My kilt arrived from Cornwall exactly one day after Anzac Day and three days after the second anniversary of mum's passing.
Before you go all Celtic on me - I know Cornwall isn't a place you might necessarily associate with a kilt.
But this is no ordinary kilt - this is the kilt I ordered online late the night we learned that the Duke of Edinburgh had died.
It's my commemorative kilt.
My last kilt was a bright red and green beastie that mum painstakingly made with rows of tight pleats, shoulder straps and a wee kilt pin to maintain my 10-year-old dignity. She had enough fabric to spare to make tartan pants for my fluffy wee bunny, Buddy, and still more to make a tartan bag for my school recorder.
My Cornwall kilt is grey flannel, with two leather straps and a somewhat larger kilt pin to maintain my 63-year-old wandering thighs. It is not tartan.
And while Monday's arrival of the Cornish kilt brought joy, the Anzac Day 'mourn' of the Caledonian pipes caused tears to fall.
My father, ex-RAN, is long gone - since 1988. I only know that he joined the Navy to escape his inner London poverty.
Mum was also a war child. Merchant Navy.
As mum aged her affection for all things Navy grew. Those must have been her best of times.
When my dad died, it was through the Naval Association that she found her second love, Eric - "a wee Scottish sailor''.
On Anzac Day I cried. A lot.
The banter of those Navy, Army and Airforce veterans, assembled and waiting to march on Anzac Day, is poetry to the likes of me.
The way veterans reach out to each other. The way they shake hands and laugh. The way they talk - easy talk. Laconic talk. Australian veteran talk; falling leaves, sunshine and kinship.
Anzac Day brings my parents back - front of thought and heart.
It reminds me of my Navy childhood. It satisfies the part of my soul that is yearning to reconnect with my mum and dad.
For those Anzac moments they are alive; standing silently beside me, loving the pipe bands and waiting for the bravest of them all to march past.
It's a place where I don't need or want to say anything. It's just me, mum and dad, our Navy history and my strange affection for kilts and bagpipes.
Anzac Day two years ago, I was back in my hometown arranging mum's funeral.
Nowra was awash with Navy and those sailors, their uniforms, their banter and their ease, like last week, soothed me.
Anzac Day brings my parents back ...
Greens: The party that inspired us to move to Tasmania 30 years ago. The party that seems to have lost its soul. Any younglings seem overpowered by those I've come to call a party of angry old ladies. I am a proud, angry old lady. The Greens should be a powerhouse. To me they've become a group of control freaks who've missed their moment. Renewal folks. Renewal.
The Libs: Congratulations Peter. Good job. But why did you, our right-handed Premier, choose to have your COVID jab in your right arm? Was it just to show your sexy panther tatt ... to bring home a few (more) undecided Labor voters?
Labor. Labor. Labor. It's Time ... go vegan ... stop eating each other ... at least in public. You guys know it's true. Your worst enemy is not the opposition, it's each other. Always has been.
Then, I saw them.
On Invermay Road.
Younglings by two. Camouflaged Land Rover, surfboards strapped to the roof, older, dusty caravan, he and she, rugged up with their NSW number plates ... living the dream.
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