You know all those discs (three and a quarter or three and a half I never did work that out) you’ve got in the back of the cupboard…the ones marked ‘final thesis – guard with your life’ and ‘backup 2002’…the ones you made when you changed computers…the ones with so many crossings out you’ve got no idea what they actually are…

…chuck them out. I am going to repeat that, because it is good advice which may later save you a frustrating hour – or even two – looking for the one thing you thought to yourself now whatever happened to…chuck them out

Just take them all out of the space in the cupboard they are currently wasting and put them in your hard rubbish or whatever it is you should do to responsibily dispose of such things. Don’t worry though about trying to make sure none of your sensitive or important or useful files are there. They are not. At least not in any recoverable form.

a night out

Five plays in, and I have stopped feeling cross. I am not quite so annoyed that when I put in my bid, I thought the prize was for eight plays when really it was for six. And because it was so late by the time the prize was finalised, I got the crappiest seats. Nearly every time.

Five plays in, I have stopped saying well at least the cause was good and I am able to point with a proper laugh to the bolded words on the stub *complimentary* *not for sale*. I will keep one as a souvenir.

Five plays in, and we have got here together, the mister and I. I like bringing my friends. I like the easy chance to catch up, to talk about our children, to laugh. But it is nice sometimes, being the two of us.

We pre-order our interval drinks, and we have one now. One sip, two. The stress of getting here – tea, baths, pyjamas, got the tickets, no haven’t you – is gone.

These are the people we know: my first boss, but too far into a conversation for one of those OH! Hel-los; a woman I’d like to see more; a man from three pasts ago. On the way to our seats, I brush against the knees of a woman I do not know, but recognise. She has no idea who I am.

I whisper I wish her luck were mine and he whispers back I know, my love, I know. He rubs my arm with his hand.

Her voice is not loud, but she is just two seats away. I hear more than I want to know.

My jumper is too thin, the seat I am sitting in creaks, the wine is making me yawn. My neck is tense, my thighs twitch, my interval wine is warm.

I watch with ungenerous eyes.

The reviewer is there that night. And the next day, when I read her words and I understand what I have missed, I think I wish her eyes had been mine.