Sitting looking over a sparkling river, my 92-year-old mother and I were chatting about little things. The lovely day, the need for a dry-cleaning drop and kookaburras. Then she pointed at a blond beach bend and said, “Scatter me there when I’m dead.” I responded, “It’s a beautiful spot, Mum – do you want some cake?”
I was not being glib in this confronting conversation. It was afternoon teatime and this is how my family do chats; we go from cake to carking it. We combine the big, the small and the space beyond. Besides, I already knew…
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