It was 2007 and I was heading out to work on the regional program of an Indigenous arts festival called Stylin’ Up. A car entourage of arts workers were headed to Cherbourg to run beatmaking, songwriting and dance workshops.
As I drove up into Highgate Hill, the sun was just coming up. Ahead of me I saw Patty leaning against a yellow ute wearing a striped ’70s men’s T-shirt, a rat’s tail catching the light. She looked electric. I remember thinking: Uh oh.
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