From Jackie (December 2006)
It's dry. Not desperate dry- there's still grass from spring showers, the leaves are limp, not brown, and there were raindrops on them this morning from the mist over night. I felt like licking them, as I did when I was a kid and Grandma told me dew tastes sweet.
She was right.
There are still too many flowers for it to feel desperate. Bright orange pomegranate flowers- come the next wet year I'm going to plant at least six more pomegranates just for the flowers, though the fruit is good too, great fat red and yellow things when ripe, and sweet and crunchy in salads when green. The autumn leaves are butter coloured too- there's may six weeks a year when the tree isn't stunning.
The salvias are blooming now too, so many that the eastern spinebills out my study window don't know which to stick their bills into first, short blue, rich purple, brick red, flagrant pink, all glowing and drought hardy, so the poor birds are just fluttering around confused . . . read on

From Jackie (November 2006)
Once upon a time there was a kangaroo. Her name wasn't Josephine. It was Fuchsia. Her mother had been shot but Fuchsia, her joey, had survived, and in a round about way she ended up with us.
This was long before I ever wrote a book... well, no, actually, I'd written lots and sent a couple away, but neither had been published yet. My marriage had broken up and I lived on the few dollars from the odd article or story, and by cooking at a local restaurant on Saturday nights, while Edward and his baby sitter watched TV upstairs, and ate garlic bread and mushroom steak and great bowls of salad, which I think has remained Edward's idea of a grand meal ever since.
Down in the valley we still lived in what was basically a machinery shed . . . read on

From Jackie (October 2006)
Woken up by a dog barking yesterday morning. Looked, but no dog. (We're a wildlife refuge, and with baby wombats and baby wallabies around at the moment I was a bit worried).
More barking at breakfast. No dog.
Then just as I was walking home at dusk I heard the dog again. Or rather two dogs, kelpie by the sound of them. Woof woof, arf arf woof! But this time they were barking 10 metres up a pittosporum tree.
The lyrebirds are busy. Busy being kelpies, currawongs, wonga pigeons, kookaburras . . . read on

From Jackie (September 2006)
It's been a strange sort of a month. Started with a trip to Adelaide for Books Alive, which was fun, except for the usual culture shock after a month of seeing no one except a few friends and the wombats to suddenly be in the middle of city/ audiences/ traffic. But it was all so impeccably organised- always forget how much I like Adelaide.
Then Sydney for book week. Thought that would be a doddle but ended up locked alone in a bare hotel foyer late at night for three quarters of an hour (I'm sorry madam, said the girl at the after hours number, but the automatic unlocking mechanism doesn't seem to be working. No madam, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about it till the manager arrives at 8 am tomorrow.)
Finished the month with Melbourne Writer's Festival, which was wonderful except for the 2 seconds in which I tore a tendon in my hand (the right one, naturally) while brushing my teeth on night one. (No doctor, it wasn't a wild night last night. No, I didn't have lots to drink. Well, only water. Am quite sure he didn't believe me... heck, I wouldn't have believed me . . . read on

From Jackie (August 2006)
Many years ago I decided that I'd never feel broke if I had bunches of flowers to give away, as well as fill every vase in the house. (At the moment our vases are filled with branches of camellias, old fashioned pink ones that don't drop off for weeks.) Flowers don't cost anything if they're grown from seed gathered last season, or cuttings from a neighbour down the road.
Good tea was a necessary luxury too. The difference between really expensive tea and cheap stuff isn't much . . . . read on

From Jackie (July 2006)
Have just come back from Fremantle (which was wonderful - the Fremantle Children's Literature Centre is extraordinary, one of those magic ideas that makes you think, 'Why doesn't every town have something this fantastic?')
But getting to Fremantle means flying (would rather have gone by camel but always suspect camels haven't really accepted domestication. They just can't be bothered getting rid of their riders. Yet.)
Anyhow flying also means eating food at 20,000 metres, which in my case meant white sludge with red topping. The hostess said it was pasta with tomato sauce.
Pasta with tomato sauce is one of the world's glorious dishes. Peasant eating at its very best: pasta made by mum and grandma, left to dry over the back of the kitchen chair, the tomatoes growing out on the hillside, boiled and crushed with a dash of olive oil maybe, a touch of garlic hanging by the stove, a scatter of fresh basil leaves . . . . read on

From Jackie (June 2006)
It's rained!
And rained and rained and rained ... Three lovely days' worth - and proper rain too, not the mingy 'showers clearing about the ranges' stuff which is all we've had for years, or the thunderstorm that drenches the world but it's all dry again ten hours later.
This was a band of clouds that just sat there and let it all down. Result: the ground is more saturated than any time in the past, well, six years I think. Not that the drought is over. We've had about three inches (75 mls) and we need about ten (250 mls) more to even start replenishing the watertable. But the grass is growing, the wilted leaves have all perked up and the wombats are royally annoyed . . . . read on

From Jackie (May 2006)
I passed a treasure on my walk this morning. Actually it was just a tatty orange golf ball. But to a bowerbird that's REAL treasure.
Bowerbirds love anything bright, or blue, to decorate their bower. They'd love diamonds and pearls, of course, because they're bright too. But to a bowerbird an orange golf ball is just as good. Better actually- when did you last see a diamond as big as a golf ball?
I've no idea where the golf ball came from. Or why it was orange, come to think of it. (I don't play golf). It's 40 minutes drive to the nearest golf course, up in town, and I don't suppose the bower bird pinched it from there, as town is surrounded by bare paddocks and no bower birds. And a golf ball is a big treasure for a bowerbird to carry off.
But bowerbirds do happily steal from cars, laundries, kitchens . . . . read on

From Jackie (April 2006)
I'm sitting here at my desk looking out the window at a possibly insane lyrebird jump from potted plant to hanging basket, then up the curves in the kiwi fruit stem up onto the pergola, then down again.
I don't know if the silly thing thinks it's going to nest above the front door. Or maybe it's just exploring or feeling autumn-ish.
Autumn comes suddenly here in the valley. One moment the wind is like the breath of hell and the sun is sucking all the moisture from the world. The next, the sun sits lower in the sky, the light is gentle, the creek is trickling from pool to pool where there were only dry rocks before. And the lyrebirds are prancing through the garden and the wombats are leaving droppings every couple of metres. . . . read on

From Jackie (March 2006)
Woke up this morning to 1642 currawongs, singing about a metre from my ear. There are worse things to wake up to (pneumatic drills, a helicopter accidentally spraying herbicide here instead of next door, or a small voice saying 'Mum! I didn't mean to do it ...) But it would have been nice if the currawongs had perched just a little way down the orchard before they launched into the Hallelujah Chorus.
Currawongs mean it's autum . . . read on

From Jackie (February 2006)
Yesterday was 44 C and everything was wilting, including me. Then Araluen Billy arrived ... Araluen Billy is the local sea mist. I don't know why it's called Billy. It does look a bit like an old man's beard as it drifts over the mountains between us and the coast, so it might be that.
The mist was snaking through the trees as I drove down the mountain from home, and by the time I was down in the valley it was cool and mizzling and the lyrebirds were singing.
It was still misty this morning. Showered with a small black tailed wallaby peering through the bathroom window . . . read on

From Jackie (January 2006)
Happy New Year! And the rest of the year too for that matter.
It was a lovely Christmas here. Family, friends, wombats, no bushfires nearby, water in the creek and a possibly insane lyrebird who hopped up onto the hanging basket to yell 'pok pok pok' at all arriving visitors because they were disturbing the peace of his garden.
The creek has dried up now- the last six months have seemed wet, but that's only because the last four years have been so dry. We didn't even get our 'average' fall. So everything dried up again as soon as we got three hot weeks.
But there's water in the tanks and flowers in the garden and so much fruit on the trees that the parrots are just sitting there, stuffed. And the wombats are so fat with all the grass that they only come out at 2 am, munch a bit, and go back to bed . . . read on

From Jackie (December 2005)
Someone has attacked my umbrella. I'm not mentioning any names, mind you, but suspect they were brown, furry and with long whiskers.
The umbrella has been living just outside the front door ready to be grabbed when anyone heads outside. This is because it's been raining ... and raining ... and raining. Which after four years of drought has been glorious. (Drought gets very boring after a while.)
The wombats have been too fat to worry about us lately. Mothball just rolls out of her hole about 1.00 a.m., munches for a couple of hours then goes back to bed. Wombats are energy conservative, mostly. If they don't need to eat they'll sleep instead . . . read on

From Jackie (October 2005)
Written with grubby fingers - I've scrubbed them but they're still grubby - and a big bowl of asparagus and three blood oranges on my desk, excuse the dribbles.)
Woke up this morning to the sound of a thousand small birds cheeping - the silvereyes are in the avocado trees, eating.
Spring down here mean so much blossom you could almost float on the scent and the thunk of falling limes and avocadoes. The avocadoes are 'overripe now' - still firm because avocados don't ripen on the tree unless they've been pecked by birds, but splitting at the bottom. Which means there's easy access for silver eye beaks. . . . read on

From Jackie (September 2005)
Interesting day so far ... have just got in from my usual morning walk, down through the orchards then up the mountain to Mary's Pinch. (Not sure who Mary was- Edward thinks she must have been a bushranger, but I suspect her buggy just overturned there- it's a pretty awesome hairpin turn.)
Anyhow, ... I was just opening the gate past the avocado trees when I noticed my hand felt cold and wet.
I looked down. Bright red blood dripping off my palm . . . read on

From Jackie (August 2005)
I think I've worked out why kids don't eat fruit and vegies. Because they taste yuk.
We've been buying some of our veg this year, partly because of four years drought and partly after my illness. And blimey Charlie .. there's no flavour in most of them!
They all look great- nice big shiny green apples that tasted like canned mush and perfectly shaped oranges that tasted of nothing in particular and tomatoes that had forgotten to taste at all . . . read on

From Jackie (July 2005)
The wind is howling, the rain splattering and I've just missed being hit by a flying choko, which would have been a terrible epitaph, felled by a flying choko.
It's wonderful weather. Well, it is after you've had four boring years of drought and blue skies. The creek is all mud and froth and we can hear the rocks grinding as the water races around them. Blast it, this is what winter should be like! Grey skies and wet ground and sleet and gales . . . read on

From Jackie (June 2005)
It's cold. The wombat droppings have white furry whiskers every morning, there's frost on the grass, the shadows are dark purple and I'm up to two hot water bottles a night - much nicer than an electric blanket as you don't get dehydrated and they're still warm under the doonas in the morning.
It's been a lovely month of pottering: making cumquat marmalade, lots of reading, a bit of writing, much lunching with friends, walking every afternoon. I'm officially still recovering, but part of the time I feel a heck of a lot more energetic than I have for years . . . read on

From Jackie (May 2005) [and out soon The Secret World of Wombats]
I've just come in from listening to the lyrebirds down the orchard- which sounds all sweet and romantic till you realise it was actually a lyrebird battle, the two of them yelling at each other and leaping claws out, which can be fearsome as lyrebird claws are BIG. And every time they leap they leave a long white dropping on the ground.
The two of them are arguing about who owns the giant pittosporum tree. It's growing on a bank and a lyrebird can climb up branch by branch . . . read on

From Jackie (April 2005)
I woke up this morning to find two small furry wallaby faces about a metre away from me, peering through the bedroom window. They were was a mum and her baby, just old enough to clamber out of the pouch and still looking more rat like than wallaby like. They were having breakfast ... a bite of apple, a munch of apple leaves, a chomp of grass then back to the apples again.
The apples are Lady Williams, which don't ripen here till July. There are plenty of other apples ripe now . . . read on

From Jackie (March 2005)
Still no wombats about till late at night, but lots of snarls shrieks and back scratching at 2 am under the bedroom. They're not mating type shrieks and snarls, just 'that is my bit of grass IF you don't mind thank you very much' type snarls. Mothball does not like sharing her territory. Trouble is, none of the other wombats take any notice unless she bites them. This February has been the Month of the Brown Snake- the biggest and most aggressive I've ever seen. It is at least 2 metres long but thicker than my arm- and yes, I'm sure it's a brown snake . . . read on

From Jackie (February 2005)
My brain is marshmallow, and thunder is shaking the house and the grass growing so fast it's about to sneak in the window and strangle my computer, or maybe that's just wishful thinking.
I've spent the last fortnight on Phredde and the Runaway Ghost Train. She has finally flown off to Harper Collins, to be edited, illustrated, bounced off to the printers and then hopefully to kids next November, while I write this and hope my brain returns by tomorrow, so I can get into more research for a book of a quite different kind . . . read on

From Jackie (January 2005)
Just occasionally, looking out the window as I write, it's total paradise: the Leeuwin honeyeater who has built a nest 10 cm from my desk feeding a long and still wriggling worm to the small head peering out from the passionfruit leaves; fruit trees almost breaking under the fruit, flowers dripping everywhere, friends about to arrive for lunch that is almost all home grown(salad, chook, potato cakes, fruit jellies in case you are curious)
A mooch is just a mooch ... read on

From Jackie (December 2004)
I've been mooching. Mooching means wandering without any set purpose- it's not walking TO anywhere in particular, though my mooches usually end up sitting down at the swimming hole watching the wind on the water. They're not meant to Do anything either, though I mostly end up with a skirt full of fallen avocadoes (The currawongs knock them off the top of the trees) and a few late limes and maybe a blood orange or two, and quite a lot of asparagus.
A mooch is just a mooch . . . read on

From Jackie (November 2004)
I know it's spring when I throw the last mouldy kiwi fruit out of the fridge, and slice the last shrivelled Sturmer Pippin apple into a salad. (The apple may look shrivelled but it is stunningly delicious- Sturmer Pippins get better as they get wrinkly, unlike kiwi fruit, who just turn squishy.)
Spring is the time you feel like counting every tiny apricot on the tree, but don't, mostly because there isn't time and anyone who saw you would think you were bonkers. But it's such a promising time... the blossom turning to fruit, roses dripping from the trees . . . read on

From Jackie (October 2004)
It's raining!!!!!
Real genuine soaking WET rain. We haven't had rain like this since the 14th of December last year, not that I am counting . . .
It is totally absolutely glorious. Clouds hanging so low down the mountain you can't see the end of the orchard, wet rosellas who have probably never even SEEN rain like this before and don't know they need to shelter. And the sound...not just rain on the roof, which is the best thing to sleep with in the world, but that steady drip drip sound of everything wet and even the creek is muttering plus that deep soaking sound, too low to really hear it but you can feel it in your bones.
And it's still raining . . . read on

From Jackie (September 2004)
Mothball has a baby!
We thought she had a baby in her pouch two months ago..but then there was no sign of it. But suddenly today, after I fed Mothball her oats, she disappeared .. and came back with a small bouncing wombat! Maybe Mothball learnt her lesson with her last baby, Hark...he refused to come out of her pouch till he was so big the pouch dragged on the ground. . . . read on

From Jackie (August 2004)
The End of a Garden
What is brown and grey, looks like a sumo wrestler and sits on the doormat chewing splinters off the doorstep?
Answer: one angry wombat.
Mothball is on the rampage again. The world is cold and dry . . . read on

From Jackie (July 2004)
On the day that Neil Armstrong walked on the moon I went to school as usual. But today at school assembly the headmaster didn't give us the usual time table changes and detentions. He just smiled, as though he was excited too, and said, 'The moon walk has been brought forward to twelve o'clock. Anyone who wishes to go home to see it can leave immediately. Those who don't have a TV at home can stay and watch it in the music room . . . read on

From Jackie (May 2004)
The wind is howling, the air is thick with yellow leaves, the fire is glowing in the kitchen and there is a brown blob outside slowly vacuuming up the grass. I'm pretty sure the blob is Grunter (Mothball wombat's son and once called Hark, but renamed because he burps all the time- from both ends. Though come to think of it Grunter's digestion has improved since he stopped guzzling all the fallen pears and apples. . . . read on

From Jackie (April 2004)
What eats grapes, apples, pomegranates, pears, nashis, strawberries and grass, and leaves giant droppings on the front steps?
I THINK the answer is a wombat, but I'm not sure. But they are the most colourful droppings I've ever seen, all made of bits of squished up fruit like a health bar, except hopefully no one will pick that one up and try to eat it.
Or it might be a fox's dropping. Foxes eat mostly fruit around here at this time of year- they climb trees too . . . read on

From Jackie (March 2004)
Would anyone like some apples? LOTS of apples? Figs? Tamarillos? Lemons? Pears?
Okay, some are a bit wombat chewed or bird pecked, and you might have to wrestle a black tailed wallaby to get at the pears. She is very fond of pears, and so is her joey.
It's a very cute joey. We get to watch it through the dining room window every breakfast. We eat stewed pears and they eat fresh pears, mum wallaby with a pear in her hands going munch munch munch, and baby in the pouch with a pear in it's hands too, going nibble nibble nibble . . . read on

From Jackie (February 2004)
A Letter to Our Wildlife
Dear Wildlife.....
Hi, it's me. The human in the gum boots who pinches your apples just as you are about to peck them, munch them, or tear them off branch and all. In case you haven't noticed- well, I'm sure you all HAVEN'T noticed- we humans are supposed to boss the planet. This means that I am supposed to be boss of the garden too.
I know some of you may dispute that. Okay, ALL of you would dispute that, especially Mothball wombat and Lacy goanna. So I just thought we might have a little friendly word or two . . . read on

From Jackie (January 2004)
New Year Resolutions
I, Jackie French, do hereby make the following new year resolutions:
1. I will stop lecturing. If someone asks me how my salad is I won't give them a short history of the tomato, a story about lettuce growing in ancient Egypt and a dissertation on why 'basil loves tomatoes' is a myth.
2. I will not plant any more apple trees. Bryan is right. 109 apple trees are quite enough and we DO NOT NEED ANY MORE! (Except for the nine I ordered last year and I haven't told Bryan about yet.) read on

From Jackie (December 2003)
Intro...the queens have arrived!
Mothball News
Book News
Awards
Schedule for next Year
Wombat Jokes!
Some Recipes (including a home made weed killer plus others that won't poison you)
Last minute Christmas presents- including what to give blokes
Home Made Christmas Crackers
Two Hour Garden Makeover for Christmas
How to Mow the Lawn
Barbecue Alternatives
(ie when you can't face another dry charred sausage all oozing fat and crave some veg)
We have just had a visit from royalty! Three queens arrived last Sunday. We felt like blowing trombones . . . read on

From Jackie (November 2003)
It's rained. And rained. And rained.
Actually it hasn't been a lot of rain - just three or four showers every day, and cold grey days in between. I don't suppose much has soaked into the soil.
But it is all GREEN - and weedy. We have the Open Garden workshops this weekend . . . read on

From Jackie (October 2003)
Intro
Mothball News
Book News
Awards
Schedule for this Year
A Solitary Wombat Joke
Some Recipes
Surviving Drought- again
Gourmet Chokoes and other Easy to Grow veg

It must be spring. We've just seen the first red bellied black snake. It was asleep by the back doormat, and we both got a terrible fright when I bent down and tried to pick it up . . . read on

From Jackie (September 2003)
It's definitely springish. For the last three nights Mothball wombat has been extending her hole- the one under our bedroom. Every night at 2 am there's been great bangings as rock fly up and hit the floor, and every morning another heap of dirt for Bryan to wheelbarrow away ... read on

From Jackie (August 2003)
Contents:

Intro
Help!!!!!
Mothball Wombat
New books
Schedule
Writing Tips: How to get published
Two recipes
How to Grow Citrus

From Jackie (July 2003)
Contents:

So far This Morning....
New Books
Schedule So Far For the Year
Some Winter Recipes
July in the Garden
Yabbies

From Jackie (June 2003)
How did the lyrebirds know it's winter? First day of winter, there they were, ripping up my vegetable garden again, their great feet scratching out all the potted catci, and the wire covers Bryan put on the pots last winter to keep them out. I wish I could put up a sign that says. . . read on

From Jackie (May 2003)
What a month! Absolutely no doors broken down by furious wombats; no doormats chewed by enraged marsupials, no garbage bins bashed by a hungry Mothball...it's been raining every second day for the past two months, and the garden looks like a giant has tromped through scattering flowers, . . . read on

From Jackie (April 2003)
It's difficult to believe this place was in drought two months ago. It's the perfect time of year now - cold green grass that must be the wombat equivelent of icecream, all soft and sweet, dahlias as big as footballs.
Actually football would be a lot more interesting if they used dahlias. . . read on

From Jackie (March 2003)
This is a confession. Mothball wombat is no longer AT ALL like the sweet cheeky wombat in Diary of a Wombat. Mothball is now the size of a dwarf hippopotomous, with shoulders like a sumo wrestlers and a bite like an angry tyranosaurus rex. She had a go at me last nigh. . . read on

From Jackie (February 2003)
Oh, for a boring day.... we spent this morning helping a naked, bloody, disoriented man who wandered out of the gorge and past our house. The police and helicopter had been searching for him for days. . . . read on

From Jackie (January 2003)
What a lousy start to the day! First of all a small bent winged bat crawled into my shoe when I was in the shower. I discovered it when I tried to put my shoe on again and felt something soft and wriggling. I'd met the bat last night too- something was rustling in the box of lemons and when I looked inside the bat flew out. I shut the bedroom door at once as I don't like bats flying over my nose when I'm asleep- their breeze wakes me up. . . read on

From Jackie (December 2002)
Merry Christmas! And a green and fruitful Christmas too. We've just had half an inch - about 14 mm - of rain, the first we've had since the start of March. It has been desperately dry and still is ... but at least we know it still CAN rain! And today at least the winds are down and not screaming through the valley, and even though the bushfires are still burning at least today with no gales they can be fought. Wombat news. . . read on

From Jackie (November 2002)
10.00pm Bryan and I go to sleep
10.10pm Something screams out the window. Wake up again. No, it's not someone being murdered. It's the 'screaming woman bird' or barking owl. The dopey bird is only supposed to scream in autumn, but it's decided to do it now.
10.12pm Go back to sleep again.
10.20pm A bulldozer starts work under our bed. On second thoughts it's not a bulldozer, it's a wombat enlarging the hole under our bedroom floor . . . read on

From Jackie (October 2002)
Phredde and the Leopardskin Librarian is out and there are tiny wombat droppings on the back steps! To deal with the most important news first- it looks like Mothball must have had a baby in her pouch- the droppings are real baby wombat scats, all brown and tiny. There's no sign of either Mothball or her baby though- Mothball moved down to the hole under the giant avocado tree a few months ago- I think the hammering above her hole for our new room disturbed her sleep . . . . read on

From Jackie (September 2002)
It's official. Mothball has a baby. Or maybe she hasn't..... Her pouch LOOKS as though there might be a baby there. But by now it should be a largish baby, and maybe poking its head out too. I'd love another baby wombat about the place, but it isn't a good time for one. We haven't had rain for nearly six months now. The creek is going to dry up as soon as we have hot weather, and the only grass is around the house . . . . read on

From Jackie (August 2002)
I sometimes get the feeling that the animals around here just don't realise that humans are supposed to be the superior species and that they should be scared of us. A golden whistler - really pretty little bird with a voice three times as big as it is - started bellowing away last week when we were trying to film a segment for 'Burke's Backyard'. Mitch, the cameraman, went to shoo it away but it refused to budge . . . read on

From Jackie (July 2002)
PS 'New' Phredde story at the end of the newsletter.

It's cold, it's cold, it's cold, the wombat droppings have frozen white whiskers out the back door, and the garden is filled with king parrots and currawongs down from the high country where it's even colder than here, all munching bird seed and paddling in the fountain and yelling at each other. Yelling at us too, sometimes, if Bryan doesn't put out the bird seed RIGHT NOW every morning. . . . read on

From Jackie (June 2002)
Okay, Mothball has won! For those who didn't read last month's newsletter, we have been having a minor battle with Mothball wombat. Well, she's been battling us actually- we've just been sitting inside listening to all the bangs and gnawing during the night and assessing the damage in the morning. Anyway, the battle began when . . . read on

From Jackie (May 2002)
If I was ever in any doubt, we now have proof that Mothball wombat is an animal of extreme intelligence and initiative. As I mentioned last month she was a bit miffed at first that we built our extension over her hole in the bank behind my study. (A bit miffed means she chewed up the washing line. We now have a new washing line). But then she realised: . . . read on

From Jackie (April 2002)
This is the stunningly perfect time of year: blue sky all day and then it rains at night, fruit dripping off the trees- apples and pears and quinces and pomegranates and tamarilloes and lemons and passionfruit and grapes and the first new season avocadoes are nearly ripe and  we've picked the first few limes too . . . read on

From Jackie (February 2002)
It's rained! A whole week of mist sifting down the gullies and steady drops galloping on the roof, which means no more smoke through the valley, grass ankle high, mildrewed beetroot tops . . . read on

From Jackie (October 2001)
Suddenly the garden has turned into paradise. Each gust brings down another shower of apple blossom, and the scent of early roses and late jonquils and a hundred other flowers is almost thick enough to slice. Even the hills behind us are a blaze of indigophera, and wonga vine and wild clematis are dripping off the thorn bushes. . . . read on

From Jackie (September 2001)
The daffodils are daffodillying, the lyrebirds are digging up the carrots and sneaking from tree to tree (anyone who thinks a lyrebird is stately and elegant has never lived with lyrebirds) and there are now three wombats in the . . . read on

From Jackie (June 2001)
It's damp as I write this...not wet...I think the sky has forgotten how to rain. We really need about three weeks of good steady wet stuff.
But the mist is sagging over the ridges and there's a soggy wallaby looking longingly through the fence at the rose bushes . . . read on

From Jackie (May 2001)
Help!!!!! I'm getting a whole host of mail with no return addresses!!! (If anyone knows Bridget Mattingly or Katherine Nicholson of Adelaide in particular, please ask them to send me their address!). I receive anywhere from 5- 50 letters a day (34 to answer in today's mail)- my fingers are just about falling off as it is...which means I don't keep all the letters I answer (there wouldn't be room for us in the house if i did) and I don't keep a note of addresses either- . . . read on

From Jackie (April 2001)
Autumn is perfect. This is the sort of month I'd like to live over and over again, gentle sunlight all blue and gold and deep purple shadows and the fruit contentedly sitting on the trees, not ripening and falling and rotting as it does in mid summer, so you're frantic to catch up with it. April is a civilised month, when crops. . . . read on

From Jackie (March 2001)
No one mention tomatoes! We are eating tomato soup, tomato relish, tomato and passonfruit jam, tomato salad, tomato gravy with just about everything..it's times like these I wish we had a freezer, but we don't, basically because we don't have room to put it anywhere, and after all, there's fruit and veg gluts of just about something all year, and there's a limit to what two people can eat. . . . read on

From Jackie (February 2001)
Arrrrk! I'm writing this with my head full of Mongol armies feasting on roast meat, and ancient Roman armies throwing out their apple cores as they pass and US servicemen in Sydney in 1944 demanding hamburgers ....and have suddenly realised it's nearly February and it's time I wrote this, plus did a few other things that involve moving away from my desk for more than 10 minutes at a time . . . read on

From Jackie (January 2001)
Hi! Christmas is behind us, the geese have come back from hiding up the creek (they are far too tough for Christmas dinner but it's hard to explain that to geese) . . . read on