In winter, on the ovals around this city, galahs are like pink and grey mushrooms nestled in the even stretch of grass. They feed very conscientiously. You hardly ever notice their heads coming up. They are usually in big groups spread over tens of square metres. And then a dog is let off its leash or a toddler comes by and, dog or child, they can’t resist the joy of running through the grazing birds and watching the bow-wave as the birds take off, the harsh scrape of their objecting voices.
A hundred years ago
our world was that neat picture of manicured oval and conscientiously
bent heads, earnestly living. Now we have been interrupted by
something; we are all in flight, going different directions, not
knowing how the pattern will resettle.
That something was feminism. It was inevitable. Women needed more recognition. Women needed to show that they have…
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