We gather and snuggle into Daphne’s warm home. Thank you for the hospitality. Thank you to Storyteller Gail for leading this month’s gathering as our MC. Calm, clear, and joyful, Gail set the tone for what became a moving afternoon.

We begin.

It was an afternoon marked by connection, through memory, humour, history, and insight. Stories arrived from many directions, each one adding something fresh to the room.

Member Jossie, dearly departed but clearly never forgotten, was mentioned more than once throughout the afternoon to me. Her name came with warmth and respect. I write this in her honour and memory.

Storyteller Carol offered a heartfelt Acknowledgement of Country before taking us to Madagascar with a story of the Crown of Thorns. The plant’s name comes from the legend that it was used to form the crown placed on Jesus Christ during his crucifixion. Its red bracts, often said to symbolise Christ’s blood, gave the story both gravity and grace.

Then came Storyteller Olga with a sharp shift in tone, reciting T.S. Eliot’s poem Macavity: The Mystery Cat. Olga delivered it with joy and precision, capturing the mischief and cleverness of this law-defying feline. We laughed and joined in as a chorus, relishing the rhythm and wordplay.

Storyteller Anne stepped up next, taking us back to the 13th century with a tale about the Magna Carta. Today, she reminded us, was its anniversary. Originally containing 63 promises written in Latin, the Magna Carta remains a powerful symbol that no one, not even a king (or President), is above the law.

Storyteller Vivienne recalled an excerpt from Call the Midwife by Jennifer Worth, where red toffee apples and soft feathers appeared in the middle of adventure and post-war life. It was a sensory and nostalgic slice of storytelling.

Then Storyteller Sue, in her striking Indian outfit, shared the story of Buddha and the single grain of rice; a tale of humility, truth, and the red threads of consequence. She wrapped her story in a striking image: a blood-red sari and the weight of a lie exposed. She then left us with the thought of “What is reality anyway?”.

Reality does come to us next in the form of a Kamishibai (Japanese paper theatre) tale about a man remembered for one distinctive thing: his red hat. A quiet but powerful story about legacy. (I ponder how I wish to be remembered…?)

Then came Storyteller Graham, who hooked us early, built curiosity in the middle, and left us laughing at the end. His tale brought royal histories and old ways to the unlikely setting of Kapunda where, it’s said, the ghost of a brass band and the scent of snuff still linger.

Storyteller Maggie brought drama and delight with a story that began with a witch’s cry and ventured into forests, fantasy, blood-sucking creatures, and a fateful apple. Fairytales with princesses it seems, still have the power to hold a room.

Olga returned for a second story, this time introducing us to Ben, an innocent six-year-old in 1870 who just wanted to protect his badger friend. So delightful and entwined in the thought that friends can come from anywhere, even under a blood red moon.

With Isabel offering a toast in honour of her mum, we came to the end of our storytellers… until Barbara offered a lasting note. Sharing the words of her Sudanese friend, she reminded us: “My blood is red, just like yours.” A simple truth, and a powerful one. No matter where we come from or what stories we carry, we are made of the same stuff.

The end.