Hey Dad by Leonie Jarrett, a cup of strong English breakfast tea

Hey Dad, I remember my first Christmas. Well, I don’t actually. The first Christmas that I remember, I don’t remember exactly how old I was. I think my childhood Christmas memories have jumbled together...I remember Mum always putting out a carrot and a cookie and a beer for Father Christmas before I went to bed. Is leaving out a beer an odd Australian thing Dad? A nod to the fact that Christmas in Australia is summer? Did you do it growing up in Ireland? I never asked you that.

 

I remember wanting to hurry to bed and hurry to sleep because Mum told us that Father Christmas would not stop at our house if we saw him. Nice one, Mum. Well played! I would be too scared to look at the sky just in case I caught a glimpse of Father Christmas, the sleigh or the reindeer. He wasn’t Santa when I was a child; always Father Christmas.

 

I remember big gatherings with my aunties, uncles and cousins on Mum’s side. Your side were all in England and Ireland. Did you miss Christmas with your family Dad? I never asked you that either.

 

I remember Christmas 1975. We spent it in Southport, England with your family. I was seven years old and I wanted to see snow. But no snow came. There was you, Mum, Lou and me. Paul wasn’t born until the next year. You had three sisters all living in Southport and all with children. Your brother, his wife and children (they had five of them) came over from Ireland with your Dad. Your Mum had died suddenly the year before. I think that was the idea of the trip – have your Dad and the family meet all of us including Mum. Overseas travel wasn’t “the norm” then. Not like now. It must have been a big deal for the four of us to go overseas.

 

I remember that, after Christmas that year, we went to Ireland and I went with you to lots of people’s houses to visit. They would play cards and drink and smoke. You never drank nor smoked but you loved playing cards. Ironically, cards - Bridge - kept you going in retirement. Gave you a purpose and a routine. Anyway, I am skipping ahead.

 

I remember certain, special Christmas presents...my first bike. The only bike I ever had actually. It was metallic dark blue – I guess you put it together; not the Elves! And the trampoline, still in the box unassembled and to be shared with Lou and Paul. In those days, trampolines were just rectangular things with no padding over the nasty springs. No one ever got hurt on our trampoline which was a miracle really.

 

I remember my first Christmas as a wife in 1992 (it meant I had a lot more to think about and more presents to buy) and my first Christmas as a mother in 1996 (Mark was born in early January so I had to wait almost a year for that occasion). I also remember every first Christmas with each of my four children. You were always there – part of every Christmas.

 

I remember for many years after you and Mum divorced that you wanted to spend Christmas Day with your new partner and her friends. You also wanted to see your grandchildren so you always wanted to come by for breakfast. It meant we had a rushed Christmas morning every year then lunch with my in-laws and dinner with Mum or the other way around (we alternated each year). Christmas became a test of endurance for me. I resented you for the rush and tried to tell you so many times but you were stubborn about it. I never could change your mind about anything Dad. You were black and white. No grey. Decision made, decision done. I’m not like that.

 

Why all these memories? All this reminiscing? It’s because of the last few months with you Dad. When you were sick and then we realised you were dying. The long days in the hospital keeping you company as the cancer ate away at you and you shrivelled in front of me.

 

This year is my first Christmas without you Dad. I knew it was coming. Knew it a year ago when you were diagnosed. Just didn’t know when exactly.

 

Parents should die before their children. That’s the right order. And you were 83. Not young. But the finality has rocked me. More than it did when my father-in-law died and that’s not because I didn’t love him. I did. He was a beautiful man and I miss him to this day, thirteen years on.

 

I think you going Dad has rocked me because you were always there. From the beginning. So many childhood and adult memories are weaved with memories of you and now you’re gone. And if I have a memory which leads to a question, I can’t ask you any more. All I can do is have these conversations with you in my head.

 

Anyway, I remember Dad. All those Christmases. Lots of things actually. Over my whole life.

 

Hey Dad, I miss you.

About the author 

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.) 

 

My Odyssey by Leonie Jarrett, a G & T

“How do I get on that?”

“Don’t worry, be happy,” says the guide. “Just relax, keep your arms straight and lean back.”

I am petrified. My palms are sweating so much that I fear they will slip off the metal handrail. The camel underneath me lurches. I am halfway up and hanging on for dear life. The camel lurches again and he is upright. Somehow, I manage to hang on. I exhale. I made it. Now I just have to stay on.

The guide is at the front and a dozen camels follow, linked together with ropes. One by one, each camel rises with each rider either exhilarated or terrified. There seems no in between. Once we’re all aboard, our camel train sets off for our ride amongst the Pyramids of Giza.

I have wanted to come to Cairo and the Pyramids for so long. For as long as I can remember I have been fascinated with Ancient Egypt. Now I am here. Terrified. But here.

As far as my eyes can see, there are hues of gold - the Pyramids and the sand. Fine, fine sand that is whipping me in the face. Luckily, I bought a scarf yesterday. There seemed every colour of the rainbow to choose from but I chose my Mum’s favourite colour - orange. As the vendor told me, it was a perfect match for the intense, burning sun. The guide had tied the scarf around my head and across my face so, in combination with my sunglasses, I am largely protected from the flying, biting sand.

The camel gently takes me on a scenic ride. It feels much like being on a horse and I start to relax into the undulating movement. I am awed at the Pyramids. I mull over so many questions. “How were the Pyramids built so long ago? How were they so perfectly shaped without computers? How many people died or were injured whilst building them?”

My mind wanders as to how I managed to be in Egypt at all. Overseas travel wasn’t on my radar whilst I was raising two kids on my own. For so many years, my life was work, look after the kids, pay bills, tidy the house, wash, grocery shop, cook, taxi the kids around. Repeat. Any spare money was put aside for emergencies. I don’t regret it. The kids are the best part of me but overseas travel? Bahaha. That was not an option.

My Mum knew I dreamt of travelling. Particularly of visiting the Pyramids. When she got sick last year, she told me that I was to use her inheritance to see, “Those Pyramids of (mine).” So I did.

Tears roll down my face at the memory. At hearing her voice in my head.

“Thank you Mum,” I say out loud. “Those Pyramids are better than I ever dreamt they would be.”

 About the author 

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie loves to tell stories. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Living by Leonie Jarrett, ice cold beer

 I wriggle a bit and lift my sweaty legs off the coarse, cotton deckchair. To think I used to just spread a towel on the grainy sand, lather myself with coconut oil and lie there all day! Now, I can’t seem to stay comfortable even reclining in my bougie deck chair.

The whistle of the lifeguards keeps waking me up. I can’t seem to stay awake though. It’s probably the medication I’m on. And the sun.

I try and focus so that I don’t drift off again. The kids next to me are making sandcastles with square buckets so the castles look more like stepped pyramids. It makes me remember visiting Egypt. I can smell the camels that gave us tourists rides in the searing heat. I can smell the sweat too as we toured the unair-conditioned Egyptian Museum. I read recently that they just opened a new Museum in Cairo – many years late and way over budget. I assume they installed air-conditioning in that one. I can hear the Cairo car horns too. Traffic going every which way. Manic.

Mindfulness, Cam. I chide myself. I am supposed to be manifesting tranquillity. I am at the beach for goodness sake yet I am dreaming about chaotic Cairo!

‘How are you feeling Cam?’ My wife, Julie, plants a kiss on my cheek. Her lips are sandy and I have to resist the urge to wipe the scratchy sand residue off my cheek. Julie is wearing her new, constant, concerned look.

‘All good Jules. All good. Stop your worrying. It’s a bad habit. I’m not going to die on you today. Stop fussing over me. I’m going to take a dip.’

Poor Jules. She looks a bit wounded now. I was just trying to lighten the mood.

I’ve taken to talking to myself since my diagnosis. A lot. Sometimes out loud but usually just silently in my head.  I think it’s my way of conversing with someone who won’t panic every time I open my mouth.

Ooh, that water is refreshing as it hits my feet and shins.

I wade in deeper and let the gentle waves wash over me.

They’re always worrying about me nowadays. Jules. The kids.

The doctors have said there is no hope. No magic wand. Just a matter of time and something they call ‘comfort medication.’ I wonder if it would be better all round if I hastened things along? I could just let the water carry me away.

I surrender to the waves and I feel myself slipping away.

Get a grip Cam. Do you want to die here and spoil the beach forever for Jules and the kids and the grandkids? Man up!

About the author   

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

My “Christmas To Do” List by Leonie Jarrett, a stiff whisky

I give up on the idea of sleep and sit up straighter in bed. I open the “Christmas To Do” Note on my phone and start scrolling.

1.      Wrap puzzle for Billy.

2.      Wrap LEGO for Olly.

3.      Grab MECCA voucher for Lucy. I can strike that one off. I’ve done that one.

4.      Buy flowers for the table.

Robbie turns over and half opens his eyes, “What time is it?”

“6.30,” I say.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Robbie murmurs groggily. “Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t. I’ve got too much to do.”

“Don’t stress so much Jess. It’s Christmas.”

“I know it’s Christmas Robbie. That’s why I’ve got so much to do.”

“Arghh, I need more sleep. My head hurts after last night’s work drinks.”

Robbie turns over and starts snoring almost instantly. It’s a talent to sleep so easily. I don’t have it.

Anyway, back to my list:

5.      Peel potatoes and carrots and pop in water.

6.      Top and tail beans.

7.      Glaze ham.

8.      Check that enough wine, beer and champagne are in the fridge.

9.      Make pavlova.

10.  Check that have cream and berries to decorate pavlova.

I lean my head briefly against the upholstered bedhead. My head hurts too but not from alcohol; from lack of sleep and a hectic, frenzied brain. I can’t sleep off my sore head. Too much to do.

There is a blood-curdling scream from the kitchen.

Springing out of bed and rushing to the kitchen, I see Billy with his hand cupped over his bloodied mouth.

“Hi Mummy,” says Olly brightly with his mouth full of gingerbread. “Billy climbed up on the stool to get some gingerbread and fell off. He’s lost a tooth but don’t worry it was the front, wiggly one.”

“Open your mouth. Billy,” I sigh. “Why are you two up so early and why are you eating the gingerbread? They are for tomorrow. I only left them on the bench because it was so late last night when I finished making them.”

“I only had one Mummy,” munched Olly. “It’s yum!”

“Back to bed boys. You look fine Billy. You might be lucky and have a visit from Father Christmas and the Tooth Fairy tonight.”

I tuck my boys back into bed, terribly cute in their matching Christmas PJs.

Giving up on the idea of going back to bed myself, I make a cup of tea and sit down wearily at the kitchen table.

I quickly type a new Note on my phone - SET TOOTH FAIRY ALARM. $2 COIN UNDER BILLY’S PILLOW.

I hesitate for a moment and then I add, FIND A $2 COIN.

OK, now, back to the Christmas list:

11.  Set the table. Red and orange striped bonbons are in the hall cupboard.

12.  Nag Robbie to mow the lawn.

NB. Jess, be mindful. The boys won’t be this little again. BREATHE. ENJOY.

About the author  

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Christmas Stocking Surprise by Leonie Jarrett, a cup of eggnog

It was Christmas 2020 – the year that the COVID-19 pandemic wreaked havoc on our world. We had had draconian lockdowns in Melbourne, Australia but the lockdown was lifted in time for Christmas. A Christmas gift for the good, compliant behaviour of us Melburnians.

 

I called my 80-year-old father. “Dad, thinking ahead about Christmas, we’d like you to take a COVID rapid test before you come for Christmas lunch.”

 

“No. Not doing that,” he retorted.

 

“What do you mean you’re not doing that?”

 

“I don’t have COVID. Not taking a test.”

 

“But Dad, we’re doing it to protect you and the other grandparents. You all have underlying health issues. And Christmas is not for another two weeks so you don’t know whether you’ll have COVID then.”

 

“Not doing it. Probably won’t come. You’re being over the top as always.”

 

Dad hung up but he came on Christmas Day for lunch.

 

I am quite sure he did not take a COVID test.

 

I called my Mum.

 

“Mum.” (I should mention that my parents are divorced). “We’d like you to take a rapid test before you come for Christmas lunch.”

 

“Oh…ok.” Mum sent me a photo of her negative COVID test on Christmas morning. When she arrived for Christmas lunch, she waved her negative COVID test at my front door. Like it was show and tell.

 

“Sally,” I said to my sister. “We’d like you to take a rapid test before you come for Christmas lunch.”

 

“Not doing that. That’s stupid.”

 

“Sal, you work in a medical clinic. You’re surrounded by random, sick people all the time.”

 

“Not doing it.”

 

Sally didn’t come on Christmas Day.

 

We all sat around the Christmas tree to exchange presents. My Dad presented me with a Christmas stocking. My Dad hadn’t given me a Christmas stocking for many years. I was over 50 after all!

 

I reached into the stocking and felt a box. Excitement building, I pulled the box out of the stocking.

 

It was a box of COVID-19 rapid tests.

 

I turned to Dad, confused.

 

Without a hint of irony, he said matter-of-factly, “Well, you’re mad on those things so I bought you a pack.”

 

About the author

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than 3 decades, 2 of her 4 adult children and her 2 Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Arena by Leonie Jarrett, a glass of chilled Prosecco

‘Here, over here Millie. Millie. MILLIE!’

I can hear my husband but I can’t see him. He is shouting. Ah, there he is. He is standing up and waving furiously to me, showing me where our seats are.

Tonight is a bucket list evening for us – we are holidaying in Europe and in Verona to see an opera at The Arena di Verona. Neither of us know much about opera but we wanted to see a show in this magnificent, Roman amphitheatre and the dates aligned! Serendipity!

Even better, the opera is ‘Turandot.’ Mean nothing? It didn’t mean anything to us either until we realised that the famous song – ‘Aria’ in Opera language – ‘Nessun Dorma’ is in ‘Turandot.’ Double down on the serendipity!

Sitting for hours in a Roman arena on hard, stone benches without backrests is rather uncomfortable but we paid EUR3 each for a prettily-decorated piece of foam to cushion our tushies. We are too excited to be too uncomfortable anyway.

The space between the rows of benches is narrow so we shrink when someone wants to pass us to grab a drink or take a toilet break. Luckily, the patrons mostly stay put once the opera begins.

Each opera is only performed a few times during the season so there are camera crews recording the performance and the crowd. I wonder if we will be on TV?

It is a balmy, Summer’s night. The crowd and the palpable excitement builds.

We are in the cheap seats on the sides of the Arena but those in the more expensive seats on the ground (actual, padded seats with backrests) are dressed to the nines. Men wearing smart tuxedos and women showcasing floor-length evening gowns and stilettos. I silently wonder how the women walked here in heels given the smooth, shiny stone paths and uneven cobblestones surrounding the Arena.

Finally, as darkness falls at 9.30pm, the performance starts. Rows and rows of performers flood the stage, voices soar and sets magically move. We sit, enraptured and entranced.

The opera is punctuated by thunderous applause as singer after singer gives the performance of their life.

We hear the magnificent ‘Nessun Dorma’ and the tenor takes several bows, beaming with delight. Performing here in this ancient amphitheatre must be thrilling!

We don’t want the opera to end but it is nearly midnight. We are weary after a day of sightseeing in the heat and hours of sitting on stone benches.

The entire cast (hundreds of performers) gathers on the stage for the last song. The sound of their combined voices grows louder and louder. If the Arena had a roof, I feel like the crescendo would blow the roof off!

We clap and clap and clap. Many rise to offer a standing ovation. (We are secretly glad to stand so as to ease our stiff bones!)

‘Bravo!’ proclaims the 15,000 strong audience. ‘Bravo!’

About the author

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Alice by Leonie Jarrett, afternoon tea

When she was eight, Alice Henderson briefly held the world record for filling her mouth with marbles.

Alice is Bob Morton’s brother’s great-granddaughter. That’s a mouthful isn’t it? Anyway, Bob treats Alice like his own great-granddaughter. Alice calls Bob, “Uncle Bob.” So do her parents and grandparents.

Alice is thirteen now. She is in Year 7 and her high school is near where Bob lives so she comes over for afternoon tea every Wednesday. Bob and Alice chat about this and that. Well, they did until recently anyway when Alice decided that she didn’t want to go to school any more.

As a younger child, Alice was a joker, full of joy. And it’s true about the world record. Her parents organised the people from the Guinness World Book of Records to make it official.

Alice always seemed to have lots of friends. She was good at school and good at netball. Not especially good – at school nor at netball – but good enough.

Something changed this year when she started high school. Her parents had heard about lots of nastiness at the expensive girls’ high school nearby so they had sent her to the local Catholic secondary school. Well, there was nastiness there too as it wasn’t long before Alice started making excuses about going to school. Mystery stomach aches seemed to pop up most days.

Alice’s parents, Sophie and Dave, couldn’t work out what was wrong but they knew something was wrong as Alice changed from joyful to sad; smiling and laughing to sullen and withdrawn. They were worried sick.

Sophie and Dave met with the school but the school didn’t have any answers. They didn’t know Alice “before” after all.

Alice remained silent so Sophie took her to the doctor. From there, Alice started to see a psychologist and, little by little, she started to open up to her parents. No surprises but the source of the unhappiness was “the mean girls” at the new school.

As Sophie explained, you used to be able to go home and get a breather from school and friendships and general teenage friendship dramas. Now, the mean girls followed you home. Even into your bedroom. The mean girls contacted you relentlessly on your mobile phone, your iPad and your computer. There was no getting away from them.

The “mean girls” had done nasty things like call Alice names and they had isolated her from some catch ups on the weekend and from some parties.

Apparently, one of the “get to know you” activities at Camp in the first week of the school year had been to tell the other girls something that no one knew about you. Alice told the group about her Guinness World Record for filling her mouth with marbles. Bad idea it turns out as the meanies then called her silly names like “Big Mouth” and “Marbles.”

Sophie and her Mum, Penny, had come to see Bob recently and, of course, they were talking and worrying about Alice.

Bob said to them, shaking his head, “I still don’t understand why Alice is so upset. It all just sounds like silliness to me. Nothing that dreadful.”

“All you want to do at that age is fit in Uncle Bob. You don’t want to be different. And you want to be included,” Sophie replied.

“Well, Sophie darling, I am an old man. Alice is a young girl. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if I don’t think the mean girls are really that mean. What matters is what Alice thinks.”

“That’s right Uncle Bob,” said Penny. “Alice is a thirtee year old trying to find her place in a new school and find a new group of friends so all this was dreadful to her. And, of course, it was all amplified by the 24/7 social media kids nowadays have to live with.

Alice has been internalizing everything. Stewing on it and suffering in silence. It was awful. Heart breaking for Dave and I. She just wouldn’t talk to us. Now that she’s seeing the psychologist and sharing what she’s feeling with us, we can get something sorted. ‘Put strategies in place’ is how the psychologist puts it.”

Whatever they were doing, it was working. The “old” Alice had started to return. She had even come over last Wednesday for afternoon tea with her Uncle Bob.

About the author 

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband of more than three decades, her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers.

Leonie has variously been a lawyer and a business owner.

Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. She hopes that the reader likes floating in her rivers.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Floating by Leonie Jarrett, a celebratory champagne

I close my eyes in the darkness, garnering courage. Opening my eyes, I realise that we have left the ground. As if in slow motion, we are slowly ascending.

There is silence but for the bursts of propane gas and the clicking of cameras.

Terrified of heights, I am nervous to look down but the gentleness of our ascent tempts me. The ground moves further and further away. I count more than fifty hot air balloons but there are plenty more still on the ground, waiting to join us in the air.

The inky blackness is lightening minute by minute as the warm, golden rays of the sun start to fill the sky.

We float over the town of Göreme, still sleeping but for the holidayers who have woken pre-Dawn to watch the balloon show overhead.

We float over fairy chimneys and former cave houses.

We float.

There is still silence but for the bursts of propane gas and the click of smartphones and cameras.

Silence is probably not the right term – silent awe is better I think.

Silent awe at the skill of the hot air balloon pilots. I lose count now at over one hundred balloons in the air together. We are flying so closely together that only pilot skill is keeping us all safe.

Silent awe at the serenity of floating so smoothly. There is no turbulence; no jolting; just floating.

Silent awe at the beauty of what lies beneath us but also at what lies around us. Hot air balloons form a patchwork of all different colours and patterns, all flying at differing heights. A kaleidoscope of colour set against the changing hues of the sky as a new day begins.

My trepidation vanished in the first few moments of flight. I imprint in my memory this scene of vibrant colour and this feeling of tranquil floating.

This is what travel and, indeed, life is about – those moments that remain with us forever.

About the author

 

 

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Summer Nights – A collection of very short stories by Leonie Jarrett, a glass of Prosecco

A Summer’s Night at the Airport

 

It was meant to be easy. Just a short flight to a hot, summer holiday. But the plane has been delayed.

 

What should have been our first holiday summer night is a long, boring wait at the airport where the lighting is too harsh and the air-conditioning is too cold.

­­­­­­­­­­­­

Long, languorous nights

 

When I was a parent of young children, I longed for darkness to fall in summer so that my children would sleep.

 

Now that I am a parent of adult children, I long for the summer nights where we all gather as a family over a barbeque to chat and laugh.

 

 

Puglia al fresco

 

All of us gathered around the table brimming with delights that we purchased daily from the market.

 

All of us bronzed with the Italian sun and lit with the happiness of family and food.

 

All of us laughing at each other’s stories.

 

All of us truly living “la dolce vita.”

 

Gallipoli

 

One hundred and nine years later, I came and visited where you rest. The heat was searing.

 

What were you thinking as you endured those summer nights until you were finally sent over that ridge?

 

Was your last thought of your Mum or your darling?

 

A Night at the Opera

 

Patrons wearing dinner suits and ballgowns file into the Roman Arena built two thousand years ago. They sit in their finery on ancient, stone benches, gathering to hear a Puccini opera one hundred years after his death.

 

The arias soar under the stars on a balmy night. Twenty-two thousand people are spellbound.

 

Bravo!

About the author  

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than 3 decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)