Bree Farrell 1972 - 2017

Bree came to the ad agency where I worked in the mid 90s, to work on reception. She was so sparky and intelligent and full of ideas that she didn't stay on the front desk very long. She got on well with everyone, she was easy to talk to and muck around with, and we became good friends.

She moved to Sydney after a few years and was doing great things there in the advertising/public relations world. Then she had her first cancer diagnosis, non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. She moved back to Hobart to stay with her step-mother Connie, and underwent radiation treatment.

Bree's mother had died of cancer when she was still quite young, and she always knew that it was something that might be waiting for her and her siblings too. Treatment seemed endless, and was painful, tiring and boring. I visited her once or twice to just talk and read to her - she thought my choice of reading material (I had just discovered Saki) was terrible.

The awful treatment worked. She got better. She had new wavy slightly crinkly hair. She moved back to Sydney and we kept in touch. She mentioned she was going to travel in India for a couple of months with her friend PJ who was coming from London. I thought about that for a few days then asked her if could come along, and she very generously said yes.

And it was an amazing experience. PJ and Bree were great friends who had missed each other a lot so I sort of paddled along in their wake and did my own thing quite often.

After the trip Bree stayed in Sydney and again we kept loosely in touch. About 10 years ago she was back living in Hobart with a new husband Geoff, and a baby on the way, Hayley. I met Hayley, and couple of years later bumped into them with another new baby, Jessie.

Our neighbour Sharyn sometimes gave us news via her sister Jenny, one of Bree's best friends. I was really shocked to hear from Sharyn that Bree's cancer had returned, and she had died on Tuesday night. Jenny had helped look after her.

She was a terrific person who brought joy and fun to a lot of people and I am very glad to have known her well for that time in our lives. Peace to you Bree.

Bree’s workmates in Sydney made her take some plush kittens under glass; some kind of office tradition. She had to take photos of it everywhere. I took my Tigers sponge bag for the same reason; it was much less cumbersome.

This is at the Taj Mahal. These ladies surrounded Bree and asked her
to be in their photographs. Note, Bree is not particularly tall.

Some lads who were roped in to hold the trophies, with Bree and PJ.

We had a rickshaw race back to the hotel from the Taj.

Train journeys 1 - India

I have just watched The Darjeeling Limited with Elf. We both loved it - I will write a little review later. It is set on a train in India, and for now it has got me thinking about Great Train Journeys Of My Life. Starting with;

Jodhpur to Delhi to Shimla, India, 1998. I invited myself along on a trip to India my friend Bree had planned. She was meeting up in Delhi with an old friend named PJ who was flying from London. It was a strange idea of mine, really, and I don't think it worked all that well, but I did love India. This is from my journal, 29-30 Sept, 1998

[Written in Delhi, 29 Sept] At the Jaisalmer bus station Bree did a song and dance act, which attracted dozens of onlookers. One Indian asked our names. PJ said she was Doris, he introduced himself as Maurice, so I was Horace. Very dry wit, he said he murders tourists. We asked how - "On camel, I stab them, they fall on the sand".

Clownish bus company flunkies stood around sucking popsicles, as useless as each other. Nasty overcrowded 5 hour bus trip to Jodhpur, then into a restaurant, then onto our first train.

Our names were pinned up by the door of the carriage. Everyone quiet, reserved, middle class Indians, no shouting. 8 berths; PJ, quiet young woman, QYW's mum, Bree, me, QYM's little dad, mum and dad of baby with huge head. Baby had bulging eyes, didn't cry at night though. Sad little scene. Mum smiled at us faintly. We offered them seats. The top berths were permanently out - seat backs swung up into middle berths. Three fans to negotiate up top. Middle (me) cramped and hard to manoeuvre. Slept with legs flopped on top of pack. Slept reeeeeeasonably well. The "outside" berths are shorter and narrower. A rude young sporty-dressed man ordered little dad out of his way. Bad snotty macho wanker Magnum PI-moustached type of Indian. Need slapping.

Got in very early, feeling so sticky after 21 hours of travelling. Sunrise as we struggled along the platform. Took forever to find the tourist ticket office. A fat sikh kindly pointed us to a government tourist office, saying "see, green sign, like this one". Across road, up some stairs and not in the station. Icy air con. A man there told us there was no train to Shimla for 3 days, and as there is nothing to see in Delhi, why don't we take a bus instead? He would sell us bus tickets for US$30 each. It was a scam. As we left in disgust we passed the fat sikh sitting downstairs taking a break between swindles. Writing this in Ajay Hotel, Delhi. Shitty room. Basically clean, but walls totally pocked and scrawled, small. Dark. Feeling better though.

Enough fans for ya?

[Written in Shimla, 1 Oct.] Left Delhi at 5.30am yesterday, walked to station OK, onto train OK, seats OK. Opposite us were a nice family from Delhi going to Chandigarh. Chatted pleasantly, Bree played join-dots game with kids. He's an engineer, "integrated resource planning" he said. Blind peddlers came through, girl clacking stones to guide them - gave her 2 rupees.

After one stop train filled with commuters, who soon filed out again. From Chandi - Kalka quite empty. Hurried across Kalka station - toy train 2nd class totally full. Bree tried to get 1st class upgrade but no good (numbered seats). Very late leaving, squeezed on in 2nd, more people squeezing on in turn. Occasionally someone's 1st class ticket would come through, and they'd hurry off. Winding up through first hills, factories and factories, everyone looks at the train, kids wave. Circus-tent type things in quite a few places. Noticeably cooler. Couldn't see much standing up. Some people riding on the water tender; emptied out a bit, even when two soldiers piled huge bedrolls on and clambered in after them.

The soldiers, the open door, the foothills of the Himalayas

Settled into comfortable rhythym, girls chatting to a family near them. Beautiful views now, doors open, windows open, all hanging out. Went to ride on the tender for a stop. Very crowded out there now, everyone roaring when in a tunnel. Several long waits for train in opposite direction to come through.

Rumour that we wouldn't get in till 8pm. Bought crunchy fried bread, quite good. Finally stopped at a station and word filtered through that there was a landslide on the track. We got off and everyone piled onto the road to flag down buses/trucks. We were lucky, after maybe an hour we scrambled onto a bus, and all three of us even got seats eventually. Mountain buses (not ours) were taking corners heeling at a nasty angle.

Shimla, former summer capital of India

Shimla sprawls over the mountainside. We walked miles up from where we were let off the bus, to the main drag. YWCA wouldn't have us, Loveen's full, we ended up here [Gulmarg Hotel, 935 r per night, fancy and expensive.] Going to try for another hotel tonight. Tea last night at a Nice Restaurant, with international music that was just abysmal, Bree went into hysterics. Glossy plastic tablecloth that stuck to my knees. Drinks freezing cold but OJ was reconstituted.

Seen Pant's new book?

People often ask me, "Who is your favourite author of incredibly heavy Indian cookbooks?" And I always answer "Pushpesh Pant". (To be honest, they only ask me because I ask them to ask me. Because I just love saying "Pushpesh Pant".)

The latest from Nagpur

The cricket has been back on the radio, and I love it. Australia are getting tonked, but that doesn't really matter. Everyone is pretty sick of them winning everything aren't they?

This series is coming from India. The broadcasts kick off about 3pm and run through to about 10 in the evening, which means you can keep up with developments and not miss anything major, without having to stay up all night as you do for England or South Africa. This game is being played at Nagpur, bang in the centre of India. It a brand new ground constructed in the middle of farmland about 20km from the centre of Nagpur. Tickets are only sold for the full five days, and the small crowd present are all there on corporate hospitality junkets. The view out the back of the ABC commentary box is of paddies being worked by oxen. The ABC say that the match is not being broadcast on the radio in India, such is the limited interest in Test cricket compared to the shorter game. So the man with the oxen not only can't afford to attend the game in his bottom paddock, he possibly isn't even aware who's playing.

The power goes off regularly, but the valiant ABC team have a UPS (uninterruptible power source). What they can't guarantee is the radio connection - every now and then they have to resort to the mobile phone. The main commentator calls the action then hands the phone to the special comments man for some sage words.

I was listening at the Eureka! moment, when expert Peter Roebuck said "hang on - can't we just hold the mobile out in front of us and the mike on it will pick up all us? We can just talk normally. Why has this taken us seven years to work out?" They were relying on the phone for about 6 hours of the day yesterday, so it was a good day to make the discovery.

The Indian special comments man is named Duleep. He speaks very well and is deeply knowledgeable, but he sounds like he is lying in bed, extremely weak or possibly on the verge of death. The irascible Jim Maxwell heads the coverage. He is a chain-smoking straight-talking no-nonsense man who likes a punt.

He said to Duleep this afternoon "OK, you'd better head off to get an early go at the big lunch they put on here." Duleep replied "J u s t b i s c u i t s"

India was scratchy

I just found this photo of me, the day after falling off a cliff in India. Quite apart from the major bruising all over my back, I was one big abrasion from fighting my way through thick scrub.