A Saturday Election Day, near closing time, and like good Aussie democrats, we’d been shopping all day. So it was a pedalled panic that brought us finally to the polling station, in time to avoid the fine for abstention (voting is compulsory here). “My bike’s over there,” stated the Green Party canvasser keen to show
The smell of grass, warming sun, a cooling breeze, just a hint of autumn to come. It’s a haven from the mayhem and madness of Fringe, the gentle cadences of intelligent discourse and dialogue a murmuring under the trees. It must be Adelaide Writers’ Week. This is where the old (and I mean old) Adelaidian
“What do you mean, twenty-eighth of December? Proccie Day is the twenty-sixth, right?” “Wrong. You’ve been cheated out of a holiday,” I replied.