Archives for August 2013

I didn’t even know you could do this to yourself at home. In 20 minutes

My problem was that I trusted a colourist.

If you know me at all you’ll know that I’m the kind of person who thinks a hairdresser is the person at the salon that does all the “stuff” to your hair. You know, like cutting and coloring and blow drying and in some unfortunate cases, thinking back to the 80’s, the perming. Then I went to a very swanky hairdresser and was informed that the hairdresser was the cutter, although I think he may have called himself a “stylist”. If I wanted colour I needed to talk to the colourist.

As it so happened I didn’t want colour per se but mostly I didn’t want the colour grey.

The colourist loved the “tones” of my hairs that weren’t grey and, in an act that made me really appreciate colourist integrity, told me I shouldn’t alter the colour of my hair at all. Apparently I was very lucky to be “blessed with natural highlights.”  Given that grey was the predominant hue of these highlights I wasn’t that sure I agreed with him. But he was convincing and so by mistake I listened to him.

He urged me to go to the supermarket, again I was happy with his integrity, and buy a colour shampoo. He said that if I bought a shade or two lighter than my hair I would cover the greys but not alter the actual colour of my hair. Sorted.

I waited about a year and then did exactly that.

caramel

I used a filter to protect you from the orange shock (and make my skin look good) But you can see how light my hair is …..that’s NOT a trick

I chose a lovely ash blonde because that is definitely lighter than my hair. I treated the actual colouring process with scant regard because after all, all that I was doing was covering greys.

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Nobody warned me that you could lighten your hair with a colour shampoo. In fact, on the contrary, people told me that only bleach could strip away  colour and result in lighter hair.

Now I have caramel hair. It is almost the same colour as my dog which looks really beautiful on dog. Not as beautiful on 45-year old woman with fair skin and freckles.

But worse.  The hair along the top  of my head is REALLY caramel – like some kind of cheap, dodgy balyage gone wrong. And the hair at my temples is untouched, meaning that it’s grey.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t too bad and in fact it wasn’t even that different, surely I was just being over critical.  And then I went out and saw people that I know.

My hair is caramel verging on orange with prominent grey streaks. There is no denying it.

Nice.

At least hair grows.  A a sentence I must have repeated to myself about 100 times an hour (and heard about 100 times from other people).

Reading through rose-coloured glasses

magic_faraway_treeThe very first book that I ever read to my child was The Enchanted Forest by Enid Blyton. Granted he was three days old and two months premature so he probably wasn’t riveted by the land at the top of the Faraway Tree. He was focusing on important things like learning to breathe by himself and growing eyebrows.

But I read happily. And repeatedly. Let’s be honest not only was the sound of my voice meant to be beneficial to our bonding (and it was the only contact we were allowed) but I had really been looking forward to rereading those books since I finished them at about age ten.

Like many other people of my generation I grew up with Enid Blyton: Mr Pink Whistle, Noddy, The Wishing Chair, The Naughtiest Girl, The St Clare’s series, The Circus series and of course The Famous Five. And I tried to make my son grow up with the same memories by reading him all these books, while I still had a say.

Wherever you stand on the divide as to whether Enid Blyton was a “good” writer, a homophobe or a xenophobe there can be little denial of the pure escape that she offered in the pages of her books. Especially when looked at simplistically – as a child listening to a story, not as an adult looking for symbolism and classical literature.

No parents, lots of adventure and a guaranteed happy ending.  The children in her books were responsible, mature and extremely industrious characters. They could catch thieves with no legal intervention, they could travel to far away lands and still be home in time for dinner, they could get through the entire school holidays without ever nagging their parents. And they never seemed to need toys, in fact I can barely even remember the characters spending any time indoors let alone at home.

Sufficeth it to say that as soon as he could make himself understood my son made it clear that Enid Blyton was not his choice of bedtime reading. It’s a funny thing how kids can sense the time setting of a book just by the opening lines. It’s also very funny (to them) that she uses the names Dick and Fanny. Actually now that I am older it’s also a little bit funny to me.

So instead of reading Enid Blyton we read Rony Roy, Dov Piley and Jeremy Strong, H Larry and Paul Jennings and many hundreds of others. We read for so long that we even graduated to people like Anthony Horowitz and JK Rowling. Reading aloud was part of our bedtime routine right until he started reading better than I did and was getting lost in books himself.
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Yesterday I read a report outlining the fact that many parents were no longer reading to their children at bedtime. Apparently two-thirds of parents surveyed read to their kids less than once a week by the time they turn five.

News reports

Research, to be released today, shows nationwide 83 per cent of parents with children aged between one and four read to them at least once a week. It’s a different story once youngsters start school, when the figure drops to 36 per cent.

I know I only have one child and the HUGE luxury of time and resources. I also acknowledge that it’s much easier to look back at parts of your life that have long passed with rose tinted glasses and more than a hint of “wasn’t life perfect then?” but Lord I loved reading to my son.

I loved rediscovering the stories of my youth (before my son stopped me), I loved seeing the world through the eyes of a child, I loved my son lying next to me listening to my voice while his mind whirred and buzzed with the lines of something make believe. Of course I loved it when we moved on from reading “picture books” repeatedly. The same one every single night. Again and again.

There is no wrong way or right way to parent your child, as long as you love them, so I am not saying that reading to my child made me a good mother (loving him did that) but I can’t imagine not having had that time together. I only wish I had been more persuasive with the Magic Faraway Tree – he would have bloody loved Upside Down Land.

Did you read to your kids? Are you still reading? Loving or loathing it?

The pictures of my life

photoFor the last couple of days I’ve been lost in the past. Sorting through photographs that I’ve found stored in the back of drawers, inside long unopened cupboards and sticking out of the middle of books. Photos in old fashioned sticky albums, in sleeved albums. Photos on CD’s, on laptops and phones and computers. Thousands of them. Some from weeks ago and others from decades ago.

I’ve always loved taking photographs, not in an creative artistic way but rather as a means of capturing moments in time. I’m one of those irritating people who get so caught up in ensuring that I ‘m capturing everything on film that I sometimes forget to live the moment. Sometimes it’s a pain but years later it pays off.

I’ve been living those moments again and again while I rifle through my past like a speed-reader glancing at a page and picking up the gist of the story. It’s not just for sentimental reasons, although it is certainly stirring up an emotion or two, rather I am making one of those super cool photo walls to make my house look more like my home. For this I need to choose my very favourite photos, the photos that tell the story of our family.

It is a strange and emotional experience going through your past in picture format.

It takes you right back to your earliest memories when you see your favourite scarf, the one whose tassles you pulled through your fingers as you sucked your thumb to sleep as a little girl. It’s overwhelming to see the little girl who shares your body going to school for the first time. Such a different little girl but yet still the very same woman.

It takes you through a roller-coaster of emotions to see the high school version of yourself who thought she was so cool. Cool is different from troubled but she didn’t know that. Now you just want to reach out to her and yank her away from that very turbulent time.

It’s cringeworthy when you see yourself in high school with crimped hair or worse when you finally dig out the wedding photos that you have been hiding because you had a perm THE DAY BEFORE your wedding.
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It’s overwhelming when you open a box of wedding photos and find hidden inside the hand written love letters your husband and you exchanged during some of the hardest times. It’s tragic when you recall the events surrounding some of those letters but it’s magical when you realise where you are today and that you’re still together only you love each other even more now.

It’s like a slap in the face when you look at pictures of your parents and realise that you are older now than they were in those photos – even though then they were your very old and wise parents at the time.

It’s confronting when you look at the pictures of your new born baby attached to a ventilator that is breathing for him and think to yourself “I could never handle that” but at the time you did it and you sat at the hospital by his side every day for two months and took more and more photos every day.

It’s like a break in the clouds during a black storm when you see the pictures of that same tiny child leaving hospital and all the clouds evaporate when you look through his life and see huge smiles dominating his every waking moment. Because you’ve photographed most of these moments.

It fills you with warmth and happiness as you flip through holidays and birthdays of the family you have created and you smile from deep within at the memories they bring.

It’s comforting to know that you’re still taking photos. And important to remember never to stop writing letters.

Can someone explain the idea of makeup free to me?

MakeupI very rarely leave the house without make-up, I ‘d never buy an item of clothing that I thought didn’t flatter me, I try to wear my hair in a way that suits my face. I often fail.

One could say I had a low sense of self esteem or if, you weren’t tuned in to that way of thinking, you could think well, isn’t that clever, she’s putting her best foot forward, trying to make the most of what she’s got.

But if I did have a negative body image (which I do) there’s one thing that I’m sure isn’t going to raise it. Well there are a few, but I am quite certain that sharing a photo of myself without makeup won’t do anything to make me feel like I’m more beautiful.. Nor will seeing other people’s makeup free faces, as beautiful or natural as I am sure they are.

The Butterfly Foundation are hosting Makeup Free Me on 30 August to raise funds for The Butterfly Foundation which is a brilliant cause and well done them (I support any attempt to raise funds for organisations like this) . Celebrities often release makeup free shots (which are not free of good lighting and face placement), many bloggers and media outlets have hosted makeup free projects, the women of Sunrise on Channel 7 recently went sans makeup and Mamamia are hosting a makeup free promotion (seems I left in the nick of time) so maybe there are more people that actually understand this trend. I just don’t.

I find the idea of presenting your unmade up face in a bid to raise body image awareness a huge ideological jump and I would be happy for someone to explain to me just how it’s meant to work.

Is it helping anyone’s body image if we keep focusing on how people look? With our without makeup?

By rifling through hundreds of makeup free photos that are being scrutinised by thousands of other people are we feeding into the whole “looks are everything” issue? So what if you look great without makeup. So what if you look far better with a kilo of foundation on.

Seeing (and ultimately judging) other people without makeup on for a day is only focusing on how they look. I am quite certain you know when people are wearing makeup, they’re not trying to fool you. Just trying to look their best. There’s nothing real and authentic about going makeup free. Or is there something I am missing?
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I look at the galleries of makeup free woman and find the whole thing a little sad. It’s like a beauty contest but instead of the swimsuit competition it’s like some kind of “freak show”. For just one day or one photo I will wear no make up and take a photo to prove that…..And here’s where I get stuck. To prove what? That sometimes I do wear makeup and when I do it I feel that I look a little better? Like when I have my hair cut? Or buy a dress that I think flatters me?

How is it helping anyone to know that someone looks less radiant without makeup? We know that.

Some people look really good without make up. Some people don’t.

I am in the latter category and I am delighted to have makeup to help me hide the blemishes and even out the skin tones. I wasn’t blessed with flawless skin and big, clear eyes. I remember being old enough to wear make up as an important mile tone in my life. There was something I could do to give some colour to my face, some definition to my eyes. Some illusion of bones in my cheeks.

Nobody’s making me wear makeup just like nobody’s making me walk around in a pale yellow onesie which I imagine is the most unflattering outfit I could muster. I just wouldn’t do it. Even if you told me that dressing in clothes that don’t do me justice would stop body shaming.

Please know that I am not judging, or indeed, dissing anyone that has submitted a photo or is hosting a makeup free day. I totally respect what you are doing I just don’t understand it.

Can you shed some light? Can you tell me how not wearing makeup is going to change the status quo? Is wearing makeup to look better such a bad thing?

Dinner with an H

Last week our culinary journey through the alphabet stopped at H and it was my sister’s turn to provide the food. No one went hungry although she went for Hungary (boom tish)

We started with soup and matzo balls (kneidlach or dumplings). I felt like I was at home. It’s a dish we literally grew up on

 soup with kneidlach

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Next was chicken schintzel. I love my sister to the earth and back for not using veal
schnitzel

and I am more than appreciative of the fact that she made eggplant schnitzel for her fussy vegetarian sister

eggplant shnitzel

Served with red cabbage and sauteed potatoes the delicious meal looked like this
plated meal

And because I am the sugar loving fiend that I am I paced myself because I know that my sister is a bloody wonder child when it comes to dessert. Hungarian desserts are no exception. Just check out this cherry strudel that she MADE (not bought). I cannot emphasise its deliciousness enough. The flowers were pretty rad too.

strudel

As regular readers are becoming aware, we love to serve more than one dessert in our family and this was dessert number two which must have taken a bazillion years (and much patience to make). It is a traditional Hungarian dessert called Palatschinke and is basically layered crepes. It usually layered with jam and chocolate but the best aunt in the world  (ie my sister) knows that Little Pencil has a jam aversion and so it was simply layered with nutella.  I know how jealous you are feeling right now, I’m sorry.

palacsinta

Check out our Greek dinner here, our French dinner here, our Ethiopian Feast here and all the delights from the Dominican Republic here

Stay tuned for I this week – Indian? Israeli? Italian? Indonesian?

This is what happens when a neurotic 45-year-old goes to school

carnivalYesterday was Little Pencil’s last athletics carnival as a primary school student meaning it was the last athletics carnival I was welcome to attend, meaning that at any future carnivals I will have to go either disguised as a tree or incognito as a stalker-type. For the sake of son’s future mental health I plan to do neither so this was really the last one.

I was quite excited to go to the carnival although I am really not what you call an athletics enthusiast, it was just that this was the first time I was going to attend one of these events where I wasn’t going to be torn. I had NO work commitments, no plans and nothing to stop me from just being there.

I was also going to see some people that I never get to see enough of and I knew there was a canteen. Let’s be honest here – it’s not ALWAYS about the child, it’s often about hot chips.

Being the neurotic type I always over prepare myself for these events – but just not in the way that the other mothers do. Of course, like every mother, I took heaps of food, plenty of hydration and sun protection that would have been effective on the actual sun. But I also prepared mentally because, unlike every other mother, I tend to be over neurotic doubled with a hefty dose of ultra sensitivity. And I find school gatherings stressful.

Crowds of parents are just like crowds of kids and sometimes it can be a little treacherous on the playground for us adults. I am very lucky, I have some gorgeous and wonderful close friends at the school and I count myself very lucky to be part of such an amazing community. But I am also very unlucky because I over analyse and assess the shit out of every interaction I have. Geez I sound like fun to be around.

Maybe it’s just the memory of my own school days that corrupts my enjoyment of any of Little Pencil’s school activities. I am not one of those people that look back at school with thoughts of fun and laughter. More angst and tears.

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I wonder around the school mums from group to group with a big smile on my face and I chat and I laugh and I make other people laugh and when I start to feel like I’m actually grown up and past the shit of the school yard my inner child kicks me in the solar plexus with her Bata Toughies*. I start to unravel my conversations or worry about what I am saying or what the people around me are thinking or if I am being too loud/soft/opinionated/spineless.

It’s worse when I actually leave the place because without the people around me and with the disadvantage of time on my hands I really start to unpick every word and I play back conversations I am not even sure I had. (Yes, I AM sounding more and more like a fun person to hang around, remember NEVER to book accommodation in my head.)

And then it hits me that I don’t have to go back on Monday morning and like waking from a bad dream I jump up thrilled to be 45. Turns out there are advantages to being an old woman – you don’t have to go to school.

How was school for you? Good memories or bad?

*a South African reference maybe one person will understand

Things are not always what they seem

spending the day in bedI was quite excited yesterday when someone on Twitter disclosed a secret that I myself had held close to my heart. Michaela from Five Frogs On A Blog admitted “a friend and I used to joke about wishing for a temporary illness that would hospitalise us but otherwise leave us unharmed”.

Which mother (or other person) that is responsible for someone else 24 hours a day, seven days a week doesn’t wish for some respite? Sadly, given the chance of a freak holiday without any family members is not likely, I am guessing Michaela, her friend and I are not alone in wishing for some “hospital time.”

The truth is that when you are looking for this respite you don’t really want to be sick at all – you just want to lie in bed uninterrupted except maybe for people bringing you meals on trays and other people dropping magazines and lollies by your bed while you pretend to sleep so that you don’t have to make conversation. You forget when you get caught up in the “sick fantasy” that being sick is actually pretty shit.

Now I am nowhere near sick enough to be at the doctor let alone at the hospital but I am certainly sick enough to be complaining a lot and believing that I should be in bed surrounded by soft cushioning and crap day time TV.

But I am also sick enough to realise that it’s not at all fun being in bed because you are sick.

In your “sick fantasy” the bed is uber comfortable and the freshly washed linen is soft and welcoming. In real life you cannot get comfortable no matter how hard you try and the linen has sand in it from when the dog jumped straight on to the bed after his walk.

In your “sick fantasy” you will relax in the bed and drift in and out of a peaceful sleep. In real life you cannot relax or sleep because it feels like you are allergic to yourself and you have got a month of dust in your eyes, your throat is on fire, your bones are sore and your nose is a tap. Oh and our ears are blocked.
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In your “sick fantasy” there will be brilliant TV on all day that you will watch in between napping and magazine reading. In real life the TV is spectacularly bad and full of violent crime shows and infomercials where no one dies but you sometimes wish they did.

In your “sick fantasy” you will just love lying in bed. In real life you still feel sick when you lie in bed plus you can’t really lie down because as soon as you get horizontal you start to cough violently.

In your “sick fantasy” you will page through magazines finding articles of interest on every page. You will occasionally find an article that answers every question you have ever had about Pink and what Jennifer Aniston is really like at home. In real life you will realise that you hate magazines because they are full of fluff and lies.

In your “sick fantasy” your child will get home from school by magic and then do his homework by himself after checking that you are okay for tea and toast. In real life you will go to pick up your child from school in your daggiest tracksuit and the coolest mum will find you and insist on “catching up”. You will get home from school and your child will insist on sitting on your bed watching his choice of TV and taking all the duvet. He may also demand food.

Turns out you just can’t enjoy being sick. But you can certainly enjoy a fantasy.

Have you ever wished you were sick just so that you could spend a day in bed?

If your child is on social media you need to read this

Social media is not all badOne of the favourite memories from my teenage years was coming home at 16 years old to find that my mother had arranged to have my very own phone line installed INTO MY BEDROOM. I can picture my room and the hideous beige/yellow colour of the phone taking up half my desk. (seriously what was it with the colours they used for phones in the 1980’s?), I can feel the huge rush of excitement I felt at my new found freedom and independence and now, as a mother I can almost imagine how thrilled my mother was at my excitement.

Having my own landline was a BIG THING. It meant I could be on the phone for ages without my mother begging me to give her a chance to use the phone herself or worse, tell me to get off the phone because she was expecting a call. Remember there was a time where we had neither call waiting nor mobile phones.

Talking on the phone to my friends was just one of the ways I had of communicating with my peer group. Writing notes that we passed under the desk was the other and talking face to face. And that was it.

There was no Facebook or Twitter, Skype, Instagram, Kik, Snapchat or text. Very different from my child who is four years younger than I was when I got my very own landline.

But I remember that day when I got my phone and I remember that feeling of freedom at being allowed to connect with my friends. I know how important it is for my son to feel the same way. He just doesn’t use the phone to make calls. And he certainly doesn’t pass written notes. He thinks he’s way too cool for that – why write on paper when you can talk online?

Instead he’s all over social media like a rash, it’s second nature for him to be attached to his friends at the touch of a screen, it’s not a matter of whether he’s engaging but rather how he’s doing it.

This attachment to social media often gets a bad rap amongst parents and sometimes deservedly so. We’ve all read stories of internet stalkers and tales of pedophiles grooming children online are spread so fast they almost seem common place. Even though they aren’t.

But I can’t (and don’t) believe that the world is a bad place where people are trying to connect with 12-year-olds in order to seduce them. Or worse. Why stop him from talking with his friends instead of teaching him who he can and can’t talk to, who is safe, who is best left unanswered and who he should alert me to.

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We read horrific accounts of cyber bullying and point the finger at social media. But bullying happened before the internet. Remember school? The reach may be bigger now and the effects more widely reported. I am not undermining the hideous reality of trolls but I think it would be naïve to think that relentless, continued and persistent bullying didn’t take place before the internet when there was no “block and delete”.

I hear stories about popularity contests on Instagram and I am grateful that I have access to this same technology so I can talk to my son about it. I know that in the 1980’s at my primary school there were popularity contests too and just because they weren’t online doesn’t mean they weren’t just as damaging and cruel. We just didn’t tell our mothers and it certainly wasn’t reported in the media.

I’m going to stick up for 2013 here and the transparency of social media. If my son’s gone out with friends I’m more than likely about to see what they’re doing on Instagram, if he’s commenting on someone’s status it comes up on my Facebook feed. Every conversation he has is being more or less transcribed and I have access to every word of it should I need to talk to him through it.

He is only 12 and he knows that I have access to all his accounts and I am not naïve enough to think that this wont change as he gets older. But when he’s older it wont be appropriate for me to be tuning into his conversations and by then he’ll have learned how to handle himself online. He’ll know that the channel of communication with me is open and he wont to be naïve enough to think that if he puts something online it can’t be found.

It never happened with private phone calls and letters passed under the desk. I think back to my days as a teen and how little my parents knew about what I was going through… it makes me shudder. It makes me happy I am able to communicate with my own child in the same world he is communicating in.

I am not afraid of social media, I use it every day. So does my son. And I’m okay with that.

Are your kids on social media? Are you okay with it?

This baklava ice cream will make people fall in love with you

Due to popular demand (my sister has asked me twice) I am posting the recipe for the baklava ice cream loaf that I may have mentioned more than once in my Greek dinner post. Seriously it is so good you won’t even mind that I am boasting about it.

Here’s what you need

  • 8 sheets of phyllo pastry
  • some melted butter for brushing
  • about 150grams almonds
  • about 150grams pistachios (shelled of course)
  • 2tsps cinnamon
  • 2tsps castor sugar
  • 1 litre ice cream (I used Sara Lee French Vanilla)
  • juice of 1 lemon
  • 2/3 cup water
  • 2/3 cup sugar

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The instructions I am going to do in pictures – because, well because I can. Except for heating the oven, that I will tell you straight up so preheat the oven to 160′ centigrade

nuts for baklava ice cream

Mix the nuts with the sugar and the cinnamon in the food processor

crushed nuts

Process the nut mixture

phyllo pastry for baklava ice cream

Brush 2 sheets of the phyllo pastry with melted butter and place one on top of the other

spread the nuts

Spread 1/3 of the nut mixture over the phyllo

cover with the pastry

Repeat the same procedure twice so you end with a phyllo top

Cut diamond shapes into baklava

Cut the pastry in half vertically to make 2 large rectangles
Cut diamond pattern into the top of each rectangle

baklava ice cream

Bake each side until golden (about 30 minutes). Then cool
This will form the “bread” of your sandwich

Meanwhile mix 2/3 cup of sugar, 2/3 cup of water, juice of half a lemon until it gets syrupy.

Line the sides of a loaf tin with foil. This will make it easier to get out of the tin when you serve

ice cream on the top

Place one side of the pastry on the bottom of the loaf tin and pour over half the syrup
Spread the softened ice cream over the top of that
Pop the other side on the top, pour remaining syrup over it and stick it into the freezer

baklava ice cream 1

Take it out of the freezer about 20 minutes before you serve to soften the ice cream

baklava ice cream

It looks quite impressive

inside baklava

and it is bloody delicious

Recipe from Sharon Glass Absolutely Delicious

The real reason I sobbed during Offspring last night

Matt-LeNevez-plays-Patrick-ReidAnyone who has followed me on Twitter or Facebook or knows me in real life will know I’m a little obsessed with Offspring.  And I am not alone. Along with millions of Australians each week I have sat down and cried, laughed and cheered with the Proudman family. Sometimes I have wished I were part of the family, often I have given thanks that I am not part of the family and most times I try remind myself that they aren’t even a family – they are actors playing a very funny and dysfunctional family.

But they are brilliant actors saying the lines of supremely talented writers and they have made us feel part of their lives. They have made their characters real and relatable and flawed and funny and loved. They have made their story our story.

So I, along with thousands of other Australians last night, sobbed when Patrick died. I literally heaved. Howled even. With my 12-year-old son sobbing next to me in my bed as we lay watching in my bed with Twitter as our backdrop.

Obviously we were crying because the main character had lost her partner which is sad enough. Given that she was about to have a baby made it even sadder and the fact that he had lost his first baby and was not going to live to see his second baby just tipped me over the edge.  We cried with his sister and his partner who were left behind. We cried because of all the people his life had touched and how different their lives were going to be without him.  We cried because a character on TV had died and we sobbed because of the devastation it was going to cause all the other characters. And while clearly on the outside we were crying for Patrick Reid you don’t need to have a doctorate in psychology to know that it’s much more than that.

The reason you become involved so heavily in a TV show is surely because some of the characters resonate with you, you relate to what you are seeing and you can empathise with the situations played out.  When someone on TV dies you experience your own grief – not necessarily grief for the character.  I think Michael Lucas, writer of last night’s episode said it best on Twitter when he wrote (a day before the episode screened)

For me, when I watch a well-realised fictional death, all the unresolved grief from real deaths I’ve experienced comes out.

I’d say that is true for many of the tears last night.
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And sometimes you just cry because you feel sad, you empathise strongly with the character, you feel like a human watching another human suffer (albeit a fictional character) and you cry for their hurt. Crying is healthy part of dealing with emotion.  It’s okay to feel and acknowledge sadness, I have seen far greater damage done from repressing feelings than letting them show.

I’m not ashamed that I cried. I’m not embarrassed that I sobbed in front of my son over the death of a character on a TV show and I am proud of my son’s empathy that he cried too.

Did you watch last night? Did you cry?

and just to make you smile there’s this message from the Nyangan Police

nyngan