I didn’t expect to enjoy myself when a photographer was assigned to get a photo of me for my recent article in The Sunday Age. I have the usual human/writerly paranoias about such things. But then I hadn’t met Meredith O’Shea. She turned up at my house at the end of a 40 degree day – yep, I struggled to disentangle myself from two sweaty children, put on some make up, get dressed in any presentable way and de-frizz the hair in preparation – and we spent the next couple of hours chasing the light around the mountain on which I live. Meredith was determined to get me in the gold glow of the setting sun. We found it just as we were starting to think it might have been too late. Meredith swerved down someone’s driveway, jumped out and told the unsuspecting homeowners enjoying a drink on their terrace exactly what was needed. Within seconds, I was crouched in the forest at the base of their property.
By the end of the session, Meredith had me dancing around my local park. And I didn’t mind a bit.