Musicals, Festivals, Carrots

Three festivals and two time zones in one week, plus the premier of Pete the Sheep.

Baa. Excuse me. Am still a bit dazed.

It was wonderful. Magic. Monkey Baa’s musical brought back every memory of the time and place Pete the Sheep came from, because there was a sheep, though his name was Dunmore, not Pete, and a half-serious, half-desperate plan to give sheep to preschools in the drought. We’d become a troupe of wandering shearers giving the most gorgeous haircuts in Australia. I’d have cried, just a little, at Pete the Sheep, especially as Ratso’s harmonica mourned into the darkness, except I was laughing too much.

Before the curtain went up, the sophisticated kid next to me had declared he didn’t like musicals. He thought he was far too mature for Pete the Sheep. Within forty seconds he was giggling too hard to stay in his seat.

‘Do you like musicals now?’ I asked him afterwards.

‘Yep,’ he said.

Pete is still in Sydney, but will be travelling soon to 54 theatres around Australia this year, so it will be coming to one near you.

The festivals have been superb, too. I’ve written about them more fully on the Laureate blog the magnificent Wheeler Centre in Melbourne, Better Beginnings with the State Library of WA and Storylines in Perth.

While I was away it rained. And rained. We’ve had two weeks with one sunny morning and a patch of blue sky one afternoon. Not that I’m complaining. I don’t think I can ever complain about rain again. The grass is green and long, the wombats are fat, the wallabies well stuffed and fluffy, so well fed with grass that they haven’t even nibbled the pelargoniums lately.

Little Phil is still small, but round rather than square, and fluffy, and so content with his wombat palace down the end of the orchard – hundreds of metres of ancient wombat tunnels, going back perhaps hundreds of years, the wombat equivalent of inheriting Windsor Castle (without the tourists, guides and cameras and possibly not so cold and damp…)

Phil is so blissed out on grass that he doesn’t even sniff at my footprints in the grass anymore, or look longingly at the windows hoping for carrots.