The meeting was every bit as awful as I expected it to be, but there was no nay saying my friend Glenda.

“The speaker is supposed to be absolutely fabulous. You’re coming”

It was held somewhere in the city. If I remember correctly a small room in an older building in Russell Street. Don’t expect me to remember either the name of the talk or of the speaker. All I remember is that it was as turgid and as banal as I expected it to be. It was a talk about women’s oppression in a patriarchal society.

We’re talking the early 1970s.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a great deal of respect for women, (and men) who have fought the good fight. In that I include my mother and grandmother. Both lived  their own life unencumbered by current social mores; both adhered strictly to universal moral ones. But that’s another story.

Back to the meeting. There were very few women present. All listened respectfully to the speaker, and asked loaded questions to which everyone knew the answer. The mingling and coffee which followed was not dissimilar to a Mississippi religious gathering. It oozed the certainty that one belonged to the virtuous circle.

““Aren’t you glad you came?” Glenda asked me, but before I could answer she joined the group of acolytes surrounding the speaker.

I looked around the room.  The speaker had covered the walls with photos of modern icons such as Germaine Greer and photos of recent demonstrations.   Some were enlarged, some were presented as a collage. Amongst them was the famous photo of Emmeline Pankhurst being literally carried away by a policeman. There were suited men beside her and more behind. 

Two women were discussing the photo.

“Poor woman. She looks terrified, doesn’t she?” 

“She was probably terrified of her husband, and of ‘what people would say’.”
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The conversation continued in this vein. Their photo was that of a meek and mild woman,who being undoubtedly under the thumb of her husband and of public opinion, regretted her action. They were both indescribably patronising.

Irritated beyond belief, I walked away. How could someone call themselves a feminist, but be completely ignorant, and arrogant, about feminist trailblazers.

Today I would probably (uninvited) join the conversation and point out who the portrait represented. I would do it for the joy of sharing knowledge, not to show off. Far from being bunk, history gives us a third dimension. Or as one of my customers once put it “Knowledge is not a heavy burden”

This for me is one of the horrors of the 21st century. All knowledge must be monetized, art for art’s sake is an indulgence we can’t afford, so too serendipitous research.

My response to this argument is: who remembers Da Vinci’s accountant?


Delfina Manor
May 2024
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​'You've travelled through time and encounter a younger version of yourself.  What life lesson (or lessons) would you share?'

I had a great life full of variety, experiences and, above all, change. So, it’s difficult to say what advice I would offer my younger self. Perhaps I would suggest that I stop being reserved, shy, quiet and self-doubting and go for it... "Whatever your goal or dream, go for it. Don’t conform to the stereotype that society maps out for you, make a change, make a difference. Be yourself."

In my early years women were still restricted as to career options, finance, and so on. . We couldn’t get a loan for a house without a male guarantor. Jobs for women were usually clerical, sales catering etc. On marrying, we were expected to give up our jobs to raise the children and care for our husbands.

My mother was an apprentice dressmaker, her father was a tailor. She gave up her career to marry Dad, but ended up in a munitions factory during WW2. After the war she stayed home and cared for him, and eventually me. My Aunt was a bit of a rebel and chose a career over marriage and children. We often talked long and hard about my dreams hopes and ambitions and she tried hard to encourage me to try. Sadly, I gave in to pressures of society and missed a lot of opportunities. So, if I were to meet my younger self I would say, listen to your aunt.

She loved photography, taking lots of shots of nature. She was also an accomplished artist and we often sat by a river, or in the gardens where she painted whatever was in front of her. I sat watching in awe of her talent, I idolised her. I confessed to her that I wanted to be an author and artist, travelling the world. I even dreamed of travelling on a canal boat as some of her friends did. Sailing up and down rivers and mooring wherever or whenever the mood took me. I even thought of being a vet or horse breeder, perhaps owning a property where I could let out cabins to artists. My aunt and I laughed over dreams of us co owning the property, much to my parents’ horror.

Had we stayed in Wales, who knows, I may have tried to achieve some of these dreams with my aunt’s encouragement. However, with a new baby and toddler (my sisters) and Dad being a broken man after some awful experiences in the war, things were tough in the UK, so our family came to Australia.

I was engrossed in exploring the new surroundings and ended up, predictably, working in a shop, then becoming a vet nurse. I did start to travel a bit to explore my new home and when finances permitted, I returned to the UK to visit relatives. Under my aunt's influence I did investigate alternate careers so on my return home I sought, and achieved my RAAF career, then my OHS career.

No major regrets, so little advice to offer other than, whatever your goal or dream,

"GO FOR IT!".


Heather Hartland
May 2024