seeking judith


The reception can be a little patchy going through the Macedon Ranges. We were nearing Woodend when I checked the phone and found I’d missed three calls – all from the same unfamiliar mobile number.

On the last attempt the caller had left a message. “I’m trying to reach Sarah. If this is your phone please call me urgently.”

This is a call I half-expect every day. Is it my mother? Fallen again, or perhaps worse, in the nursing home. Is it my dear old dad – who has a A4 list of ailments, several of them life-threatening, including an aortic aneurysm?

Heart pounding, I call back. “Oh Sarah, thank heavens! What colour handbag do you have?”

It’s sort of beige I guess. But who are you and why do you ask? “Sorry, it’s Rebecca. Do you … do you have Judith … ?”

Now, having just come from an interview and photo shoot with The Seekers, I can attest Judith Durham is tiny, but not that small.

Her PA Rebecca continues through crackles. “Do you have Judith’s phone? I think I accidentally put it in your handbag instead of hers.”

Forget the autograph, I’ve absconded with the original pop princess’s cell phone. Kumbaya, my lord indeed!

As we turn the car round and head back toward the city with a perky little Nokia perched on the dashboard, I’m giddy with relief at having escaped a more serious summons.

Ring, ring, why don’t you give me a call.

Whoops, sorry, wrong number.

The husband groans.

There’s still a long, long way to go.


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