Squat for Susan

The 55 Squat Challenge

My Challenge

Overall Squats


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Not Completed

My 55 Squat Challenge for breast cancer research

I’m taking on the 55 Squat challenge in honour of my beautiful sister Susan. 

My Achievements

Advanced level



Intermediate level

Fundraising superstar

Squat Challenge Champion


Looking Good

My Updates

Day 31: Leaving

Wednesday 31st Mar
I'm leaving the building. My squats are done.
My butt is bigger and my heart is gladder. 
I've packed my swag and tent and my cans of beans and I am driving to the Cape Range National Park, just south of Exmouth. 
A two-day drive from Broome, seven days by the ocean; me and my 2B pencils. 
Thank you for all who donated. 
Thank you for those who read the stories. 
Susan will have loved you all thinking about her.

Day 31: Finale

Wednesday 31st Mar
Susan, with bear and umbrella, in a tangle of nasturtiums, Botanical Gardens, Sydney, 1969

Day 31: Finale

Wednesday 31st Mar
Susan Wells in her wildflower tea-towel sundress, the Map of Tasmania perfectly placed, standing in a flurry of vincas in Raible Road, Broome, 2011.   

Day 31: Finale

Wednesday 31st Mar
The two beloveds, Currarong, c.2015
Long-sleeved shirt men. 

Day 30: The Recovery List

Wednesday 31st Mar
Three months after Susan died, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was so sure that it was not cancer that I blithely went to Fiona Stanley Hospital in Perth by myself for the checkup. The kind doctors, the posters on the wall and the open-backed gowns were all too familiar. I sat in a carpark and cried. 
I called my sister-in-law, who called another sister-in-law, who called an old friend, who appeared and whisked me away for tea and tear-wiping.    
I felt like I had fallen through the Looking Glass, back into Susan's world. I thought that perhaps we had become so entangled, even at a distance, that somehow, somehow, those tiny cancer particles had slipped through the ether and attached themselves to me. Maybe they loved me.
I am very lucky. After a lumpectomy and radiation treatment, I am fine and plan to be so for a very long time. 
I'm not frightened. I am grateful.
Recovery is a job that needs your full attention. 
My daughter Luisa wrote out 'The Recovery List'  for me in 2018, as well as a much longer list of things to do in my life, and put them on the fridge door. They are still there. 
I still need to get a proper divorce and make a will. I have done my tax, and I finally got house insurance. I swim long laps in the Broome Pool and my friends occasionally still bring me Kambucha or spinach pie. 
I haven’t taken enough walks with Pat Lowe. 
I do dance in my kitchen, read Agatha Christie novels and Primary School level science books, and regularly take a walk to the neighbours with a beer wrapped in a tea-towel. Occasionally, I catch a slow dinghy along the fingers of Dampier Creek or a sailing trip on the Bay, and, in the late afternoon light, I can clearly see the shimmering, translucent nature of things. 
'It's No Mean Feet' drawing by Luisa Mitchell, 2018.

Day 30: Taupomana

Wednesday 31st Mar
Arlo Wilson-Wells and Karen Wilson on the support boat for Michael's swim: The Captain played a magnificent seventies playlist and had a nip of whisky as the sun went down: Michael swam on...

Day 30: Swimming for Susan

Wednesday 31st Mar
In February 2020, I watched Michael Wells slip into the dark waters of Taupomana, at that time between dark and light where anything can happen. I later wrote: 'Today my brother swam 42 kilometers across a lake in the north island of Aotearoa.' 
'Taupomana. Lake Taupo. The Beautiful Cloak.' 
'A Tauniwha, a creature not of this world, lives in Taupomana, in waters so deep they cannot be measured.'
'Michael is swimming breaststroke across this lake in honour of our sister Susan, who died of breast cancer three years ago. 
'It's a terrible idea really', I wrote. 'He's 55 years old, and not particularly athletic.'
A year after Susan died, Michael declared that he was going to swim across Darwin Harbour to raise funds for breast cancer research, which he did. Darwin Harbour is full of saltwater crocodiles, deadly jellyfish, sharks, and people who drink beer and drive boats at the same time. We thought that was the end of it, but Taupo was calling him...
Michael took over 20 hours to complete his swim across the lake, his stroke never changing. He swam in the pre-dawn darkness, he swam through the long, hard glinting day, through the sinking of the sun and into the night, when the moon rose again over the mountains, and showed him the way.  
Love in Action: Michael swam for Susan, and he swam for me; he swam for the mother of his children and he swam for all women who have had breast cancer and all those that might suffer in the future.  
Bob Bastow, who taught Michael breaststroke in the brand spanking new 100-metre pool in Kalamunda in 1968, would have been chuffed. He thought Michael had something. He was right. 

Day 29: The Wreath Flower

Wednesday 31st Mar
The Wreath Flower

Day 29: Everlasting

Wednesday 31st Mar
Susan was farewelled beautifully, several times over. 
A small service in Sydney was led by a Funeral Celebrant who had just returned from her travels to the far West where she shared her down-to earth, compassionate death and dying practises with the community of Mullewa, a small town near Perenjori. 
We used to travel in our EH station wagon from Perenjori to Mullewa, where we flogged up and down the new pool in swimming carnivals or to Yalgoo, Paynes Find, Cue or Mt Magnet to go camping in the wildflower season. 
There is a wildflower that grows in this country, a Lechenaulita, that grows in a circle and is known as the Wreath Flower.  
A mysterious and beautiful everlasting that changes colour from one season to the next: a cycle of reds, pinks and whites, an ever-changing act of renewal. 
At Susan's Service, Alice sang 'The Ship Song' by Nick Cave, we wept quietly, said our goodbyes, then gathered at Lou Jacks in King Street for food and succour. 
Back home in the West, we strewed the Mason's building at Shenton Park Lake, where Susan had picnicked so many years ago, with Eucalyptus leaves and blossoms, and took the time to speak our words; Lizey Mitchell, bless her,  sang 'Valerie'; and we retired to Heytesbury Road for champagne and cake. 
And finally, at Wiley's Baths in Sydney, above the rock pools, Colin and Gabe and Alice, with Susan's mountain of friends, said their farewells. 
This is me in my sturdy riding boots; Kathryn, in charge of the shovel; Michael with the bones of a dead beast and Susan, our lovely Susan, in black desert boots, holding up a single Everlasting that catches the light. Mt Magnet, 1971.

Day 28: Colo

Tuesday 30th Mar
Image: Paul Elliott and Michael Wells, Colo, late March 2017,  waiting for Susan's funeral, after the weather had turned. 

Day 28: Limes are for making tarts

Monday 29th Mar
Cloth for Susan, Glebe, late March, 2017. 
White = Truth; Blue = Purity
Limes, of course, are for making into tarts and eating with your friends. 60 squats to Nina Simone. 
I can't help myself: 'Our Day Will Come' by Winehouse, keeps me going. 

Day 28: Cutting, Sewing and Stitching

Monday 29th Mar
Sandy Mitchell, cutting cloth, Glebe, late March 2017.

Day 28: Blue Ribbon

Monday 29th Mar
In the middle of March, 2017,  Sandy Mitchell zipped up her best frock, Sean slipped into the chequered suit he had bought in Newtown when visiting Susan in 2015 and they flew over from the West to take their leave of her..
We made camp in Glebe and made daily runs to Newtown, or Susan would make it over to us for a day visit of cakes and sweetmeats.  
Sally Bongers lent me her very old, hundred-tonne Bernina sewing machine, which only runs in one direction;  I made a trip to Marrickville and bought a length of fine blue cotton, a square of light, white silk and a metre of white cotton voile. 
Sandy and I cleared the long table in the lounge room and spent our evenings cutting and sewing for Susan.
Long blue pajama-style trousers, a camisole top and a long-sleeved knee-length kaftan with a centre-front slit. 
Stitch by stitch. 
Sean made us tea and poached eggs and Paul provided daily driving services.
When we had finished Susan's outfit, we packed the pieces into a cardboard box with a sun-drenched blue-and-white cotton sari; Paul drove us to Margaret Street, and the box was handed to the Funeral Celebrant over the kitchen table.
She gently carried it away. 
Image: Sandy threading blue ribbon, two-times through, Glebe, March 2017. 

Day 27: Empty chairs and table

Sunday 28th Mar
Empty chairs, Currarong Beachhouse, 2003, waiting for the arrival of Susan Wells from the Nowra Railway Station. 
I did some calculation today: it takes me one turning of 'Valerie', by Amy Winehouse, to complete 55 squats.  

Day 27: Making your way home

Sunday 28th Mar
Helen and Janice Revell making their way home after a day at the beach, south coast of NSW, c1950.
Photo: Ernest Revell

Day 27: Currarong

Sunday 28th Mar
Susan Wells, waiting to catch Gabe in a wave, Currarong, NSW. Photo: Alice Grant

Day 27: No longer laughing

Sunday 28th Mar
Janice and Helen Revell in the Congo River, on the south coast of NSW c.1949.
Photo: Ernest Revell. 
Aunty Jan sent a letter to Margaret Street on the day that Susan died. She writes that she remembers laughing with joy at the birth of her niece in Narrogin, over 50 years earlier. "The new baby," she writes, "was Susan Elizabeth, a lovely name...
"I never dreamt that having been here for Susan's coming into the world that I would be here for Susan leaving the world. I am no longer laughing and we all weep."
Aunty Jan and Mum often travelled from Sydney to Congo Park or further south to Culburra, on the south coast of New South Wales, for a beach holiday each year, Mum often travelling ahead in the sidecar of her father's motorbike, Grandma and Janny catching the train to Nowra Station and across to the coast by road to their beach hut. 
Susan and her family and friends holidayed for many years at Currarong, at the other end of the bay from Culburra, Susan, just like her Mother and Aunty, catching the train to Nowra and waiting at the station to be picked up and taken home for a cup of tea.   
The patterns we make are sometimes not of our own choosing. 
They are embedded in the criss-cross patterns of our families, and we walk and swim and play them out. 
Susan lived at the heart of an intricate web of patterns and re-iterations, kept alive, even if she is not here, by our own practises: catching a train even if it takes longer, throwing off our clothes and leaping into the ocean, even if people are watching; cooking for the people we love and inviting strangers to join us at the table, dancing in our kitchen; getting a new hair cut even if we don't need one, and keeping our hearts wide open. 
We may not be laughing right now, but we won't be weeping forever. 

Day 26: Vegetable Pie

Sunday 28th Mar
Tonight, my son is making vegetable pie. He checks with me if it's okay to use potatoes if they've already started sprouting. He's asking the wrong person. 'Of course they are', I say. 'No-one will know.' He asks me for a pie dish. I store my excess kitchen ware in the linen press in the  hallway. My children don't know what I'm talking about when I give them directions to the linen press, but I am determined to keep this phrase alive. I find the round pie dish next to the pillow slips. 
'Here you go', I say, passing over the dish. 'Actually, Aunty Susan was fond of a round pie dish. She always made spinach pie for Gabe in a round pie dish when she was here'. 
And so we go on, eating and sleeping and squatting. 
While the pie baked, I hit 100 squats in the dark on the front verandah. Ryland baked the potatoes first, added fennel, and no-one was the wiser. 
Plating-up skills coming next. 

Day 26: Empty Space

Sunday 28th Mar
1988, sitting at a water-hole behind Kalyeeda Station, I write: "I'm feeling slack for walking today, I just stayed on fat-arsed Honey for the next few hours of exploratory traversing... Finally made it to a water hole [Later designated as Fuck-Knows-Where due to lack of geographical information]: nothing there but the mill, a few tanks, a battered homestead and two old outhouses." 
"We ate rump steak, soya sauce and onion for lunch."
One of the most powerful parts of my meditation practise over the years has been the raising up and giving up of love to others at the end of the sitting and of being out-loud grateful for the life we have. 
I sat on the edge of the waterhole that night, on the floodplains  of Marduwarra, carrying that inexplicable empty feeling that sometimes arrives, despite our good fortune. 
I write, in 1988: " The space between my breasts is empty and sad. I send out my love to my family, and to this country we are wandering on, and I can feel the swells of sadness moving through me."
When I finished, I held my Sister in the dark, and felt that calm and warmth that rises when sorrow finally falls. 
Drawing: Robyn Wells, early 1960s, exploratory traversing with an Artline pen and green pencil. 

Day 25: 'To Call Myself Beloved'

Friday 26th Mar
There are floods across New South Wales at the moment, and in the Kimberley, after weeks of rain, Martuwarra, the Fitzroy River, has swollen and overflowed its banks—the floodplains are inundated with brown swirling waters, cutting off roads and making us feel small again. Last time I looked, the only place you could get to from Broome by road is Derby, which is a perfectly good place to be in changing circumstances. 
Susan and I walked Martuwarra a long time ago, with a string of camels and two sturdy cameleers, bags of lentils, our Scrabble board and my 2B pencils. We walked from Willare Roadhouse, following the Grant Ranges to Mt Anderson, past Broken Wagon Pool and thence to Noonkanbah, over the crossing, then back through Kalyeeda Station to the Great Northern Highway. We hitch-hiked back to Willare Roadhouse, just to buy Turkish Delight before trudging back along the bitumen to Broome. On the nights that we slept by the River, Susan made me sleep on the side nearest the water, in case of crocodiles. I obliged her, as is right and proper if someone is visiting your country.  
Susan had an axiom: Our souls travel most comfortably at the speed of a camel. When setting out on any journey, Susan would send off her soul with a train of camels a couple of days earlier so that it would be waiting for her, well-rested, at her destination. Likewise, as she was getting ready to return home, she would inevitably remark on the day before leaving, 'Hey, Rob, I've just sent off my camels.'
There was a summer storm in Sydney just before Susan died. If you were to throw open the wooden shutters of her upstairs bedroom window, which we did, you could see the birds sweeping past at eye level, swooping for cover; you could see the darkening sky racing towards us and feel the thunder rousing along those narrow back streets of Newtown.  
It seemed to me at the time that this might be a portentous storm, perhaps a time that lends itself to leaving the earth, but with a final clap of thunder, that summer storm blew away, and we were all still there. 
A few days later, on a very clear morning, on 25 March, 2017, Susan passed away. 
Colin, Alice and Gabriel were by her side.
Michael and I were finishing up a game of Scrabble in the backyard, juggling cups of tea and the scrabble-board on a little table set just below the bedroom window.
Kathryn was a few steps away, coming down Margaret Street, pushing open the side gate...

"And did you get what you wanted from this life,
even so?
I did. 
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved,
to feel beloved on the earth."
A fragment by Raymond Carver

On the right: Nillibucca Bore, Great Northern Highway, 1988, where we spent our first night on the road. 
2B pencil drawings by Robyn Wells. 

Day 24: 2B

Friday 26th Mar
Malcolm Wells, Margaret Street, Newton.
2B pencil drawing by Robyn Wells. 

Day 24: The Side Gate

Friday 26th Mar
This is a photo of Dad and Susan, in the Margaret Street kitchen on the afternoon he had to say goodbye. Michael made tea and kept an eye on the time. The airport is not so far from Newton, but the run to Mascot can be tricky.
Susan showed Dad her old albums and the new photo books she has been making, sifting and organising, labelling and listing, making patterns with memories. 
They held hands and said goodbye at the side gate, the one that keeps jamming on the bricks. They said goodbye, it seemed to me, with no fear and just a few tears. 
A taxi took away our Old Man. 

Day 24: Oceans for Susan

Thursday 25th Mar
Eva Mitchell and Susan Wells, Wiley's Baths, Coogee, 2016. 
Pink bathing cap supplied by Susan Wells. 
Last swims. 
You can't use a wheelchair at Wiley's. 
We drove Susan to her last swim a little further around the coast, to Mahon Pool, a rocky tidal pool near Maroubra. The ocean was petulant, smashing over the rocks and dragging people over the holding walls. A gaggle of schoolgirls arrived and blithely threw themselves into the foaming pool with no degree of caution. 
Michael walked Susan out to the middle of the pool, close enough to be out of reach of the wave surge, just far out enough to feel the pull.  
Susan lay on her back and gave her weight to Michael's arms. The wind picked up, the ocean ran in and out and she remained, face to the sky, soaking up the salty bites on her skin, the pummelling of waves on her limbs and the glint of the sun in her eyes.
With gratitude, we wound our way home, beating the afternoon traffic to make it back to Margaret Street in time for tea and cake. 
Lucinda Williams is playing 'Fruits of My Labour'. 

Day 23: Dragstar Shoes

Wednesday 24th Mar
Susan was fond of shoes. This is a photo that Susan took herself, while she was having chemotherapy at St Vincent Hospital in 2016, wearing the wooden wedgies that she bought from Dragstar in King Street, Newtown — a shop that specialises in 1970s frocks, with some shoes thrown into the mix.
In between bouts of treatment and making Orange marmalade, Susan spent 2016 on the move: she and Colin and Gabe had a holiday in New Zealand, where she was able to say goodbye to Aunty Jan; she made it to Rottnest Island for Peter Mitchell's sixtieth birthday, she flew to Melbourne just so she could drive back to Sydney with Michael and Arlo, dropping in at op-shops along the way. 
The jumper that Alice Grant was knitting for Susan continued to slowly grow in all the right places, Clare-at-the-end-of-Margaret-Street shared dinners and hosted cups of tea for visitors; 
During this year, Susan wove her friends together, very deliberately, with great warmth and tenderness. She walked some chosen ones to the Cat Haven Op Shop on Enmore Road, organised others onto the ferry for a sleepover at Cockatoo Island, made the train journey to Nowra, and then onto Currarong, for outside showers and uninterrupted crosswords, and roast dinners with Kathryn; and held hands with others while waiting for late night ice-cream on King Street. Susan watched with great delight as people re-discovered each other anew or made brand new spanking friendships as we made elliptical orbits around her shining self.

Day 23: Long Frocks

Tuesday 23rd Mar
At the turning of the year in 2016, Susan travelled to Vaughn Springs, near Castlemaine, Victoria, to a dusty red carpet event to celebrate Dan Mitchell's 50th birthday.
Susan had two costume changes for the evening, a silver jumpsuit and this, the Golden Phoenix.  
This is Susan, wearing Miranda Jacques' mother's handmade 1970s cocktail frock, proudly escorted by Matt Wilson. 
This was goodbye for many of her friends; she did it with grace and style, love and compassion.  
Today, tired and grumpy after work, I put on Neil Diamond and mustered up the energy for 55 squats. 'Sweet Caroline' took me onto the 80+ squat mark.

Day 23: Those bloody Melbournians

Tuesday 23rd Mar
Susan found out she had breast cancer in 2007 and had a mastectomy, followed by chemotherapy. She was re-diagnosed in 2015. In those in-between years she continued to work at the Australian Film Commission, purchase Camper shoes, ride her bike through Newtown wearing her best frock, make sourdough bread, fly to Los Angeles to deliver lectures on investment in Australian Films, attend Cannes Film Festival red carpet events as well as take time to have cups of tea in Devon and dinner parties in Glenorchy. 
She also made it to Melbourne to play dress-ups with her besties, the Doweger Countess of Downton Abbey, and the Marchioness of Hexham and other VERY VERY dubious characters. Who IS the cook?
This photo was taken at Miranda Jacques' 50th birthday celebrations, April, 2016. Susan, front row, left, legs perfectlly crossed, without her wig, with her husbandy man right behind her. Marchioness, umbrella in hand, front center; the Doweger, God help us all, right beside her. 

Day 22: The Mothership

Tuesday 23rd Mar
This is a 2B pencil drawing of our mother, Helen, from a photo taken by Susan at her Elizabeth Street apartment in 2005, when Mum was visiting Colin, Susan and Gabe. 
This photo lived on the fridge in Margaret Street. 
I think it's still there. 

Day 22: Part 1: Mother

Monday 22nd Mar
Gabriel Englert and his lovely, funny Mother, Elizabeth Bay, Sydney, 2005.

Day 22: Part 2: Aunty

Monday 22nd Mar
Susan was Aunty Supremo. For decades, she caught trains, planes and buses across the nation to visit her nephew and nieces — Eva, Luisa and Ryland, Lucy and Arlo, and Laila and Luka —and always had the couch or upstairs room ready for them whenever they visited.  She was there for births, and birthdays, she cooked and cleaned, wiped bottoms, made spinach pies or hearty soups, depending on the weather. 
She read stories, raised her eyebrows at shenanigans and put her foot down when she had to, and when they were older, she advised them how to pack their bags in a neat and tidy manner and waved them goodbye at the International Airport.
The girls wear their Aunty Susan frocks and shoes with a pizzazz she would be proud of.
This is a photo of an entanglement of cousins — Ryland and Luisa, with Luka and Laila, centre, on one of their visits to Raible Road, Broome, c. 2009, to visit Mum-up-the-road, who was very our own Mothership.

Day 22: Part 3: Other Mother

Monday 22nd Mar
This is a photo of Alice Englert and Susan Wells, ensconced in the cosy ply-wood-lined walls of Jane's hut, Glenorchy, New Zealand, 2003, ready for some fine-dining.
I love this photo: Susan and Alice each look like they have fallen on their feet, which they have; Susan to have Alice in her life, and Alice to have Susan. Apart from anything else, it looks like Alice is really happy to be sitting next to a grownup who is letting her have her phone at the table, at least until dinner is served.
One of the best parts of Susan's life was being an Other Mother to Alice. 

Day 21: Part 1: Marmalade Fox

Monday 22nd Mar
Susan Wells = The Marmalade Fox
Susan was blessed with the MOST beautiful, bountiful head of orangey-marmaladey hair that anyone could wish for. 
She may have kept it long, short and in-between, but she always kept it well. 
I took this photo of Susan in September 2007, the morning of her treatment for breast cancer at St Vincent Hospital in Surrey Hills. Susan put her kitchen in order and then took herself off to a hairdresser in Oxford Street, Kings Cross and had her hair done. 
She left very clear instructions for Alice and Gabe and I to make two fruitcakes while she was in hospital, to be ready for her return home to Margaret Street.
Job done. 
55 squats after tea-and-toast with Orange, Grapefruit and Lemon Marmalade, found in a small jar at the back of my fridge. 
Dated 27.4.2016. Hmmmm, it still seems to be okay...


Day 21: Part 2 Marmalade Fox

Monday 22nd Mar
This is a page from one of Doris Wells' cookbooks: 'Calling All Cooks'. Nanna specialised in marmalades, one of her favourites being Cumquat and the other being Orange. 
She had a Cumquat tree in the back garden of the Commonwealth Bank building in Yass, which was still there last time I visited. Our Dad, his older brother Tony, and Nanna and Pop lived above the blank-faced main-street building for two years; it was Dad's job to pick the Cumquats for his Mother, a chore he says he usually avoided by disappearing into the hills behind Yass with his dog.
You can tell which recipes Nanna loved, because she scribbled notes straight onto the page. Over the top of the Cumquat Marmalade recipe she has scrawled: 'Take the seeds out before adding sugar.'
The Orange Marmalade recipe here, as well as the one in her 'Australian Red Cross Jam Recipe Book' takes three days to make and both call for 'Poorman's Oranges'. 
I do not know what Poorman's Oranges are. I do know that Susan used Seville Oranges and took the rightful full three days to make her splendid marmalade. 
Dad still makes Cumquat Marmalade every year.    

Day 20: Part 1: Stepping It Out, King Street

Sunday 21st Mar
Clutch those pearls, King Street, Newton, 2007.

Day 20: Part 2: Stepping It Out: King Street

Sunday 21st Mar
Sydney is ours. Mum grew up in Haberfield, a two-stop ferry ride from Circular Quay; Dad was born in Woollongong and after doing stints in small country New South Wales towns, lived in Marrickville as a young man. Like Susan, he left school early, and made his own way in the world. Mum and her sister Janny both went to Fort Street Girls School, under the eagle eyes of the indomitable Miss Fanny Cohen. 
By the late 1950s, Dad had already crossed the Nullabor and was working as a single man for the Bank of New South Wales in Western Australia. Mum eventually spread her wings and caught a ship across the Great Australian Bight; they managed to find each other on North Cottesloe Beach in 1957.
Susan made the big shift from the quiet, sandy suburbs of Perth to the humming asphalt streets of Sydney in the mid-eighties and re-claimed this city as her own for the next thirty years. 
Mum was always delighted to visit her there —  it was her old stomping ground. 
I found a poem today that Mum wrote in 2004 — she writes about walking with Susan along the length of King Street, Susan's long legs setting the pace. 
She writes of the old buildings, of Susan and her losing themselves in cool recesses and labrythine mazes, finding silky camisoles and knickers and browsing book shops. Among those familiar delights, Mum was caught unawares by another side of King Street, the discarded coke cans and junkie needles of Susan’s new home ground. 
Mum writes:
'Together again,,
She and I, 
side by side,
stepping it out; 
long legs setting
the pace again - me still
stretching to keep up
with these times.'
Susan loved King Street: it was just a quick trip up the road from Margaret Street to Lou Jacks for morning coffee, or burgers and chips for Gabe; walking distance to Alice's singing debut at one the local cafes; a hop and a skip for Colin to pick up some prosciutto or kalamata olives for pasta puttanesca at the local store.
Susan stepped out and made it her own. 
Photo: King Street, Newton, 2007. 

Day 19: Part 1: Being Born

Friday 19th Mar
Kathryn and Susan, Canberra, c 1990s. 
I recently found a hand-written story that Susan had written when she was fourteen: 'When I was born Mum and Dad ... told Kathy to look after me. And she still does that 14 years later by letting me stay at her house, taking me for haircuts and shopping...'.
It is still raining in Broome, roads across the Kimberley are closing and the pindan is sodden and squishy. 
Today I did 70 squats. I kid you not. 
I'm going to wander down to a country-and-western music night at the Gimme Gimme Bar, just because I can.  

Day 19: Part 2: Being Born

Friday 19th Mar
Narrogin is wheat and sheep town in the south-eastern district of Western Australia. There are wide streets, sturdy brick civic buildings and a railway line built to connect the flourishing townships that were thrown up by early farming communities.
That world wasn't my world. My world was the small fibro cement house we lived in, on the side of a hill near the East Narrogin Primary School, and an almost treeless garden, where I made twig houses, right down the back, in the hope of enticing fairies. 
I recall the most ordinary details of that house, mainly due to Susan's arrival.
Not long before she was born, I wandered out of bed one night and stood in the open door of our bathroom.  I saw Mum standing in the bath — the hot-water system bolted to the wall above the taps — her body covered with soapsuds. My father was gently swishing hot water over her hugely swelling belly to wash away the soap. They were completely absorbed by what they were doing. I think this was the first time I saw my mother naked, certainly the first time I saw a pregnant belly, and the first time I saw this kind of tenderness between grown-ups. It was when I finally understood that a new being was arriving to join our family, the last piece of the jigsaw...
It was winter when Susan was born, June 24, 1965. We had a wood stove in the kitchen, where Mum sat in the evening after dinner and breast-fed her. Sometimes we would be called in from our bedrooms before we went to sleep and, if we sat quietly, we were allowed to witness this ordinary, every-day miraculous undertaking. 
Kathy was already a buttoned-down schoolkid when we arrived at Narrogin, while I had to wait a while before I started Grade 1. We both had brown Samsonite suitcases, which we lugged to school and back again every day. 
In whatever free time Mum had, she sewed Kathy and I ballet costumes (Kathy, a magnificent lion, and me, a blue-bird); read us stories every night; and always made sure we used our manners, insisting we never left the table until we had eaten our peas or beans and had thanked her for cooking the dinner. 
This is a photo of Kathy heading off to school, Samsonite case in hand, Narrogin, 1966.  

Day 18: Part 1: Wild Swans

Thursday 18th Mar
Doing the business: Shelley Castle picking up the bill for Samphire at the High Street delicatessen, Totnes, Devon, 2018. Nice frock.  

Day 18: Part 2: Wild Swans

Thursday 18th Mar
In 1968, Susan and Mum packed their best cardigans for a trip to Sydney. 
We were living in Kalamunda, in the hills above Perth, in a new, brickish-brownish sixties home, set on a block of Eucalyptus trees and coffee rocks. 
It was exciting times: Michael was able to give us daily reports on the black ants that tunelled up and down his perspex ant farm; I went to ballet classes at the Kalamunda Hall; we watched Apollo II land on the moon on our black-and-white television set, and Susan grew from three to four. 
The flight to Sydney was Susan's first, and one of many more to come. We arrived at the Perth Airport with enough time to feed the Black Swans that lived in a parabolic pool on the tarmac and waved goodbye to Mum and Susan from the open-air rooftop of the airport lounge. I wish I could say that we stopped in at the bar at the Orbit Inn for a lemonade, but that would be stretching the truth. 
In 2018, eighteen months after Susan died, and just over a year after I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I took my first flight to the northern hemisphere, in one of those really, really, really big planes. 
After a series of plane and train journeys across the continent, and an underwater bus trip from Paris to England, I finally arrived at Totnes Station in Devon, and was met by Susan's dear friend, Shelley Castle. 
I wasn't prepared for the wildness of Devon; I wasn't prepared for the Wild Swans and the forests that staggered down to the estuaries. 
As a child, I devoured tales of transformation; I was transfixed by the girls I met in these stories; patient girls who cared for ugly beasts; sassy girls who snuck away to the Underworld and danced until their shoes wore out; girls who helped birds and little fishes and were repaid in kind later in the story; clever girls who escaped from Baba Yaga's hut, which stood on a single chicken's leg; fleet-footed girls who outran witches who rode on mortar and pestles....
And then there was 'The Six Swans'. In this story, a meddling Queen curses her step-daughter and six brothers. The brothers are turned into White Swans and can only take human form for one hour a day. The curse can only be lifted by their sister: she must weave a nettle shirt for each of her brothers, and not speak a word for six years. 
The girl spends six years weaving a nettle shirt for each of her brothers, and not a word escapes her lips. 
At the end of the six years, just as she is about to be burnt on the stake as a witch, her Swan brothers beat down from the sky, she throws the nettle shirts over them, and the curse is lifted. 
During our three days in Devon, Shelley walked Luisa and I through the nettle-strewn forests where she and Susan and Colin and Gabe had walked, and drove us along the narrow lanes and hedgerows. We crossed the River Dart and ate Samphire sandwiches on the front lawn of Greenaway, Agatha Christie's home.
On our last day, Shelley took us to Dartington Hall Gardens and we found the Swan sculpture — two swans wound together in an embrace – and cried for Susan. 

Day 17: Extended Love

Thursday 18th Mar
Peter Mitchell and Susan Wells, after a walk through Hidden Valley and a swim at North Cable Beach, despite unexpected April rains. Our wedding day was not so far away. 
Additive Love.  
Peter Mitchell, Tony Mitchell, Sean Mitchell, Mick Mitchell, Tim Mitchell, Dan Mitchell, Christopher and Jeremy Mitchell: I suspect you loved Susan almost as much as you love me, which is saying something! 
Louise, my other sister, who always had a place for me to lay my head and soaked up my tears when they needed to fall. 
Barbara and John Mitchell, who extended their love and blessings to my sister. 
That only leaves that glorious group of women who married the other brothers....but that's another story....

Day 16: Part 1

Tuesday 16th Mar
It's raining here in Broome, and the sun is still shining. 
Nothing as beautiful.
I'm thinking of my sister.
Susan wrangled herself through a decade of life in the Perth suburbs in the late-seventies and eighties with some difficulty: the constraints of life in Stanley Street Nedlands were alleviated by her best friend Janet Paterson, who lived in Number 51. In the days before social media, they posted letters up and down the street, rode their dragster bikes like they meant it, plotted camping trips to Dwellingup or weekends on Rottnest Island, and shared their first job as tea-leaf tea-makers at the Nedlands Tennis Club. 
The days of shirts and shorts came to an end: the eighties brought Boy George and Adam Ant, Tears for Fears and the Dexy Midnight Runners, giving way to long nights at the Red Parrot, a nightclub on the corner of Milligan and Roe in Northbridge, a dangerous flirtation with Skinheads and shared households with some dubious characters.
Susan skittered her way through the turbulence, survived a Combi van accident with Susan Hammersley and Jeremy Mitchell on the way home from a Paul Kelly concert in Kalgoorlie, fell into some halcyon days on the south-west coast, where the Peppermint trees meet the sea, and came out the other side, all grown up and ready to make that West Australian coming-of-age crossing: she packed her bags, said goodbye to her friends under the towering gums at Shenton Park Lake, and caught the Greyhound bus across the Nullarbor Plains to Sydney, where she was to live for the rest of her life.
No squats today. Not yet. 
I have until midnight. 
Here is Susan and Janet, Kings Park, 1976, where brumbies once ran through the bush all the way to Nedlands. 

Day 16: Part 2

Tuesday 16th Mar
Susan and her friend Jonas Ball at Prowse Street, 1984.
Shabby houses by day, mohair jumpers and the Red Parrot by night. 
55 squats and half a month of March done and dusted. 

Day 15: Part 1: Basking

Monday 15th Mar
Wiley's Baths, Coogee, Sydney, 2016, where we basked and swam and watched the waves drag themselves back over the wall into the ocean.  
Artline pen drawing by Robyn Wells. 

Day 15: Part 2: Basking

Monday 15th Mar
Susan Wells at Wiley's Baths, Coogee, Sydney 1988.

Day 14: Part 1: Scrabble for Susan

Sunday 14th Mar
It's in the blood: Mum contemplating a Scrabble move with her best friend 'The Other Helen', Helen Telford, Blue Mountains, 1950.  

Day 14: Part 2: Scrabble for Susan

Sunday 14th Mar
We were taught to play Scrabble by our Mum. On winter nights in Perenjori, we would spread ourselves out over the loungeroom floor in front of the fire and play either Chinese Checkers, using hand-painted Quondong seeds we had picked up on our family drives out onto Station country to collect mallee roots, or Scrabble. Mum was encouraging but not indulgent: she would raise a quiet eyebrow if we made idle use of an 'S', and she never let us win. 
We played and played and played. 
In her later years, Mum joined a Scrabble group in Nedlands, Perth. One of the players had a heart attack during a game. She called an ambulance; the group waited respectfully as he was taken away, and then they resumed the game. I suspect she won. 
This photo is testimony to the importance of always having enough Scrabble games on hand, as well as as many, very heavy dictionaries that you can find (I like a good Webster). The artwork is a self-portrait by Ryland, moving through spacetime with two snakes as companions, as you do.
I still haven't forgiven him for putting down IMPACTS as his first move in our game at Kooljaman on the Dampier Peninsula, and scoring 72 points while Aunty Susan and I were still counting our tiles. 
20 + 20 + 15 = 55 squats for me + 17 for Ryland = 72 

Day 13: Part 1: All God's Creatures

Sunday 14th Mar
Malcolm Wells, Kashmir, 1987 

Day 13: Part 2: All God's Creatures

Saturday 13th Mar
My butt hurts. 
I'm ignoring this sensation and taking two Coopers Pale Ales wrapped in a teatowel to my friend Ali's house to do my 55.  Ali lives on Anne Street, Broome Bronx, where the broken glass on the street glitters like stars. 
A storm has just rumbled away. I help her re-string her Tibetan prayer flags and tie them up on the verandah. Blue, white, red, green and yellow.
Sky, air, fire, water and earth. I don't know where I was when a fifth element was officially approved, but I am thrilled to learn that space (and I'm gonna presume we are talking spacetime here) is now part of our lives; the 'aether' that Aristotle was chasing. 
Second beer and 'Dance me to the end of time', sung by Madeliene Peyroux, makes everything seem much clearer than after just the one.  
Ali is a Rigpa student; she let me fall asleep to the Diamond Cutter Sutras with Ryland in my arms as a new-born baby, and didn't judge me. She tells me that if we don't have space, we can't move. She's is not talking about too-small car parking spaces, or needing timeout from your darling; She's talking particles. 
She tells me that at the time of dying, the elements need to shift and change. To transform. We need spaciousness to do that. We need emptiness to understand matter. 
This is Susan Wells in Tataphani, Nepal, in 1984. She and Dad trekked up the Jomson Valley to Muktinath, at the Tibetan border, followed by 'Dog'. On their departure, they sadly left him at Pokhara airport : Some weeks later Dad received a letter from a woman who had been befriended by 'Dog' at Pokhara; they had walked together all the way back up the valley, where a Tibetan monk was overjoyed to be reunited with his beloved companion. 
Thanks Dad, for taking us along with you on your uphill journeys. Thanks for the ammonite fossil that Susan picked up in Langtang Valley, from a long-ago time when the Himalayas were under water; thank you for the Prayer Bell of Emptiness that I will ring every now and then to remind myself of the importance of true nature of things (which includes being kind to all of God's creatures...).

Day 12: Chicken in Still Life

Friday 12th Mar
'Chicken in Still Life' was the trigger for Susan to produce her Margaret Street Recipe Book. It is a dish that is, as she said, 'perfect every time'. Nothing but chicken, sea salt, ground pepper and lemons.
Susan was nothing if not precise:  'Bring the chicken to the table whole, garnished with sprigs of flat parsley and leave the lemons inside until it is carved. The juices that run out are perfectly delicious, so be sure to spoon them over the chicken slices. The lemons will have shrivelled up but they can still contain some juice; do not squeeze: they may squirt.
This is Lucy, waiting patiently for Aunty Susan to serve up Chicken in Still Life, Elizabeth Bay, Sydney, 2003.  I think there is a baby gently swelling in that belly...
Happy birthday for today Lucy xxx

Day 11: Does Weeding Equal Squatting?

Thursday 11th Mar
An unexpected storm blew in late yesterday afternoon and the earth is still moist this morning. Hmmm... weeding or squatting?
Weeding wins. As I am removing the unwanted, I wonder if weeding equals squatting. I'm told that Aristotle insisted that A=A, the law of non-contradiction. It now seems that A=A is false. Apparently, I am not me for more than than the length of time it takes for an electron to blink. 
Whatever the case, I decide that, ethically, I cannot substitute weeding for squatting this morning. 
55 squats + 15 squats = 70 squats.
That seems fairly absolute, although intriguing to think that the person who started weeding this morning is not the same person who finished those squats....
And here is Susan Wells, with Sean Mitchell and Matt Wilson, working their way towards the ceiling at a house party in Perth in the late 1980s — it must be winter: look at those coats. Look at her dress AND coat!
Somehow Susan always managed to remain herself but never did stay the same...

Day 10: Part 1. Shirts and Shorts in Fiji

Wednesday 10th Mar
Our family lived in Sigatoka, Fiji, from 1973-1975.
Nothing about living with farmers and gimlet trees in Perenjori prepared us for this experience. We left our cat at Thundalarra Station and flew to Fiji in November 1972, with a brief stopover in Sydney, where we were dazzled by the El Alamein fountain and the lovely ladies of Kings Cross. A brief delay due to Hurricane Bebe, which struck Fiji as we nestled in our hotel room in Elizabeth Bay; Michael marked time with Arthur Conan Doyle and Susan devoured 'Coles Funny Picture Book'. 
Dad worked at the Bank of New South Wales in Sigatoka; Susan and Michael and I went to St Joan of Arc Convent, driving into town with Dad in the morning, and catching the bus home to Korotoga in the afternoon; Kathy came home for holidays from Methodist Ladies College in Perth, bringing us snippets from another world... Cat Stevens, Helen Reddy, mid-seventies fashion style. 
Mum sewed herself full-length, halter-neck cocktail dresses for the tropics and later, my sun-dresses when I went to boarding school; we went to Hindu weddings, celebrated Diwali and drank yagona with good grace. Michael discovered Neil Diamond and Susan spun in a steady orbit around her friends, Doris Rounds and Elizabeth Singh, taking turns to thrash each other in knuckle-bones.  
If any of you think of Susan as just being a frock girl, you need to know there were several magnificent years of shirts and shorts and terry-towelling hats, the outfit she wore to climb Mt Tomanivi, the rooftop of Vitu Levi, (Mt Victoria) in 1975 being a case in point.
Our lives were never the same since...

Day 10: Part 2. I Hate Zips

Wednesday 10th Mar
I hate zips. I have decided to finish off my Shelley Castle dress with a hook-and-eye. I check the Coates sewing box but can only find press-studs, no hook-and-eyes. I may need to take a trip to the haberdashery... 
I checked 'The God Problem' to see if there was a solution for not having a large safety pin to turn the sash inside out. Nothing about Zero Being a Real Number was helpful. I tried a whisk. That worked. 
55+ squats to 'I don't believe in an Interventionist God'.

Day 10: Part 3

Wednesday 10th Mar
Susan Wells, Fiji, 1975.
The black and white photos were taken by Dad: Mum was in charge of the family albums and typing up captions: This is a photo of Roshini Kumar, whose father was Headmaster at Cuvu Secondary School, where Mum taught English; and Susan. Bless those kind eyes. Bless her short hair. Bless those freckles. 
The dress is finished.  
Time for boiled eggs. 

Day 9: The dishes will wait. Part 1.

Tuesday 9th Mar
A slow 55 this morning, with Leonard Cohen for company.
The dishes will wait. 

Day 9: The dishes will wait. Part 2

Tuesday 9th Mar
Poached eggs, bear-on-the-chair, a slow kitchen morning in Raible Road, Broome, 2010.
Time for walking up the road to see Mum in Bran Nue Dae, mischief-making with cousins, a game of Scrabble in the afternoon and sausages on Reddell Beach. 
The dishes will always wait. 

Day 8: For the Mothers Part 1

Monday 8th Mar
Roebuck Bay Broome, International Women's Day 2021

Day 8: For the Mothers Part 2

Monday 8th Mar
I didn't need to get up early this morning —  I did a night shift at the Women's Refuge and then drove straight down to the Bay. 
The Jukun and Yawuru women of Broome have put up a statue here on the foreshore. A young woman rises up out of the waves, holding a pearl shell aloft. Her belly is swelling with new life. The Woman on the Bay honours the women who camped here in the early days of Broome, giving birth, feeding their families, looking after their children, waiting for their menfolk to return on the luggers.
And this is a photo of Susan in the tiny-square-of-a-front-garden of her and Colin's apartment in Elizabeth Bay, relishing that swelling belly moment! 
I drove home after the ceremony on the Bay, found that my copy of 'The God Problem' had been unceremoniously eaten by the neighbourhood dog, and managed 55 squats before heading to bed 
Here's to all the mothers who have carried others into the world and loved them endlessly.  

Day 7: Cardigans for Susan

Sunday 7th Mar
Ouch! Sore thighs today...
I've sewed my frock, just a bit of bias binding to finish off. 
I have Mum to thank for passing on a lifetime of sewing skills: : easing in sleeves, stay-stitching darts, hand-stitching hems...
Mum got her first electric sewing machine as a wedding present from her father, on which she sewed all our clothes
This is a photo of Mum and Susan, in the late sixties, in Hyde Park, Sydney, when Mum took Susan to meet her Mum and Dad. 
Style-masters.... I love the shorts-and-socks look Susan has going... and the cardigans!

Day 6: Part 1

Saturday 6th Mar
Susan Wells in Shelley Castle's wild garden, Devon, 1999.
She always did love a good cardigan.  

Day Six: Part 2: Patterns for Susan

Saturday 6th Mar
Up far too early this morning. Coffee on the verandah, which helps to focus on another chapter of 'The God Problem'; patterns that make up the Universe—the translation of repeated patterns into transformation of matter....  
That inspired me to do 70 squats this morning, 
I have my own patterns that translate and transform: unpicked Susan Wells dresses, translated into toilles, transformed, stitch by stitch into some new/old thing that I wear when I want to carry her with me... 
Today I am sewing up my Shelley Castle dress. A thin cotton frock that Shelley sent me all the way from Devon after Susan died. I've cut out the pattern twice, sewed it once, thrown it away and started again. When I wear it, I'll be wearing love, translated and transformed. 

Day Five

Saturday 6th Mar
55 squats this morning, before the sun was too high in the sky, to Amy Winehouse's 'Lady Man' with 'Take me to the River' to make it to the end of the session. The air is thick and still. March in Broome. There's no knowing if it will rain again anytime soon.
Today's photo: Susan, myself, Michael and Kathy, on the verandah outside the sleepout in Perenjori, with the Thundelarra Station cat. 

Day Four

Thursday 4th Mar
Day 4: I did 30 sleepy squats in the morning before having a coffee and watering my sweet potato plants; ploughed through a chapter on hyperbolic geometry in 'The God Problem'; had a wee nap; did some work; had another wee nap; then walked myself to the Bay and found the tide going out, leaving kids scrambling around in the eroding dunes, their mothers taking no notice, the sea eagles even less. 25 squats. 
So, this is a photo of Susan Wells, perched in a tree at the Centre of the Universe, which in 1970 was the back yard of our weatherboard house on the main street of Perenjori, a wheatbelt town in the edge of the salt-lake country a couple of hundred kilometers east of Perth. 
Our house was at the back of the Bank of New South Wales where Dad worked; we ate porridge together in the mornings (cooked on the wood stove); at some point, Dad would disappear through the connecting door into the high finance world of farmers; Kathy, Michael and I would meander across the railway line to school while Susan tottered off to Kindy.
We slept together in the 'sleepout', a fly-screen enclosed verandah: on the weekends we drove out to old sandalwood cutter's camps, dropped into Thundelarra Station or camped at White Wells, where we clambered over granite boulders, chased mountain devils and fell asleep, tumbled together, in a canvas tent. 
We played scrabble in the winter, and ate sausages and salad in the backyard in the summer. Not much more to ask for. 

Squat for Susan Blog

Wednesday 3rd Mar
Hello lovely family and friends
It will be four years this March since Susan passed away from breast cancer in the upstairs bedroom of her terrace house in Newtown with her family by her side. 
Susan said of herself, as she was preparing for her leave-taking, that she felt 'beloved on this earth'; I think there is not much more to ask for than that. 
The last four years have seemed like an age... I miss her terribly, as do so many, but mostly when I think about her, I just start smiling. She was so funny, so kind and generous, so clear-thinking and compassionate.
So, 55 squats a day!  I am doing this for everyone who has had breast cancer and for those who may still have a struggle ahead of them. I was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months after Susan died, and am so grateful for the support and successful treatment I had. Supporting breast cancer research works! Please donate generously.
I am going to upload bits and pieces throughout the month —  I'm going to throw in some photos and stories, in no particular order,...
This is Susan and I sitting on the bonnet of her EH Holden in a wheat field in Narrabri in 1990, during the filming of Resistance. Susan is wearing Mum's boots and a vintage skirt that became my ironing board cover. I'm wearing Susan's shoes and socks, trousers and jumper, and probably, a spare pair of her undies.  
Susan had moved to Sydney from Perth a few years before this, first living with Peter Mitchell and I in a grubby little flat in Campbell Parade in Bondi before moving into Lang Road with Christina Ferguson, the late Hugh Keays-Byrne (Bless Him), Helen Jones, Ralph Cotterill and other memorable characters. 
Susan did the hard yards at the ABC and moved into film production, excelling, among other things, at stapling callsheets at the right angle, which is how you end up in a wheat field on a home-grown independent film...

Thank you to my Sponsors


Michael Wells


Shelley Castle

What stamina, what maths, great frock too


Alice Grant

Oh Robyn I have only just found out about this blog, what a perfect discovery for this day. I will light a candle, and snuggle up with all your words tonight. Thank you. AND GET SQUATTING!! xxx




Amelia Luscombe

Well done Robyn! Sending lots of love from Fannie Bay xxxx


Miranda J

What a beautiful tribute to our beloved Shooshan - she’ll be smiling down at you as you squat in the name of such a fabulous cause. . ❤️ you Robina M xx


Gabe &andrew

Omg we were so frickin hot when dancing to “cmon Eileen’ as Sue Ham had brought the single back when she came back from the U.K before it had come out here❤️😂🙏🏼


Ben Wurm

Beautiful writing and tribute to Susan’s life, Robyn! X


Richard Mellick

Rob, these photos and stories are beautiful, moving, stylish and brilliantly unique; but, of course, I'd expect nothing less :)


Jeremy Mitchell



Angela Bignell

Good move Robina! X


Bronwyn Davies



I am smiling when I remember you & Susan on our front porch in Leedy - laughing, sharing stories and enjoying a strong cup of tea.


Melania Cleland

All the feels for your slogging (squatting X blogging).


Janet Paterson

Squats dollars for the beautiful Ms Swells ❤️


Clare Grant

I’m late to this wonderful ‘party’ for Susan but sending you love to boost you further along the path with/for her.


Luisa Mitchell

In the hopes less people have to go through what Susan did and many others do every day x


Kate Golson And Julie Melbourne

So sorry that it has taken this long to sign in, but we're with you now.



Go mum! 💓


Colin Englert


Fran B

Oh Robyn! The squats would’ve made her cackle! Brava xxx



Beautiful girl. Love your spirit. Love the stories. Go girl!




Gillian Kennedy

You’re an inspiration! And I’m loving this blog. X



Love ya Aunty Rob ❤️


Aunty Jan And Peter

For Susan with Love


Robyn Wells



Hi Rob, thanks so much for this truly beautiful contribution. It was so touching. With love xxx



You’re an inspiration always Robina! Get those glutes going gals! Xxx


Sandra Mitchell

So proud of you Robs . The journey you're on and the way in which you do it. You have STYLE sista!!


Malcolm Wells/ Kim Wells

Love ya Sue


Wenonah And Fam ?

Can’t wait to see those big ass booties 💗💗💗


Jess Grandison


Sofie Hjort Andersen



Bonita Mason

For Susan, and Joan, and Kathy, and for you my darling.


Rachael Christensen

Kia Kaha x


Georgia Mitchell

I look forward to reading every post. Such lovely, well written words, Robina. A beautiful snapshot into your lives/life. I miss Susan so much. I will never forget being in such awe of her beauty from such an early age. She will forever leave a lasting impression. Much love to you my beautiful Aunt.


Marian Spencer

Good luck with the squats Robyn - I still think of her almost daily - can hardly believe it's been 4 years!


Jess V


Graeme Dickinson


Francine Preston

The blog is wonderful. Susan stories with squats! Sensational!


Chris Mitchell


Chloe Dack


Lucy Wilson-wells

Go you beauty!! ❤️❤️❤️


Peter Mitchell

Nice one Rob . not an EH though :-) And i should be doing these squats as punishment


Marcus Duncan

Well done Robyn


Alice Risely


Jane House

Go Rob! Thinking of you (and your glutes!) xoxo



Beautiful memories and stories xo


Yael Harris

What a fantastic initiative Robyn! So many gems! Keep them coming xxx




Alex Smee




Craig Phillips


Ryland Mitchell


Kaylene Hunter

Well done xx


Annie Irvine