First, the almost mythic Ballaratian bookshop, The Known World. What a fascinating haven this shop is, with shelves filled with old books and bits ‘n’ pieces of memorabilia. Old postcards, a suitcase of Golden Books, cameras. There is a coffee machine and some tables, too, and we saw evidence that coffee IS served. The only sadness was the paucity of speculative fiction, the Stephen Kings tucked away in a horror/thriller nook on the bottom shelf under the cookbooks.

From there, to the wonderful space — stone walls, corrugated iron roof, these little nooks in the walls perfect for vendors — that is the Mining Exchange where, bless them, a posse of Grampians wine producers had set up a tasting. Simply Shiraz wasn’t true to label — some had the white stuff there, too, and there was a bit of cab sauv in the mix — and oh my, the range of tastes under that shiraz label! From cordial to enticing dusty to something altogether strange and alluring. Grampians Estate had a topaque (that’d be a tokay if the copyright lawyers don’t get ya) to die for. It was shiraz all the way from there, though; others we took home were from Kimbarra Wines, Clarnette & Ludvigsen, Montara and Clayfield. Add in the enticement of a recommendation for Great Western pinot noir and next road trip: sorted. There was also a blue cheese from Campana’s Stockade Cellars to die for — these guys are a Ballaratian institution, we’re told: so good, they don’t need a website.

We also met Amie Brulee, who has possibly the best PhD thesis ever: comparing attitudes to wine in Australian and France. She also throws period French cabaret shows. Win!

After about two hours, we staggered up the street to busy Thai Fusion. Mixed results here, with KMcD not as taken as I was with the dishes — pinky in a blanket (prawn in a cocoon of deep-fried stuff) and two stir fries, one of seafood and the other of chicken. Lots of ginger in the chicken made it noms. I have yet to find an Asian-themed restaurant that serves decent coffee, but I will keep looking. Normally I would’ve got a green tea or, surprise, booze, but y’know, two hours of wine tasting …

To finish the sobriety trip, we ducked into the Regent, a grand ol’ theatre with a cafe — bless the espresso! — and generous members club discounts. We saw Trance, which was a mess — far from entrancing, indeed: my one thought coming out was, there should be more women named Tuppence! — but by night’s end, we’d ticked off a bunch of our Ballaratian ‘must do’s', with pretty fair success.

Ballaratia, we are in you!

* Wendouree Tor is not the mount’s real name, but it SHOULD be! Also, you’d think two writers could think up a half-decent name for the house, wouldn’t you? Mayhaps it must grow into one…

Salvage is nominated for ‘best long fiction’, a funny old field, all horror stories (!), that includes my novella, a collection (by Felicity Dowker), a novel (by Narelle Harris) and an anthology (Ticonderoga’s Year’s Best).

And adding to those is the nomination of the Snapshot interview series, in which I played a part, for ‘best fan achievement’.

See the full Chronos Awards finalists for 2012

It’s always warming to have one’s work recognised, and the Chronos comes from fandom, so: readers, as well as writers, making it doubly sweet.

The field might be smaller than last year but it’s packing some punch. Voting is underway, and winners will be announced at Continuum in June. The convention is looking like being quite a hoot.

I caught her act last year, and this year’s Melbourne International Comedy Festival performance showed similar flair.

Songs My Parents Taught Me is a clever piece of memoir/biography, centred on the 1970s couple Maddog and Bunny. The night’s chat is a fond, second-hand reminiscence passed down by her parents, heavy on the ‘Wogs’ and drugs and booze and partying. The anecdotes serve as a springboard for Skye’s reflections on drugs, sexuality, parenthood … of growing up, however reluctantly and defiantly.

‘Some people are sexually attracted to fire,’ she says, summarising teenage proclivities for setting things on fire and masturbating.

And one can’t help wonder if that was a summary of Bunny and Maddog’s carefree life, both of them having passed away before Lisa-Skye had a chance to know them.

Lisa-Skye is so personable, her face so expressive, an hour in her velvet-draped pad passes quickly. Her show has some fetching touches: audience engagement, slide shows to help make connections and score some visual chuckles, several wonderfully constructed spoken word pieces set to the ticking of a metronome.

Southern Comfort lovers may be offended; others might never see a knitting needle again without thinking about a shark making love to a space rocket. (You have to be there.)

The conversation at Lisa-Skye’s place is engaging, at times confronting, a little loose and undoubtedly entertaining, with some food for thought – and glitter – thrown in. And the punchline – oh so very nicely done.

* Due to the unfortunate train timetable and the show going a little over time, I missed the last three minutes or so, but Lisa-Skye very kindly sent me the script for that final portion.

Songs My Parents Taught Me runs until April 21.

The full winners’ list — note the double to Kaaron Warren!

NOVEL: Kirstyn McDermott, Perfections (Xoum)
LONG FICTION: Kaaron Warren, ‘Sky’ (Through Splintered Walls, Twelfth Planet Press)
SHORT FICTION: Martin Livings, ‘Birthday Suit’ (Living with the Dead, Dark Prints Press)
COLLECTION: Kaaron Warren, Through Splintered Walls (Twelfth Planet Press)
EDITED PUBLICATION: Surviving the End, ed Craig Bezant (Dark Prints Press)

One of those family gatherings. There would’ve been tea, and biscuits, or cake. There was always tea and something to nibble.

And he got up and grabbed his camera, a black bulk of SLR I should think, because that was his job, taking photos; he and his wife were very good at it, she doing the arranging of the subjects and he doing the technical stuff behind the lens. She was the organiser, and he the quiet one. I think of him and I think of quiet, of reserve, of calmness. I’m sure it wasn’t always the way but that was how I knew him and that is how, in this imperfect snapshot, I remember him; I knew him no other way.

So he and his camera went out to take a picture of a tree. The singular gum, tall, straight, that regal bearing, standing alone in the brown grass of the front paddock. I have a vague memory of him saying, and here I could be mistaken, but I think he said how he had always wanted to get the perfect picture of that tree. Perhaps his wife told us this as we watched him leave.

And now he is gone, and I think of him, walking out, camera in hand, in pursuit of the perfect shot. I have no doubt that, if not before, he will find it now, out there.