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Geraldine Pascall was a lady larrikin, a woman of great style, wit and wisdom, for whom there were no sacred cows. She had presence, or if you will, a charisma, and an unfailing capacity to unnerve the most sanguine. Her Indulgence column in The Weekend Australian, where we met and worked together, was the perfect vehicle for eclectic bowerbird and sometimes self-serving interests. She cast her gaze and acerbic pen over the rich and infamous, their foibles and follies. She praised and chided, railed and rallied and the readers loved it. Occasionally she over-played her hand and the writs would fly, but few stuck. For the larrikin was also Lady Luck. Geraldine was a very private person, and apart from a handful of close friends, very alone. To those allowed 'in' behind the dark glasses and under the straw brims, her vulnerability was palpable. Her search for self was a quest that despite her mid years, seemed to have only really just begun; her need for security and companionship, to be loved, a deep and driving and sometimes dark force. With Geraldine I shared a love of food, books, wine and travel. And many was the late night we would sit by a computer terminal, drinking yet another wine company's latest release, Geraldine always from the same glass kept in the desk drawer, debating the merits of this meal or that; reminiscing on trips past and journeys still to take. Invariably 'La Pascall' would arrive at the office as most were leaving, work till the wee hours and curse when the computer system was closed down, for routine 3.00am maintenance. Often Geraldine would write all night, we'd breakfast together, then she'd go home to Sydney's eastern suburbs and her German Shepherd dog, Petrus. Geraldine's taste for life's luxuries was unabashed - she loved classic design, silk, fine French wines- her dog was named after a great Bordeaux; she was passionate about opera, first nights, first class, Joy perfume and Godiva chocolates, and always sent her sheets to the laundry. By most lights Geraldine had hedonism down to a tee, a capacity that nine years after her death I still admire... as I do her vibrant mind, her indefatigable curiosity, her urbanity, generosity, vivacity, frankness, biting humour, loyalty and determination. One can't help but feel that this year's Pascall Prize (1992) for critical writing on food and wine, would particularly please Geraldine, especially if it's granted to a fellow larrikin.
Geraldine Pascall - A Reminiscence by Adrian Read Most people remember the dark glasses. For those who saw her without them it was a shock, at least the first time, to find that underneath them she wore painstakingly-applied make-up. I remember waiting. While waiting for Geraldine to bathe, dress and ready herself to go out I watched hours of television and read countless magazines. Sometimes she would take so long that it was too late to go out at all. Dark glasses and keeping people waiting were two ways Geraldine had of putting up barriers between herself and others: passively, using dark glasses; actively, using unapologetic lateness. It was a rough-and-ready filtering system. Wordlessly, she dared those she intrigued or inconvenienced to take her up on it. For many this made her simply too much trouble to get to know - and that suited her fine. But the battlements were not invulnerable. Enjoying pieces she had written, and saying so, got the drawbridge down for me. It was a surprise how quickly I found myself close to someone apparently so cool and distant. Geraldine's journalism was informed, intelligent and varied. She wrote powerfully about being female; her interviews were full of insights; she reviewed books, plays and films without caring if she offended; she brought wit and style to food and wine writing. She had a passion for writing, and for living. But she was a thoroughly professional working journalist and, as long as there was a firm deadline, the living did not get in the way of the writing. The routine she adopted in order to cover the gastronomic waterfront was extraordinary. She would rise in time to be late for lunch, spend so long at lunch that she could be late for dinner, and so on.... When the "Indulgence" column deadline loomed, she would often go straight from dinner to The Australian's office and work all night, sometimes far enough into the morning that she could, once again, be late for lunch. This would sound like mockery if she didn't write about what she ate and drank - and who she did it with - with a flair and elegance that I doubt has been matched since. She had done it for a long time however, and by the end of 1982 she needed a change. At the time of her death she was on the campaign trail with Bob Hawke, a few weeks before his first election victory. Some of her last pieces - mainly reportage - are among her best. She died suddenly, of a brain haemorrhage on February 17, 1983. The campaign had been suspended following the Ash Wednesday bushfires and she had gone home for a rest. Fate made sure I will always remember the date. It's my birthday. I believe she would approve of what has been done with her estate, although she would been irritated that so many men are involved. We may be fortunate she did not leave a will. I would not have put it past her to insist formally on the commemoration she once (jokingly?) instructed friends to arrange following her (unimaginable!) demise. It was to sprinkle her ashes over the waves of Bondi together with a litre of the world's most expensive perfume, Jean Patou's Joy - concentrate, of course. That would have suited her image. The Pascall Prize, however, reflects the substance. |
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