Fear of Flying

It’s been three years since we last flew anywhere. Covid has had us in repeated lockdowns and our country’s borders were closed for all but the most essential travel. Government officials excepted, of course.

Even within Australia, crossing state borders was fraught. And at times, even going more than 10 kilometres from home for anything other than shopping needed a note from the doctor (not your parents).

But now, even as Covid still wreaks havoc (only more quietly, no more daily announcements at 11 am telling us how many more have died) restrictions are opening up and travel is once more permitted.

There’s an important family gathering in Perth, WA. That’s Western Australia, folks. Not Washington state in the US. So we’re flying over.

Given past events and challenges, we decided to go over early to at least get within state borders before any possible lockdown. Not likely, but not taking chances. Besides, weather in NSW has been horrible for most of the year, we’d like to get away from it and explore a sunnier state.

Our Sydney weather has been surprisingly pleasant over the last couple of weeks. The unfamiliar blazing ball of light in the sky has even had me dusting off my sunglasses.

For the week before, our usual stringent family Covid precautions ramped up a few notches. Masks when around anybody else outside the home; dash in-dash out shopping trips; no social events. We wanted no chance of catching Covid to sabotage the trip.

We watched weather forecasts. We wanted no airport closures to affect us either.

As flights have been coming back, problems have been exposed in the check-in and baggage systems. It became prudent to pack at least one change of clothing, plus essential medications, in the carry-on bags.

Weather reports for Sydney were for continuing sunny weather. NOW the sun comes out!!?! But for Perth, a negative Indian Ocean dipole was already spelling wetter weather there and across to Sydney, with news of three severe low-pressure systems coming in just in time for our arrival. Oh, joy…

By the time our day of departure dawned, we were already on the road. Our son was doing his weekend bread run early, just for us, dropping us and our luggage at the railway station before collecting his cargo of fresh loaves for the return trip.

We aimed to get to the airport early, we’d heard the horror stories of check-in queues and long delays. But in the end, it all went fast and smoothly. I had packed my sewing bag (small needle, no scissors or unpicker) with my book so I could sew on the plane. Or read. Security let it through. We kept our masks firmly on and did our best to stay away from the crowd. But as boarding time drew near, the departure lounge was filling up.

Nearby shops provided some distraction.

Comfy bed socks from *Peter Alexander*. Covid chic.

Boarding at last! Time to enter the tightly-packed steel tube about to hurtle through the sky.

I’ve been on bigger planes. I’ve been on smaller planes. This one was cramped, and packed full of people. Airlines are apparently determined to get as many fares as possibly on board every flight, to make up for the last two-and-a-half-years’ losses. We were warned that the flight was short on space for carry-on luggage and some people might have to send their carry-on via a later flight. So much for our planning to carry urgent essentials so they could stay with us, I thought. But we were lucky, our carry-on wasn’t offloaded.

Sydney Harbour view as we headed for Perth. If you look closely you can see ‘the old coathanger’ (Sydney Harbour Bridge) and Anzac Bridge (foreground).

I’m short, I don’t have legroom issues, but this plane was a squeeze for me. I could barely fit between the armrests in my middle seat of three. Wearing a heavy winter jacket didn’t help. The window seat passenger arrived, and he was a tall bloke. A landscape contractor, I later discovered. He did not fit well either, his long legs had to be splayed in order to fit in the space. On the other side of me, Jeff’s long legs had to be pulled in every time someone walked along the aisle.

Safety instructions are different now. They also include rules about wearing masks, including the injunction to leave them on, between mouthfuls of food or sips of water.

The flight was expected to be about four hours. We were ahead of the forecast bad weather, they said. But we might meet it along the way. The worst of the blow would be after our arrival.

I just wanted to get it over with.

I spent the flight squeezed into my seat, struggling to find where to plug in my headset then struggling again to find the buttons I needed to access to work the darn thing. I wanted to tilt my seat back but no way could I find THAT button! Meanwhile, to my left and right, both were manspreading into what little remained of my space. It was an unfortunate necessity for them due to the small legroom. While I have no concerns touching thighs with my husband, I did find it awkward to be on closer leg-rubbing terms with a total stranger.

We managed the meals, and a couple of glasses of juice. It was tricky, but we didn’t spill anything. I gave up on trying to do any sewing. I had no elbow room. Reading my book was enough challenge. I dropped my pencil at one point, and had to do without it for the rest of the flight. No way could I reach down there. Not without evicting both my fellow passengers and getting down on the floor.

Through the flight there were increasing announcements of our delayed arrival. Turns out the bad weather had sent its advance party, and we had a strong headwind. The flight eventually took five and a half hours. Cabin crew kept coming round to tell people to put their masks back on, and my brain was visualising Covid viruses floating freely around the cabin.

As we were coming in to land, the cabin crew urged me to tilt my seat back to the upright position. I was surprised — I hadn’t realised that my squashed thigh had been pressing against the seat tilt button on the armrest.

When we arrived we chose to wait in our seats while other passengers impatiently waited in the aisles for the next twenty minutes. Our fellow passenger continued to browse through catalogues of earthmoving equipment. We chatted a bit more. “I’m a FIFO worker,” he told me. [That’s Fly In, Fly Out]. “But this is my first flight to WA in years, I’m off to see a mate up north. I’ve been nervous of flying, with Covid. Hate it. Especially crowds.”

At last the crowd cleared and we had space to get out of our seats, grab our bags from the overhead locker, and get off the plane. It couldn’t happen fast enough for me.

It took another hour to get our bags, and after all the stories we’d heard, we were delighted to claim our own once more. It was a short walk to the car hire place, that process was much quicker.

It was cold, windy and damp, but the forecast torrential downpours weren’t happening. Yet. We’d rung Aunty Meg who said she’d made a batch of her famous creamy vegetable soup for us.

We got to Aunty Meg’s in mid-afternoon. She welcomed us with a fresh cuppa and a welcome chat. I got out my sewing.

The wind rose outside but the sky was still clear. It would be a cold night, but we’d be warm inside. Aunty Meg put the heater on, then commented, “It’s two hours later for you. I’ll put the soup on to heat up.”

Just then, the power went out. “It’s been doing that all day!” Aunty Meg remarked. “What a nuisance! The whole neighbourhood has been having momentary drop-outs in power.”

But not this time. Aunty Meg called the neighbour. “Is your power out again too? No?”

“Maybe you should check the fuse box,” Jeff suggested. “In case it’s a circuit breaker or something.”

With nothing to look at inside, all three of us traipsed out to the fuse box. We could smell burning plastic and could see sparks arcing across the circuit breaker, which hadn’t tripped. It should have. Jeff found something inert and used it to force the main breaker switch off. The sparks stopped.

It was a Sunday night. We rang emergency electricians and found nobody available. Aunty Meg’s previous electrician had moved ‘up north’ and she eventually found a new contact who was unable to attend that night but would be out first thing.

The power company came out to inspect, said it wasn’t their problem. “A good thing you managed to shut it off so promptly,” said the power company electrician. “The way this was installed originally, fire could have gone up into the ceiling, you could have lost the house.”

Meanwhile, nobody was going to have any soup so Aunty Meg and Jeff went searching for easy takeaway to eat by candlelight. I stayed and waited outside, where there was still a little light to read by.

It was a cold, dark night so we went to bed early. I’d used my phone briefly to connect to the internet and get emails. My battery was getting low. Meanwhile Jeff charged his in the car.

Next morning we were up and dressed early when the electrician arrived. We’d been able to tell him what had happened and what model of board components we had, so he arrived with the right parts and within fifteen minutes, we were back with power and light.

“It’s good it happened yesterday and not today,” he told us. “With the three big blows coming in, I’m going to be real busy for the next week, from tonight.”

The next night Aunt Meg’s daughter and family arrived from the UK. The big blow had hit hard and the airport terminal was in darkness. Most flights had been diverted, but with a plane low on fuel after a long haul, they made an exception.

Despite all this, Perth is really a very welcoming place. And at least we were here, not trying to cross the country by plane, in a narrow metal tube packed with mask-wearing people.

Down the Rabbit Hole…

In Sydney, Australia, thanks to Covid and the outbreak of the delta strain, we’ve been stuck in isolation for nine weeks so far, with the prospect of another nine to go, at least.

What’s a writer to do?

The excitement of a medieval faire — Skill-at-Arms at Ironfest, Lithgow 2017. That’s a kirtle the lady warrior is wearing.

On 22 May, a few weeks before the lockdown, we went to Blacktown Medieval Fayre. We went with my friend, the director of the Renaissance choir, and we wore costumes from our choir performances, blending in totally. However, as is often the case, I felt my dress was a little too modern, I felt a bit of a medieval fake. Once again, I resolved to do some sewing. I bought a hat, a capuchon with a long liripipe, it looked easy to sew another like it. But I also knew that there are many ways to wear a capuchon. Very exciting! The capuchon was very much headwear for all weathers. it could be worn over the face in cold, wet weather, or rolled back in warmer weather. And to be different, it could also be worn upside down, in much the same way as a baseball cap these days is deliberately worn backwards.

I spent some time looking at displays with relevance to my Scottish ghost story, where my protagonists have to live off the land in an effort to survive harsh conditions.

Woodwork, medieval-style. Making a leg for a stool. Blacktown Medieval Fayre, 2021.

There have been some things about my fifteenth century Scottish ghost story that have been bugging me. Did they have chimneys in farm cottages in Scotland in the fifteenth century? What about clothing?

I had thought I’d had it right, but going back over my manuscript, I realised that some details were too modern. But, of course, the more I researched, the more I found that was peripheral to my area of study.

Family selfie at Blacktown Medieval Fayre, 2021. Myself, hubby and hairy older son (a Templar).

With nothing else to do (other than edit two anthologies, neither of which can be launched during lockdown anyway) I explored everything and discovered some wonderful personalities in the process.

I can now also make an egg fried rice that Uncle Roger would acclaim. But that’s another story entirely.

They say write what you know. So when we went into lockdown, I knew there was no time like total isolation in the present to immerse myself in the past via the internet and YouTube and really get to grips with all the life skills I might need in order to survive a fifteenth century Scottish winter.

While looking up exactly how to wear a capuchon (would my protagonist have worn one, perhaps?) I found other videos only peripherally connected to my area of study. But outside the house, the days were short and cold, so I snuggled under heavy clothes and studied on. Meanwhile I grabbed the medieval costumes of family members that were sadly in need of repair, and got to work with needle and thread.

One video I found which I went back to, was Elin Abrahamsson and how to sew a medieval kirtle. Worth a try.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRvzUQ8v9Ss

Along the way I learned that hand-sewing could actually be very strong. In medieval times and even later in the Renaissance, clothing was kept carefully, what people wore was a reflection of their status and, unless you were nobility, people made their own clothes. How hard could it be?

I rummaged through my fabric stash. Hmm. Not much there. Shops closed, so no trips to Spotlight. I rang a friend who has a larger fabric stash and asked for help. We did a Covid-safe fabric hand over, and I found some heavy cotton fabric, a sort of tan-coloured canvas.

The instructions on the video were simple — don’t waste fabric. Rectangles and triangles. You measure how high you are, how round you are, work out how much hem you want and calculate it out. Then mark it on the fabric with chalk and a ruler, then cut it out.

I got out the sewing machine. The only place I could set it up in our crowded house was the driveway, on a sunny day. Hubby hung a sail overhead and I did my best. I really tried. But the sewing machine needs to be serviced. Again, not possible in lockdown.

Sketching in the desired neckline with a pencil.

I had to sew by hand. With one sewing needle left and no matching thread, again I had to make do. I chose a thread colour as close as possible in tone, but darker. I sat and hand-stitched long seams in every spare minute. Watching TV or looking over my husband’s shoulder while he fell down the same rabbit hole as me. We started with Vikings, worked our way through Queen Victoria’s cuisine (there was a lot of it) then worked our way back again. As I worked my way through the Tudors I noticed some detail on various styles of headwear worn by the women. I’d had plans to make one of those box-style headwear things worn by various wives of Henry VIII until I found out how they’re put together. That’s a big NOPE from me. You needed a dresser, a seamstress and a large packet of pins just to get dressed each morning. Nothing elaborate for me. After the dress I’m going to sew myself a light linen coif, the small white cap that all people wore on their heads, men and women. Underclothing, on body and on head, was necessary in order to keep the more expensive outer wear clean and in good condition.

Hand-stitching while I wait in the car for my son to get his Covid shot. It was a wait of several hours each time.

In lockdown we have had strict limits on where we could go. One exception (and I rang officials to check) was getting vaccinated. On the day my son had to get his first Covid vaccine, he had to go into inner Sydney. Public transport would not be a good idea, so I drove him. Of course I stayed in the car, listened to the car radio and sewed the seams on my kirtle. He got needlework done on him (Covid vaccination) while I did my own needlework. Travelling there and back was strange, driving on empty roads which normally would be choked with traffic. We shopped for groceries on the way home and it was his turn to wait in the car. Only one person per household permitted to shop. One person per day.

Back at home, after some long study of the Plantagenets (the Henrys, with a few Richards and a John thrown in) my husband was working his way through Scottish history, notably the border rievers. It felt oddly familiar to be hand-stitching a kirtle while watching a docudrama about Rob Roy. The dress I was sewing looked like the ones in the video.

Hand-felled inside seams for added strength.

Attaching sleeves. Again, pin while wearing and adjust fit individually.

One thing I learned through this whole process was that history is so often about the rulers, the leaders, the manipulators. Whereas I am writing about the ordinary people, the day-to-day lives of the majority. I felt glad to immerse myself in the process of sewing my own dress.

The finished kirtle. Finished except for ornamental trim.

Kirtle with capuchon. Our friend thought I had dressed as St Benedict. Apparently it was the right day…

I’ve now started to go back through my novel (the Scottish ghost story from the fifteenth century) and refine the details on clothing and lifestyle. When I mention the young woman mending her brother’s undershift by the fire, I want people to feel the scorch of the fire on their faces, hear the crackle, see the flash of firelight on needle and smell the burning peat. Writing has to be immersive, if the reader’s experience is to similarly be so.

With inside seams finished, I sewed the hem of the dress during a Zoom writers meeting this afternoon. When we went outside to photograph the dress, an old friend was walking his dog past our fence. He didn’t bat an eyelid when he saw me in kirtle and capuchon. Perhaps he was questioning my sanity, after so many weeks of lockdown. We chatted from a safe distance while we got ready to take our photos.

Of course, the dress project is not finished. There’s still another nine weeks to go, at least, in this lockdown. And now it’s time to trim the dress. I’m going to have a go at tablet weaving. But first, that coif…

3801 — Steam On!

She’s baaack!

After some years in the steam equivalent of dry dock, after boiler problems whispered about darkly in machine sheds and steaming bays around the country, that iconic Australian steam train, 3801, is back, baby!

We had been on one of the last trips before she was mothballed, waiting for the replacement boiler. And now, at last, we would be on the very first public return trip on 13 March, 2021.

There were multiple trips planned for the whole weekend, a one hour trip south to Hurstville and back, with a diesel loco at the rear to haul everything on the return trip. For Covid-safe reasons, each compartment was sold as a bubble. We bought a compartment, sure we could fill it with either family or close friends. And so it proved — we filled five of the six seats just from our household, and a good friend, Jim, took the last place in our bubble.

With a 9 am departure scheduled for the first run from Central Station in the heart of Sydney, we left home at 7 am for Sutherland Station. Masks on public transport were compulsory, so we duly complied.

Sutherland Railway Station, at “sparrows” (aka “very early morning”).

Between Jannali and Como — always a place to wonder…

Como, crossing the river. Some of this is mist, some of it is dirty train windows.

Jeff, inside the modern suburban train, on our way into the city.

During Covid we didn’t travel much, especially on the trains. We have to worry not just about Covid, but also about compromised immune systems. So we took the top level on the double-decker suburban carriage so we could get the best view as we crossed the river at Como.

We got into Central Station with plenty of time. The old sandstone edifice of Sydney Terminal still has soaring ceilings and some gorgeous art deco leadlight windows. The old neon advertising signs I loved as a child are now a fixture in the Powerhouse Museum. I used to love the McWilliam’s Wines sign with those impossible purple neon grapes dripping into a glass. Now we can see the old clock right next to the modern timetable board. The old one, with the regular trains and their evocative names such as the Fish, and its associated route, Chips, is also in the Powerhouse. One more nod to the past was the sign over the door to a restaurant — “Eternity”. A nod to Arthur Stace, who from 1932 to his death in 1967 walked the city streets in the wee small hours, chalking the one word, “Eternity” in various places around the city, a one word sermon and witness testimony.

Inside the old Sydney Terminal station, from where trains depart to travel the country.

The new departure board with the old clock.
Sydney Terminal is now a mix of old and new. Mask wearing was still compulsory on public transport.

“Eternity” cafe. Not open for breakfast…

Our locomotive, 3801, was in pride of place in Platform 2. Next to her on Platform 3 was 5917, the picnic train, embarking on a day trip to Kiama. It was due to leave at about the same time, and as well as passengers, the platform was crowded with trainspotters, train crew and various reenactment groups from the history society, either playing music or going through the motions of a porter wheeling a large luggage trunk on a handcart accompanied by a couple dressed as if from the 1930s, looking for their compartment. This first public outing for 3801, the iconic steam locomotive of Sydney, was a festival of celebration.

A lucky kid in the train cabin before departure. Start ’em young.

‘I’m sure our compartment was back there…’

There were some interesting people in the crowds. One man even had a tattoo on his arm of 3801 and was glad to let me take his photograph as he took his turn on the locomotive footplate before departure.

A young fan on the footplate shows off his tattoo.

On the platform we met up with Jim, our friend who was to share our compartment. Jim is a long-term train enthusiast and we have had many enjoyable conversations with him about many other shared interests. We also had our son and granddaughter with us, who had jumped at the chance to be included.

Once in the compartment we opened the old windows and took off our masks. We were back in our own bubble. While we waited, we shared stories of our memories of travelling in these old carriages. Back in the mid-1960s I travelled to Otford south of Sydney on a train commissioned by a church youth group, to attend a three day camp. We rode on a steam-hauled vintage train, which was part of the regular NSW regional run in those days, before more extensive electrification of the state rail system. We loved these old trains. My first experience of going over the Como rail bridge heading south was on that train. I remember looking out the window at schools of jellyfish in the river below. And in 1969, with raging bushfires on the NSW south coast, our summer youth camp was cut short as fire approached the campsite. We were herded to Otford railway station, a small regional platform surrounded by thick bushland and tall trees, to wait for a train that some warned might not come, due to possible fire damage to the train track. As we waited we saw the fire crest the hill above the campsite and people trying to fight it by flapping it with wet sacks. When the steam train rolled in to collect us, it was with the same vintage carriages also, which I loved. Old photographs screwed to the walls, soft leather-covered seats with built-in head rests and, joy of joys! A carafe of water, lid chained securely to the neck, and two glass tumblers. Sadly, the water was warm from the heat of the day. As the train hauled us through the still-burning forest, we would sometimes see groups of firefighters doing a rearguard mopping up operation, with trackside stumps still smouldering. We were very relieved to get back into Sydney’s Terminal station that day in January 1969.

There was a queue to get onto the footplate. This is a much-loved train.

In our carriage this day in 2021, all this history has been carefully preserved. The glass carafe and glasses are not there, they fetch high prices now in auction houses. But the historical photos are screwed to the walls, and when we examine the timberwork in the carriage, all the screw heads are lined up neatly, the subtle mark of a master carpenter.

Luxury compartment, very Harry Potter… Jim, Jeff and Rob.

My son Rob still doing his Daniel Radcliffe look-alike feat.

With a loud whistle and a clank of carriages, the train pulled out. We moved past the old Mortuary Station from where funerals would depart for the ‘dead centre of Sydney’, Rookwood Cemetery where once a matching ornate sandstone station stood. It’s now mostly used as a picturesque wedding venue. From there the train dipped lower into the deep ‘rat runs’ where tracks could criss-cross overhead, and where generations of steam trains laid down a layer of soot. Now, ferns grow in whatever cracks they can find.

The train rose back to ground level again as we passed Redfern station. The Kiama Picnic Train chuffed past, with cheers and waving between both trains. The festive air continued with every station we steamed through filled with trainspotters with their long lenses and tripods.

In the seat opposite, our granddaughter closed her eyes and sighed as she leaned back in her seat. As I watched her I remembered my own journey on a train like this, heading south to a weekend of adventure in the bushland on the south coast. I think that is where my love of trains, travel and adventure really began.

‘Take One, Leave One!’

I have wanted my own street library for two years now, ever since I saw this fabulous one in Gerlingen, outside Stuttgart, Germany. The sight of a red British phone box in Germany drew us up sharp.

Inside the brilliant street library in Stuttgart, Germany.

A street library is a box of books that you have outside your gate. People can take a book that appeals to them, or leave one that they think others might like to read.

“But we have a library in the village!” I was told by friends last year. “Our community library needs our support.”

Our village library is normally open on Monday evening, Wednesday evening and Saturday morning. It has a small selection of books but its main community use is as a meeting place for author talks once a month. It’s also primarily a school library and school learning space. It’s also currently closed because of Covid.

No more browsing on the shelves. No more random finds. Meanwhile I was accumulating a lot of books that we needed to donate, and even the thrift shops were closed.

Municipal library — off-limits to browsing during Covid restrictions.

A neighbour said, “I’m desperate for something to read!” I met with her and handed over some of our car boot books, but that decided me.

It was time.

We could buy a street library kit for $90, or we could buy some materials ourselves. Or we could re-purpose something. That sounded best, for us.

The principles of minimal ecological footprint came into play.

It was community clean-up time, when we put rubbish out on the street. For local kids, it’s a fascinating opportunity to explore. A lot of adults, too, scavenge through the discarded furniture, broken pots, dead couches and dismembered fridges to see what they can take and use.

Another likely candidate, but we chose something else.

My practical husband was going to do the actual build, so he gave me a shopping list of sorts. He was pessimistic, however. ‘You need a hardwood piece of furniture, and not too big, please, I don’t want our front fence looking like a junk heap. It has to be hardwood, not MDF or plywood.’

Despite his pessimism, because these days most furniture items will not stand up to a little rain, let alone the occasional east coast low, I found several likely items. Of course, they were damaged in some way, or hopelessly out of fashion. Which suited me. We settled on a small bedside cupboard that was missing a door.

Old cupboard being refurbished. The workbench is an old ironing board, pressed into new service.

We found a part-used sheet of perspex which would do for a door, but how to keep it closed? My husband made a small metal frame to fit into the bottom of the small cupboard as base for a shelf and some perspex roofing sheet was cut down to make two shelves. The perspex door was attached with screws and hinges taken from an old laundry cupboard. He also grabbed the knob for good measure.

For closure of the cupboard door, my husband scavenged some magnetic strip from the seal of a fridge door. He glued the magnetic strip to the bottom of our perspex door so it would grip to the metal of the bottom shelf frame. It took a couple of attempts to get it right.

A friend brought me a box of trinkets from one of the rubbish heaps. Inside was a wine bottle holder in the shape of a kneeling butler. “It belonged to my friend who died,” she explained. “I don’t want Jeeves to end up in landfill.”

The wine bottle holder, dubbed ‘Jeeves’, wearing his face mask made from a torn shirt. The pot plant is a test to see what we can ‘persuade’ him to carry. It’s not just wine bottles.

Our cupboard needed legs, and another dump heap had timber offcuts. We cut four even lengths for legs which I painted with leftover fence paint. One leg was a bit long and had to be trimmed to fit, so I painted the offcut to look like some stacked books. Another offcut was rescued from a woodheap and one side didn’t look too badly worm-eaten so it also got painted.

Cupboard legs drying on the (matching, recently painted) picnic table. In the background was another piece of furniture which we left for now. Up for grabs!

Scraps of old wood painted as books for the sign.

My husband sent me off around the village again, looking for a piano hinge. I didn’t find a piano hinge, but I did find some cut up pieces of a baby grand piano… there are so many stories on these rubbish heaps. A bouquet of bright silk flowers was on a nearby heap. Surely I could find a place for those?

Slowly our street library took shape. The various decorative pieces were attached last, but glued and screwed down firmly. ‘Jeeves’ forms part of the sign now. Due to Covid, Jeeves wears a home-made cloth mask customised for his caricature nose.

We ‘seeded’ the street library with a few books and some old magazines, then screwed the whole cupboard to our fence post. Even as we did this, a car stopped. Waited. Then as my husband walked back up the driveway to put his tools away and I stepped back to assess, the driver approached. The first customer!

The first customer — he’ll enjoy that book by Gabrielle Lord.

I recommended a favourite book of mine, and he dashed back to his car to get another book to leave in its place.

I’ll never see my book again, but I had enjoyed reading it and I know he will too. He’s not local, he was a traveller. And that’s okay. It spreads the idea far and wide.

The street library is filling up.
It also can share other goodies to the neighbourhood, such as bay leaves from our tree.

Our street library is now registered on Street Libraries NSW, and is filling up with some very interesting titles.

It’s fun to have a go and what’s available to hand can guide your style.

Sharing to the community. And when Covid is past, Jeeves will doff his face mask.

So much inspiration!