Susan Keating

I was born in 1941 into a very loving, supportive family, and still have a wonderfully warm relationship with my sister and brother. My schooling began at Cammeray Public and then came Fort Street. Ah, Fort Street. Nurturer of childhood dreams. The only educational institution I truly enjoyed. For those two, glorious years the thought of wagging never entered my head.

Then North Sydney Girls High. Amo amas amat, der den des dem, QED, n’est-ce pas? Some of those lessons still serve me well. I can immobilise a roomful of guests at a party as they listen, mouths agape, to my stirring vocal rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth in ringing German. For an encore, I may well spout, in heart-rending Latin, Virgil’s poem about a girl’s dead sparrow.

After five years, mastery of this arcane knowledge transported me to Sydney Uni, where I studied for a couple of years before leaving to hone my natural abilities playing gin-rummy, drinking brandy and riding a motor bike. However, thoughtlessly and with no consideration for my mental well being, I suddenly found I had swapped this splendid life of sloth and indolence (two of my favourite words) for one of gainful employment. A variety of companies and jobs followed, ranging from something or other to do with punch card sales inventory to running telephone switchboards. This latter line of work highlighted another of my many huge talents, a keen memory for phone numbers. In case you have carelessly forgotten, Sarah’s number in 1952 was XM2045. Hah!

In my early thirties I married Graham McKechnie, lateral thinker, maven (I came across this word in an article the other day and have just been waiting for an opportunity to use it) of restaurant dining, a man with a splendid sense of humour. Starting our life together in Northbridge, we gradually moved north through Chatswood and then Mount Colah where maturity eventually set in on my 50th birthday and shortly thereafter I became an orphan.

We had our own business for many years involving abrasive blasting and industrial painting, but managed to discard it in our dotage and retire blissfully to 43 acres at Boree. Boree, an hour and a half northwest of Hornsby, a small freehold valley in the middle of Yengo National Park near Wollombi, an hour southwest of Cessnock. See, now you know exactly where I reside in primitive splendour – reached after half an hour of rough dirt track, dependent on tank water, gas bottles, solar panels, a generator and a composting loo.

It is amazing the kinds of people who manage to escape the city. There are five other full time resident hermits in our valley, and except for a nurse, all retirees: a QC; a GM of Hoover Australia, a choreographer for the Sydney Opera, and an ABC TV interviewer who also ran the religious programme. A wonderfully volatile mix, so with a huge variety of weekenders, we have a full and stimulating social life. Apart from doing our once a month volunteer stint manning the Wollombi Historical Museum, we spend our time ranting about David Hicks. We also write, cook curries, and tend our animals – we have 2 donkeys, a herd of alpacas, 2 dogs, a guinea fowl and 4 chooks. The local natives are always visiting too, including lyre birds, wombats, wolves, wallabies, and wonga pigeons. OK, yes, so I made up the wolves. And I haven’t mentioned the drought.

Now I’m 65 and there still remain many things to accomplish during the next 60 years. For example I intend to travel in space, to live for some time with elephants, to become an animal behaviourist and to start a religious cult. Until then I will continue to enjoy white wine, conspiracy theories, the company of dogs and political incorrectness.

Any way you look at it folks, life is grand.

Back to Menu