Everyone says my grandmother had a dry wit. I would say her wit was drier than a dead dingo’s donger, but being a New Yorker, it wouldn’t really fit. It was always strange visiting this ultra-savvy intellectual at the nursing home – she stuck out from the knitting and cookie-baking brigade. I always felt slightly moronic – young and severely Australian – in her presence. She had a knack of taking people aback when, as an octogenarian, she wanted to discuss Queer as Folk and The West Wing, or Jeff Buckley, or when folks were subject to her observant and sometimes sharp-edged quips. But those who “got it” thought she was terrific. At her funeral this week, I spent a lot of time trying to process her story and how a woman so ahead of her time ended up in 1960s Hobart. So you can imagine my surprise when I walked into the Peacock Theatre, not really having done much pre-reading on the show, and was catapulted into my grandmother’s world. Peanuts … ! How could I forget how much she’d loved …
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