Rock of Ages....


Bloody hell! There's a movie being released that should be MINE!!! Rock of Ages is an eighties blast of iconic rock n roll with Tom Cruise bare-chested like the love child of Axel Rose and Bon Jovi. Weirdly, it kind of works. But the thing that is upsetting me about this new flick is that it is such a parallel to my own memoir that it feels like plagiarism. You see, I wrote my book, so that it would eventually become a movie. That was my cunning plan to reinvent my rather stalled acting career. The only role in my book that I could play though, is my own mother and that is kind of ....bizarre.

When I saw the musical Rock of Ages (the film is based on a musical) I was consumed by giant waves of anger and jealousy! How dare someone steal my idea....of course they didn't but it felt that way to me. I felt like the rug had been pulled out from me. Here was a brilliant, vibrant colourful recount of the eighties music scene with lots of shoulder pads and big hair and anthemic tunes. Someone beat me to it! Damn and blast!

But....and this is a big buuuuutttt..........it is so American and cheesy....what it lacks and this is a big lllaaaacckkkk is Aussie rock. Now my book, 'One Way or Another' addresses this. It is full of choice meaty Aussie rock and roll. So Baz Luhrmann doesn't have to write me off just yet. Baz, baby, we could make beautiful music together. Picture this.....Puberty Blues but instead of surfers we have rockers....a great soundtrack....rife with INXS tunes....I might let you throw in some Men at Work but ....no...actually...we'll leave them out....way too much vegemite....Aussie overkill. Gold Coast...Bombay Rock and the Playroom. Sydney dives like the Manzil Room, Kardomah Club and Benny's. Mullets. Just like in Forrest Gump we could intersperse real footage of bands and rockers and even Countdown and Molly Meldrum. The key characters could play themselves.....with archival reels....I'm loving this....some hot young spunky newcomer can play teenage me....I may have to borrow Russel Brand to play my sexy English poet though...he'd be up for it! Then I'd have to write a scene where he seduces my mother (played by me)....but I digress. See my book also has Duran Duran and they are blatantly missing from Rock of Ages.

I will want some artistic control though Baz...but you and me...we'd make a great team.

Rock of Ages is just so mainstream. Baz and I would make my film...a work of art. Something magical. Something Oscar-worthy.

But if Baz passes up this golden opportunity...I'm open to offers.

Someone.....anyone....Russel Crowe....Rachel Ward.....John Edwards....Gilian Armstrong....buy the film rights to 'One Way or Another'.

Rock of Ages looks like fun but my film ...the one I am watching in my head....that is altogether something else....it has humour and darkness....sex, scandal and some awesome scenery.

Just putting it out there..........

Latest Review

Here's a nice review by Jeff Jenkins, music journalist for 'Living in the Land of Oz', a great music site.


TOUGH LOVE
The book is called One Way Or Another, The Story Of A Girl Who Loved Rock Stars ($29.95, Black Inc). "Not another book about groupies shagging rock stars," we thought when we picked up a copy. But this book works because actor Nikki McWatters is a fine writer. She's got a story to tell, and she knows how to tell it. "Truth be told," she writes, "a rock star in real life would make a hopeless partner. Far better to be a rock and roll mistress than a rock and roll missus. Musicians were junk food, not a proper nutritious meal. Good and bad for you at the same time, like a plate of greasy chips and a bottle of red, red wine." Nikki is still a Gold Coast schoolgirl when she has her first sexual experience, with a member of Australian Crawl, who she doesn't name. She beds a Duran Duran member, and also falls for a star who sounds suspiciously like Steve Kilbey (who provides a plug on the front cover: "A great Australian rock 'n' roll read"), a relationship that has unintended consequences. Nikki gives Dragon a slap ("It was a running joke that Dragon was the ugliest band in Australia. Queen won the international title") and praises Pseudo Echo, calling bass player Pierre Pierre "a walking hairdo and an interesting musician and we chatted about current affairs. This was a breath of fresh air in an industry that often viewed girls backstage as meat on legs." More sad than salacious, One Way Or Another is a rollicking read. Richard Lowenstein calls it "a Puberty Blues for the '80s generation".



'Living in the Land of Oz' is a great site to find out what's happening in the Australian music scene. http://www.livinginthelandofoz.com/howzat.html

Thanks for reading my book Jeff. Regarding your assumption though...to assume is to make an ass of you and me...cliched but true. But....nice try!


Access all Areas


I am not a die-hard Durani. You know – the forty-something woman who still has a poster of John  Taylor at the back of her wardrobe behind the power suits. The one who gets butterflies in her knickers every time the kids put on Shrek and that trannie wolf sings Hungry Like the Wolf ; the woman who falls asleep with a packet of Tim-Tams on her chest dreaming of being naked on a pole with a girlfriend, having a pillow fight and then falling into a vat of jelly while Simon le Bon dances his metronomic sway in the background.

I reject the Durani (wannabe) label because unlike most of them, I actually bonked one of the band when I was seventeen, in 1983.

I am now the mother of five, with a law degree in my bottom drawer and a racy memoir just released. My whorish groupie days are in black and white for everyone to read about. Australian Crawl, Cheap Trick, Cold Chisel, The Angels. Others that remain nameless but guessable. People are always asking me to name names and give blow by blow accounts. I am becoming an expert, a historian of my own youthful conquests. I set out to be a writer, but in my first book, I have become a Groupie. ‘Look at the lovely way I’ve crafted that metaphor…’ I bluster, but no-one wants to know much more than who was the best/the kinkiest/the worst rock-star lover I ever had. When I answer Justin Beiber to all of the above, they just snort and walk away dissatisfied or frankly disturbed by my answer. 

And now, just as I have pulled my FM boots out of the closet to use as a kind of trophy hanging on my office wall, those pesky boys from Duran Duran decided to have the Australian leg of their tour coincide with the release of my book. (I like to look at it that way).

Did I go to see them dance like desktop toys once again, all cheekbones and shoulder pads? No. I put aside my girlish fantasies and stayed at home playing Scrabble with the kids. And yet I look at the tour poster and wonder how the years have been to those boys, now clearly middle-aged men. They still look good, dare I say, better. A few whiskers on their formerly smooth cheeks, a scratch of wrinkles at the corners of heavily kohled eyes. Men, even rock-stars, do improve with age up to a point. (Stop it Mick Jagger!) I suspect the Duran boys know this and are making the most of the days they have left. But the groupies? There is something about a salivating forty-something year old woman that can never be pretty. Cougars don’t scream and faint, we growl. 

I got an email from a middle-aged current groupie the other day who read about my book and said –‘At least you got them when they still looked good and had more energy!’ Ha. The eighties were such a drug-fuelled time that some backstage performances were a bit…well…lame.

In the eighties the thrill of the chase was half the fun. Talking your way backstage, making seedy promises to eager roadies, getting down on your knees, begging, please, please…but my big sister is friends with the drummer…really…she is!   Rockstars had sex appeal – salty brawn (James Reyne); camp glam (Brian Mannix);  sultry intelligence (Steve Kilbey) and   screeching siren (Michael Hutchence). We had our backyard of tasty talent but imports like Cheap Trick, Simple Minds and the piece de rĂ©sistance, Duran Duran, we invited over for slumber parties and they did not disappoint.

Now I look at teenagers and wonder where the wonderment of rock-stars went. Is Justin Beiber as good as it gets as far as hysteria goes? His oldest fans are twelve years old and God forbid that they are at the backstage door making grand promises. Urgghhh. It’s wall to wall garage bands these days. The only big smokin’ tours are from the boys of old. Rod Stewart just toured. He is my God but he’s doing blue rinse covers these days. U2…be still my heart. Foo Fighters are about as new-school as I can get.

Duran Duran, God bless them, still give a damn about looking good. Sexy suits. Goatees and Mediterranean tans. They look a darn sight healthier than when I met them.

Cold Chisel are back with a healthy and sober lead singer. Jimmy’s all grown up and still sounds great.

Brian Mannix is still popping up on tele…like some creature that stepped out of a time machine.


The only good rock-star, I’ve decided, is a comeback rock-star. What goes around  comes around. But I'll be happy to sit at home and listen to the CDs...

Crikey....coping with criticism

I have, officially and quite publicly, had my book 'One Way or Another' flogged. A tempestuous twitter rage was launched against my work yesterday...telling me to write about something other than my 'sad life'. 'What sort of person has a goal of sleeping with as many rock-stars as possible?' 'You degrade women and make yourself sound slutty,' etc etc....

It seems quite clear that this poor soul only read the first chapter of the book which is freely available online. If she had read the whole thing she might have had a more rounded view and understood my youthful journey of discovery which delved into the psychology of my slutty behaviour and redefined it as a healthy teenage adventure with a few stumbles of judgment along the way. Memoirs are generally speaking, a visceral look inside someone else's life. If you are not a voyeur...don't read about other real people's lives. Stick to Barbara Cartland if you want romance without the mess.

 To suggest that I degrade women by energetically pursuing my own sexual desires says more about the critic than myself. I had a lot of sex with a lot of different folk. I captained my own ship and have no regrets. I never ever felt degraded and don't think I degraded anyone else in turn. Having casual sex is like eating take-away food. It's cheap and readily available. It can be bad for you if you let it but I gave it away before I got that bad. I'm now chowing down on healthy, nutritious monogamy! I think women who turn their back on their own sexuality are degrading their gender. Denying their own purpose. So I have listened to the criticism and value her right to share it with the world but I make no apologies and don't agree with her viewpoint.

But the bottom line is...I thought I would be upset when the first criticisms were levelled at my work. As a first time author, I was bracing myself. And yet I feel strangely calm and unfussed by this woman's wrath. She has every right to hate my book. You can't please all the readers all the time. I subsequently discovered another poor review that complained that I had not been smutty enough and that the book had been too well-written. This critic suggested that I should have been a bit trashier. So there! You can't win.

"An author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an animal whom every body is privileged to attack: for though all are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them.”
 Matthew Gregory Lewis.

To be honest it feels much nicer to be praised. But to elicit a reaction good or bad, is the purpose of writing a book.

So to my twitter critic.....if you don't like reading about my masturbating with a stuffed toy, shut the book. Burn it. Donate it to your local charity. If you'd bothered to read the blurb on the back-page...you might have been warned that this was a bit of a saucy read. I think deep down...you were just jealous....you fantasize about rock-stars....don't you??? You dream about that guy in Cold Play or that spunk from Foo Fighters...or hell....maybe even One Direction.....don't you???
Yessss.

The lady doth protest too much, methinks!!!

I love rock and roll........


I love rock n’ roll…….

Actually, it’s more a case of, I loved rock n’ roll once upon a time in that far away era known as the eighties. The good ole days. The glam rock, the pub rock and the new age pop. Hair teased into bouffant bird’s nests, mullets and undercuts. Severe slashes of rouge and three toned eye-shadow.   Puffy pirate shirts over leggings and ankle boots, shoulder pads and leather pants. Music that swung like a synth-pop monkey over a uniformly swaying tide of young people. Our anthems were belted out by the likes of Bon Jovi, our sexy tunes pouted by pretty boys Duran Duran and our solid thumping bass lines pumped quite seductively by INXS with a sultry blast from Kirk’s sax..
Australia was lush with talented rock-stars and our bands did the rounds of the country, working tirelessly to share their sweat with us. The bands looked good and serenaded us with provocative tunes. To this day, every time I hear ‘Kids in the Kitchen’ croon Current Stand on the radio I am transported back to a time when I could almost smell my hormones bubbling over. And just the opening line of the ‘Sunnyboys’, ‘We can lock away the bad memories forever….’ from Alone with You can get me up on the nearest table strumming an air guitar. Perhaps this reaction is indicative of all the youthful memories of any age, but I feel my memories of the ‘eighties’ are the sharpest and most emotionally recalled. The music of the eighties, most particularly though, elicits a response from me that is sometimes beyond enthusiastic. Just the opening harmonica riff from Boys Light Up by Australian Crawl is enough to have me swooning into my tea-cup and grinding a little deeper into my rocking-chair and don’t even get me started with Unguarded Moment by those gorgeous boys in ‘The Church’. That’s tantamount to a religious experience.
The reason for this is that from the age of almost sixteen, I crept out of my bedroom window and fast-tracked my way to Bombay Rock in Surfers Paradise, at least once a week, where I bopped to the beats hammered out into the salty Gold Coast nights. Live shows were the back- bone of the industry and Australian Crawl, The Church and the Radiators did not disappoint. Pseudo Echo, Uncanny X-Men, The Angels, The Divinyls, INXS, Cold Chisel and Mondo Rock kept the place jumping. Most bands were friendly and had plenty of time for their fans. I took advantage of the hospitality and found myself getting deeply involved in the ‘groupie scene’, where I’d enjoy more intimate attentions from touring rockers. The more ‘successes’ I had, the more bold I got and it soon grew into a crazy hobby. I became a musician collector. In the back of my diary I had a list of the conquests. And I rated their off-stage performances. I was only one of many, many other young teenage girls doing the same thing. By day I maintained my grades and was appointed Vice School Captain!
Every Sunday I was glued to the television set watching my idols play and laugh and joke with Australian rock guru Molly Meldrum. As my hobby took flight, I would get an extra thrill when I watched a performance on screen by someone I had been more intimately entertained by. I guess that’s why I still get a tingle of nostalgia when an old eighties tune hits the airwaves. Most songs bring back torrid memories and remind me of the excitement of my burgeoning sexuality and the hedonistic excesses that went along with rock and roll. The drug experimentation. The devil-may-care attitude that played alongside the tunes. The rebelliousness of adolescence. The hope and promise of a golden future that lay stretched out as far as the eye could see. A time when I felt invincible.
And then came AIDS and political correctness and temperance and by the nineties the party was over..
Now, I worry about my own children. I cringe at their music and bristle at their fashion choices. The piercings. The tattoos. The fringes that hang like curtains over one side of their face (the last one I can understand from a ‘Human League’ point of view). It’s difficult to sell my eighties as a time of innocent, boisterous fun. We did drugs. We were promiscuous. We trashed venues and motel rooms. And yet I remember such times fondly and without regret. The music scene these days seems more sinister, the music sounds angrier and the self-destructive fashion reflects that. (I don’t count ‘One Direction’ – but what lies beneath there, eh??? No-one can be as wholesome as they pretend…they scare me!!!)
And yet, I guess, I’ve just morphed into an older person who believes their glory days were the last of them. I look at those screaming teenage girls and wonder if Justin won’t be their Hutchence memory of the future…oh no! That was sacrilege. I apologise. No. Dammit. The eighties were the last golden days. Nothing before or since has spoken to me the way those lovely boys did. Don’t you, forget about me, don’t, don’t, don’t you, ‘ Simple Minds’ purrs from the radio and I smile. ‘No, no, no. I never will!

Mothers and daughters and THAT talk.........

I am a daughter. I am a mother. I have a daughter. And we are mothers and daughers because of one thing. Sex.
Sex is the undercurrent that pulls us all through life no matter what attitude we have toward it. No matter how prudish and judgmental and hung-up you are about sex, you still have to accept that you are a consequence of it.

For most people, the idea of their parents having sex is enough to run for the Maxalon because the idea makes us feel nauseous. But it's a fact of life and one that we must come to terms with if we are going to survive. The tricky part comes when parents realize it's time to have 'the talk' with their children. What to say? How to say it? How much to tell? What to leave out?

Sex education is becoming more and more the domain of schools and the internet. The more liberal parental discussions of the seventies and eighties seem to have been swamped by early exposure and a new more uncomfortable realization that the simple 'birds and bees' account will no longer suffice. I illustrate the point by mentioning that my eight year old daughter asked me yesterday what a 'gang-bang' was because she'd heard someone say it in the playground at school.

As I am yet to sit down officially with an appropriate book (prop or crutch) to have that talk with her, I was at a loss as to what to say. I blubbered and stalled and made flabbergasted arm movements and simply said that it was an inappropriate term and that I would explain more fully one day but not today. I copped out. I still think it is better to learn to walk before you run. How to explain a gang bang before explaining about the act of intercourse is beyond me.

My parents sat me down and gave me 'the talk' when I was about nine or ten. That is far too late these days and it occurs to me that I have been tardy and should have knuckled down and done my parental duty earlier. In some ways I have been guilty of stalling in the hope that much of the hard work will already be done for me by peers, school and popular culture. But with expressions like 'gang-banging' penetrating the playground, I must strengthen my resolve and get down to the awkward business of sex education. I have three older sons and managed that situation well (I hope). This is my first daughter and I am nervous and mortified about how to tell her.

I was a wild teenager who targeted grown men for my early sexual experiences. I had my first orgasm at about thirteen and enjoyed plenty more, embracing my own sexuality like a hungry explorer. Perhaps I am afraid my daughter will follow suit. But would that be so bad? Yes. If my sex talk goes anything like the one I was given. My parents were stilted. Embarrassed. Guilty. Uncomfortable. All the things I am feeling now. I am the polar opposite of a prude and yet I find myself in such an awkward spot.

She'll know I have sex with Daddy. She'll suddenly realize what we were doing that day she walked in on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Will I tell her about oral sex? STD's? Contraception? AIDS? Abortion? Anal sex? GANG-BANGING?????

You know what? I'm NOT going to go the academic root (if you'll pardon the pun) and point to the Fallopian tubes, the Vas deferens and make it a baby-making lesson, like I got. My parents told me about sex but never once mentioned passion or desire or the thrilling ecstasy of orgasm. Nor did they warn me about the dangers, preferring to share the idea that abstinence was the only way to avoid pregnancy. (Yes. Catholic).

I think I will take her out on a mother/daughter day and let it all unfold naturally. I'll ask her what she knows and ask her what she would like to know about sex and love and babies and all the rest of it. She has an inkling as all children from pre-school and even earlier, do. Mainstream media and those soft-porn music clips that seem unavoidable while channel-surfing on the weekend, go a long way to suggest what it is all about. To some level I will let my daughter guide the conversation. I will tell her what she feels she needs to know and explain that it is not a one-off lesson but the opening of an honest and sharing life-long conversation between mother and daughter about the tide that influences us all. Sex. I will encourage her to talk about any issues with her father as well. To get a male perspective. My parents sat me down together for the formal 'talk' but I want to begin this as a woman and a girl talking informally.

I just hope the 'gang-banging' thing doesn't crop up but I suspect it might. I'll cope. I am proud of being a woman and a sexual being and if I can hand on that legacy to my daughter, that's a wonderful thing. I'll teach her to own her own sexuality and make of it what she will. I'll teach her to be safe, not scared. Curious without being uncomfortable. And I will let her know that I will answer her questions as honestly as I can.

It's not easy but it's better coming from me now than some ignorant conversation from a ten year old boy or worse........

But for the grace of God...........


Bowen, Queensland
My, how my life has changed over the past five years. In October 2007 I found myself staring at my six-person tent that had been ripped to shreds by a freak hail storm in the Northern Rivers town of Lismore. This made me effectively homeless. Me and my family. Husband. Four children aged two, three, twelve and seventeen. We didn’t even have a car to live in. Not a cent in the bank and no emotional support system to speak of. I fell into the deepest well of depression and it nearly destroyed me. It was a terrifying time and the desperation and aching despair is something that still wakes me at night in a cold sweat.  

But life can and does manage to do back-flips. The kindness, and sometimes lack thereof, of friends, family and strangers can sometimes shock and surprise. Some close family shunned us while a relative stranger lent us a car for as long as we needed one.


In the years since then, my husband has completed two University degrees in Education and I was awarded a Bachelor of Law and Justice degree. We now live in a lovely renovated Queenslander in Brisbane. He teaches full time and I have just had my first book published. When it appeared on a Top Ten seller’s list last weekend, I shed a tear of joy.

Being homeless is not a condition reserved for losers and low-lifers. It can happen to almost anyone. I have subsequently cared for foster children who came from nice homes that had crumbled and disintegrated through dire financial hardship. Parents, broken-heartedly had no other recourse but to put their children into voluntary foster care until circumstances improved. We were lucky not to need to resort to such drastic measures.

We managed to find a barely affordable cabin in a half-way/hell-hole caravan park on the outskirts of Lismore. The police patrolled the park at night and we slept to the lullaby of drug-abuse and violence. Holed up in the stinking, tiny one room, we gathered ourselves, took stock and made some plans. The only job my husband could get in the University township was a used car salesman position. It paid a paltry retainer and we enrolled in Southern Cross University as mature aged students which meant our income was topped up by Austudy payments. We studied and printed our assignments at the local library and eventually managed to borrow and scrounge enough for a bond on a small house. With broken, dirty fingernails, we crawled up out of our pit of despair and began to rebuild our lives.

When the job at the car-yard folded, we managed to move to the Gold Coast hinterland. There my husband worked as a waiter and I did respite care for foster children while we continued our studies through distance education. We barely made enough money to feed ourselves but were looking at the big picture. I was still battling depression and upon finishing my degree, decided that life was too short to get a job in a field I despised. Studying law disillusioned me because I learned not much more than that law and justice are two diametrically opposed ideas. The law is not just. The law is an ass! I decided to follow my lifetime dream of becoming an author. Like a worm curled up in a bottle of Tequila, I managed to struggle out from depression and alcoholism and swim to the surface. I took a deep breath and began to write my book.

Five months later my manuscript was shortlisted for the Queensland Premier’s Literary Award in the category of Emerging Author. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Queensland Premier's Literary Awards

In the past five years, while struggling from that lowest of places, I became reclusive and desperate to stabilize and reinforce my family. My husband and I briefly hated one another enough to consider separating but we weathered the storm and are stronger and more resilient for it. I considered running away from my children, turning my back on them all, to ‘find myself’ but realised that ‘myself’ was also made up of them. Now I find myself emerging into the sunlight as a writer while rediscovering the joys that motherhood brings.
I signed up with a Literary Agency and Black Inc books published my memoir, ‘One Way or Another,’ the story of my wild and wicked youth as a rock and roll groupie. I have three other books being considered by publishers. I am chatting to breakfast radio shows and appearing in weekend newspapers. I am making new friends and rediscovering old ones.

I truly feel like the butterfly escaping the chrysalis, leaving behind the past and writing my future. Five years has seen such incredible changes in my life and myself. In remembering the times when I was suicidal, I am so grateful that I found the strength to push through and keep going. I am forty-six years old but feel better than I ever have. The lemons are definitely turning into lemonade and the future looks bright. Don’t ever presume too much about the homeless because you just never know………..

Sex, drugs and rock n roll.....and Nana naps.

My God....my life is so far removed from those halcyon days of sex, drugs and rock n roll. Now I schloofff around in my p'j's and dog-chewed slippers, drinking endless cups of milky tea while sloughing through a mountain of laundry and ironing. If I get time, I lie in bed and pen some words, escaping to far away places and times and then fantasies abound. That's the highlight of my day!

But before too long (after a nana nap) it's back to the kitchen to get dinner ready. Pots and pans. Washing up. The kids get home and make a mess while I shhhh everyone so I can watch Eddie McGuire torment people in the Hot Seat so I can assert my intelligence by screaming the correct answers at the television.

The teenager plays his music too loud.

I think about drinking Coke Zero but read that it causes brain cancer so I stick to more tea because of its antioxidants and because it is now my only addiction (and cheap red wine). I have eliminated most sugar from my diet but still feel like a marshmallow. I put the Tracy Anderson workout DVD on the t.v every day but I rarely press 'play'. She just stares at me every time I pass through the living room, taunting me with her healthy Hollywood glow!

At night we play musical beds with the little kids and I am more likely to wake up with Woody from Toy Story in my face...eerily saying 'You're my favourite deputy!'  and a seven year old's foot wedged between my knees than anything as erotic as a man. Husband is on the day lounge in the sun-room, with the eight year old snoring beside him. The kids' beds barely get a work out.

This world is eons away from my days as a mad, cocaine-snorting rock n roll groupie. My life back then was a dazzle of drugs and loud music, wild sex and champagne with celebrities. Gate-crashing after-parties and dragging myself home at sunrise, through Kings Cross, desperate for sunglasses. The eighties were my 'good ol' days.'

Frankly, I think I need to brighten myself up a bit. I'm letting myself go. It's 2012 now and back then I couldn't imagine still being alive in 2012! Actually, I barely am. The hair in rollers/green face mask is just around the corner.

I know this is a bit of a mid-life crisis but I think I might do the make-over.

Paint my nails black. Get a perm. Wear loud clothes with shoulder pads instead of my signature black because it's 'slimming'. Throw a party. Drag out my old Duran Duran records. Reinvent the eighties. I'll wear rouge in a stripe down each cheek, lots of cherry lip gloss. I'll dance like a swinging metronome to the Go-Gos. I'll drink a six-pack of wine coolers.  Wear ankle boots and fingerless gloves.

I'll give the kids Phenergan and put them to bed in their own beds. Make my husband don those snakeskin pants that live in the dress-up cupboard and I'll make him role play as a rock-star. We'll go crazy.

Oh...it's all sounding like it might require more energy than I have available to me. I might just have another cuppa and write a chapter of my new novel which is an over-the-top blockbuster full of sex, drugs and rock n roll. It's actually healthier to write about it. No hangovers, broken hips and fashion mishaps.

And that, I guess, is why I have decided to be a writer because I feel like I just did all those things and I haven't left the comfort of my nice warm doona. And now...back to the ironing board.


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