With the question “what the hell am I doing?” ringing loud in my internal ear, I have been forced to […]

My beautiful friend Leah once spent a year living and working in Germany. Leah possesses the sort of beauty and […]

My father, visual artist Michael Keighery, has been creating work that commemorates Gallipoli.

We’ve just finished post production on the Satori & Co. Value Proposition Video and I’m reminded how darned lucky this […]

Research & development is really heating up on playwrighting project produced by Riff Raff Theatre’s Emma Sampson & Corinne Bibby, […]

But once in a while, I get that same feeling I used to get before a gym class. That sinking-stomach nausea. That anticipation and dread. I just. Don’t. Wan’t. To. Do. It … And I don’t want to do whatever it is, really badly!

I’ve spent the last few days luxuriating in the possibilities of a name change. All the things it could mean to me.

We were no more than 22 years of age when we sat, one Sunday morning, in a backyard in Newtown and had our first real conversation. I’d only known Justin for 24 hours and 23 of them were spent in a club, but I knew I liked him. .

It always started the same way: I walked into a huge party. The party was in my honour. Of course it was. And I looked AMAZING. Of course I did. And as I flitted around the room being generally fabulous, I caught snippets of people’s conversation as I walked by. Every single chat revolved around me, and how gorgeous I looked, and how well I was doing, and how much everyone adored me. Of course they did.

There is a generation to which I clearly do not belong. A generation that is about to be lost to us. I have a lovely girlfriend who is a doctor and as part of her training she worked on a geriatric ward with people of the age I’m talking about. This story is one she told me recently, and I like to remind myself of it often – as a shot-of-reality, if you like.