Wednesday, December 18

Our family received an unexpected honour today.  Giant Steps School has chosen Christie as the name of one of its new houses.  In the past year or so the school has been able to appoint a Student Representative Council and it is this body which made the decision to choose the names of families who have made an important contribution to the development of the organisation.

It's a significant honour and we feel suitably humble.  The motto of Christie House is 'Dare to be Different'.

Friday, December 13th

I notice that authorities are predicting we still have months of the bushfire season to endure and that various brigades are having to crowd-fund to raise money for their basic equipment, because governments are too mean to provide appropriately.  What sort of society are we, that cuts funding to an essential service manned by volunteers, many of whom are losing pay when they take time off from their work to carry out this public service?

I heard the story this week of the tiny Kimberley Fire Brigade in Tasmania who decided they needed to do something to replenish their tool kit; they were down to just one screwdriver!   Someone donated a parcel of chocolate which they decided to raffle.  The Deloraine Rotary Club heard about this and offered to help out, sitting at Woolies to sell tickets.  They made about $1500 and, with a bit extra from the Rotary Club, it's a good result.

The result is that the whole gang of volunteer firies from Kimberley are planning to visit Bunnings this Saturday to spend their windfall.  They can probably afford a whole screwdriver set.

Wednesday, December 11

It was another chaotic trip through Sydney airport yesterday.  I don't know what Virgin passengers have to endure but Jetstar give the impression they are trained by the Spanish Inquisition.  1 hour and 20 minutes I stood in line just to hand my suitcase to a surly check-in chick (is that how her job is described?).  Last time we were held up, they blamed it on a computer glitch; this time, they blamed the smoke from the bushfires, causing an alarm to go off in the baggage conveyor belt.  What rubbish! There are 12 check-in gates and there were never more than 4 staff members on duty.  

I felt for the family groups and for the non-English speaking passengers who had no idea what was going on.  Many of them would have flown in from Singapore or Tokyo: real airports who know what they are doing.  Sydney Airport is an embarrassment!

Tuesday, December 10

We've been in NSW for a couple of weeks, spending time with Robyn at Lake Illawarra, and weekends with Anne and Alan at Turramurra.  Marilyn likes to be in Sydney at this time of the year when her nieces and nephews are involved in various end-of-year activities. 

Apart from that, we sat around a lot chatting, haunted various shopping centres and travelled on public transport.  We had hope to be among the first to travel on the new light rail service from Circular Quay to Randwick but the starting date has been pushed up to December 14th so had to be content with a trip in the new Mwpetro line between Chatswood and Epping.  We were unsure how we felt about a driverless train but it was an interesting journey, and the up-graded stations at Chatswood and Eeping were impressive.

From Epping, we continued on to Central on the tired old line through Strathfield and we saw how much needs to be done to drag Sydney Rail into the 21st century.  

November 22

FREE WRITING EXERCISE - 22 NOVEMBER 2019

I'm looking at the wall of the Launceston School for Seniors building opposite.  It's a brick wall, built with the local orange brick, in the ubiquitous Stretcher Bond pattern - nothing fancy but not the cheap option, either.  The architect has opted for functional rather than pizzaz.

With the way the sun is shining, I can see the imperfections in the line of brickwork.  Some individual bricks seem to stand out, others seem recessed a fraction.  My tidy mind wants uniformity and the lack of perfection bothers me.

Maybe I'll sit with my back to that wall in future.

November 21(2)

Last session of the exams this morning and Marilyn and I are supervising Electronics in a room with just 6 students: 5 boys and 1 girl.  I always like to read through the paper to see whether it makes any sense and I came across this question:

Are the R inputs on the flip-flops represented above active high or active low?

Sometimes you have to admit when you're beaten but at least I know that flip-flops are some kind of switch and not casual foorwear.

This stint of working at the exams has been a very good exercise.  Most of our sessions have been in the afternoon but even the couple of early-morning starts has not been a problem.  We've enjoyed the routine of having to be showered and dressed by a certain time and, although we're not prone to sitting around the house unwashed and in our pyjamas, it's almost like the old days when our lives were ruled by the demands of our employment.  And it is good to feel useful again.

For one reason or another, I find myself writing more and more so I've decided to re-purpose the Joy of Retirement blog as a repository or dumping ground for my random scribblings.  I like to read back on what I've had to say at various stages and, if they are of interest to anyone who happens to stumble upon them, that's a bonus.

We've decided we're going to turn some of the money we've earned this past fortnight into a short break in NSW.  It's a daft time to go anywhere near Sydney with the amount of bush-fire smoke haze over the city but we're not known for making sensible decisions.  With as bit of luck the smoke might cleared before we get there.

November 21

The following is this week's homework for my Writing Group, on the topic: The One Before.

Liam knew from an early age that his parents had high expectations of him.  His mother had taught him how to make his bed as soon as he was tall enough to pull up the blanket, his father gave him chores to do in the garden and, on his 6^th birthday he was allowed to steer the electric mower around the lawn, under strict supervision, of course.  His parents often said they wanted him to be able to look after himself.

There was vague talk that one day he would study to be an accountant and eventually be able to take over the family business.  Liam watched his father go off to work each morning, always dressed in a dark suit and striped tie, and carrying a briefcase.

As he grew older, he became aware that there were some things in the house which seemed not quite right but were never talked about.  There was a bedroom which he wasn’t allowed to go in, there was a shed in the yard which was always locked.  He never seemed to get any new clothes; when he needed another singlet or pair of shorts, his mother would look in a drawer and find what he needed.  

 All his toys had a ‘used-before’ look about them and he was never allowed to ask for a particular present for Christmas. His presents didn’t even seem to come from a shop, they seemed to have been in the house all the time.  At first, Liam didn’t think this was odd; as far as he knew this was normal but, when he became more aware of how his friends’ lives differed, he started to wonder.

One time he found some picture books in the bookcase with the name William inside the front cover.  I wonder who William is, he thought.  Another time, he found his mother crying in the kitchen.  He had never seen his mother cry before, but she never laughed either, or even smiled.  “Don’t worry, William,” she said. “I’m only thinking about someone that I used to know.” 

Why is she calling me William, Liam thought.  That’s not my name.

On his 12^th birthday, his parents sat Liam down and said. “Now that you are 12, there is something important that we have to tell you.  Before you were born we had another child, your brother, William.  Sadly, he died.  All our hopes and dreams rested on that little boy and, when he was gone, we decided to have another child as soon as possible.”

That night, Liam thought about this for a long time.  From what his parents had said, he was only a replacement for the one who came before.  Even his name was just a shorter form of William: a bit like William, but not as good. Everything I have, he realised, was William’s first.  William is so important, Liam thought, that, even now he is dead, he still has a bedroom in the house and a special locked shed in the yard.

It was William, Liam understood, who was supposed to train as an accountant and take over the family business.  Well, I’m not going to be just a substitute.  I’m not going to spend my life stuck in an office.  I’m going to follow my own dream.

I’m going to be … a Lumberjack!

Wednesday, November 20(1)

I heard a guru on radio talking about feeding birds in our garden. He made the usual disclaimers – don't give them human food, don't make them dependent, etcetera.  Think of it, he said,  like friends coming in for a cup of tea and a Tim Tam.

He warned about feeding magpies meat. Not enough calcium, he said. I recommend dog food.  Dogfood? Did he mean I should open a tin of Pal.  I certainly don't want to go down that road.

Anyway I bought a bag of dry meaty chunks. I cover a handful with boiling water each morning until it softens and spread it on the grass outside the lounge room windows. The magpies wait for me now and hang around the back door if I'm late. A Rainbow Lorikeets also relishes a bit of dogfood, picking it up in its claw and nibbling it with its beak. This particular lorikeets is right-handed.

We seem to have one regular family group of magpies who call our garden home.  There's a pair of adults, with gleaming black and white plumage, three or four of last year's chicks,  still with some greyish feathers among the white, and the other day one of the parent birds brought the first of this year's brood to the back door to meet us.  It was still not fully grown and its tail feathers were not fully developed, but it already had the appropriate cheeky swagger and cocky walk, albeit a bit clumsy(Please excuse the pretentious use of albeit in a sentence).

November 19(2)

The title of this morning's exams is Information Systems and Digital TechnologyThere are 19 students in two rooms, each individual equipped with a computer and two monitors. I don't understand how the double monitor works but clearly you can have twice as much information on the screen at any one time

Marilyn is on her own, in another small room, with only one student who apparently has difficulty with larger groups

It's 9.20 now and we don't finish until 12:15. Let's hope they are all brilliant and finish early

Being cooped up in a small classroom each day is very isolating.  Normally I'm plugged into the world in various ways – through the TV, my computer, listening to podcasts, chatting with Marilyn or on the phone but here, if I close my eyes and ignore the air conditioning hum and the clicking of the keyboards I could imagine that I'm the last man on earth.  I don't see myself as being particularly social by am lost without access to books and TV

Kim the supervisor asked us  this morning to write down our favourite movies. Without hesitation I wrote down Westside Story because of the memories it evoked.  It was made in 1961 and we must've seen it for the first time soon after that. Since then I've seen it several times and the stage musical as well.

I realise that all the most memorable movies have a great soundtrack - Chariots of Fire, The Mission and, more recently, Rocketman and A Star is Born. The vision is very fleeting but the music last forever

Looking at the favourite movies chosen by other people is enlightening - the Princess Bride? My Dog Spot?  Really?

Tuesday, November 19(1)

Many of the gang working at these exams have been doing it for years. Most are retired teachers who enjoy the opportunity to get back in the classroom. Some yearn, no doubt, to re-live those days when they were them in their prime and ruler of their domain, monarch of their glen, king of their classroom.

There are several husband and wife teams who tell me they turn their wages into a little holiday. Of course most of the supervisors tend to be from the previous generation and their appearance and conversation reflect that.

Each day Kim, one of the coordinators, puts something on the whiteboard to spark our interest. It might be a quote or a new word or a question to be answered.  Today we were invited to say what would be our ideal car. Inspector Morse's Jaguar was one choice, Lamborghini and Maserati also appeared and so did mini! Once upon a time I might have said an MG, but today I said 'something comfortable'. I must be getting old

Although one fellow about my age has stopped developing as well.  He dresses as if he was back in the 1960s, boasts that he doesn't own a mobile phone, can't use a computer and doesn't believe in ebooks. His choice the car was 'something economical'. I haven't bought a newspaper in a decade, and when we travel we carry six devices:  two smart phones, two iPads and two ebook readers.  We might be getting old but we're still evolving.

November 18(2)

Marilyn is not working today so I'm on my own. I seem to have become the supervisor of choice when it comes to taking small groups. It's chemistry this afternoon and I, again, have only two students in my class. They have both been allowed the use of a computer which is no benefit for this subject so they've declined.  One has been allocated an extra 30 minutes so he'll work through until 4.45 but the other fellow will finish at 4:15.

I don't really know why the second fellow is here and not in the larger group; he's not getting any extra time, he seem not to have a disability, his paperwork gives no clue but I'm just following orders, I don't question why.

Monday, November 18(1)

When we moved into our house at Dilston we became aware that there was an issue with our address. Driving from Launceston we found that the main part of Dilston was a couple of kilometres south of where we were and we seemed to drive through Windermere before we reached our street.

As we began the process of updating our address with various government departments and other organisations we were often told that their computer didn't recognise it and were we sure we didn't live in Swan Bay - a classic case of 'computer says No'.  Swan Bay is just one of a number of suburbs who share the same postcode as Dilston and we really seem to be more geographically linked with that area than with Dilston. Swan Bay is also a more euphonious name than Dillson but all my neighbours seem to have gone with Dilston so we'll stick with that too.  I don't know what the original name for these areas were but we need to research that.  Aboriginal names are generally more interesting than place-names and transported from a country on the other side of the world

It might have been reassuring for the poor convicts transported half way round the world to be reminded of the home and family left behind  but for many of them there might have been unpleasant memories also of things left behind

Windermere to me has connections with the Lake District of England with visions of calm waters and Swans floating by. There is certainly water at Tasmania's Windermere, the Tamar river, and often it is calm but the swans are black!

Windermere in Tasmania has gained a reputation as being an outpost of Old England. It seems to be a favourite spot for retired Poms to settle. For many, the local St Matthias Church is the focus of the village, there is a thriving garden club and a birdwatchers society, many locals paint watercolours and the group which meets at the cafe on Friday nights display a variety of Anglo accents. Still there is one symbol of Windermere which reminds everyone who sees it that is without without question a part of Australia!

As you drive from Launceston and look across to the north-east there is a large patch of cleared land on one of the Windermere Hills. There are a number of scrubby bushes and trees on the hillside and as you drive along and the perspective changes, the bushes seem to move together to form the image of a giant emu.

It has a head and neck a large body and long legs. Of course as the car continues to move the elements move apart and the full image can only be seen for an instant. Still, for that one second, it is reassuring to see the Windermere emu.

Friday, November 16

How things have changed.  My offsider and I are sitting in this classroom, supervising two students in a Health Studies exam.  There should be a third student, but he hasn’t turned up.  So, there are just 2, even though there are 95 students in the college registered to take this exam.  The other 9-odd are elsewhere on this floor, in larger groups, probably of 30 or more.

The intention of the exams has changed over the years.  In olden days, it’s fair to say that exams were designed to weed out the students who didn’t know their stuff but not all students are built the same and there were casualties: people who missed out through disability, illness or whatever.  Now the focus is on making allowances for individual differences and ensuring they have every opportunity to achieve their best.

My two students have managed to convince the examiners that they need more time and they have been allocated an extra thirty minutes, so this exam will run for 3 hours 30 minutes, plus 15 minutes ‘reading time’ – a very long afternoon.  There could be any number of reasons for this ‘accommodation’ as they call it but I’m told the process is pretty strict.  The supervisors are not given the reasons.  We’ve also been asked to sit them as close to the door as possible; again, we don’t ask why, we just comply.

Some students might be allowed to use a computer rather than writing by hand.  In fact, there’s a student in the next classroom, working with a computer, on his own with a supervisor.  Others might be allocated a ‘reader’ to help with the paper, there might also be special conditions for wheelchairs.  The ‘scuttlebutt’ is that 91 students from the college have been given accommodations.  That might seem a lot and, no doubt, there are some dodgy ones among them but the current thinking is it’s better to be too generous than not generous enough.

I’m reminded of other ways that things have changed when I look at the boy sitting in front of me – no uniform, of course, as this is a senior college and not attached to a traditional high school.  He’s wearing a cap, with an incomprehensible logo.  It’s on back to front, covering his thick mop of unkempt hair.  That’s at least three infringements of the rules I might have applied two decades ago.

He has on a khaki t-shirt with a slogan on the back, GOD SAVE THE OUTLAWS, and a rectangle containing a large X and three horizontal lines.  This raises more questions than it answers. Why is the slogan, etc on the back?  Who are the outlaws?  Why do they need saving?  Is the rectangle supposed to be a flag?

In any case, the shirt is vaguely para-military and vaguely subversive.  In the old days he would have been sent home to change.  He also has a bag of jelly beans with him, in open view on the desk.  We can’t have that!  They might give him a little burst of energy when he needs it most.  We weren’t allowed jelly beans when I was at school.  Oh, for the good old days!

Thursday, November 15

Mathematics today so the groups are quite large.  Marilyn, again, is off with some other fellow and I have another beginner to break in.  It's a 3 hour paper with an extra 15 minutes for reading the questions so I amuse myself by considering what motivates someone to enter politics.  It's supposed to be blank verse but I lost the thread early, so it's just a jumble of random thoughts.

What makes a politician tick is a question I often ask myself.  What drives a man or woman to set aside the chance of a normal life and choose to swim among the dreadful beasts that lurk in the vile swamps of our national capital?

What stimulus is strong enough to overcome the innate sense of survival which has evolved over millenia to help us avoid the dangerous pathways where our lives may change for the worse?

Is it love for their fellow-humans which provokes the reaction to take the plunge  - a desire to ensure the government fulfils its duty to look after the well-being of all its citizens?

Or is it a broader love - for the world, its natural beauty, and all the enormous variety within it?

Perhaps it's a sense of duty : the understanding that it's a thankless task but someone has to do it - that sacrifices must be made for the common good and, if they won't do, who will?

Then again, it might be a personal belief that one is equipped for greater things and what better way to display extraordinary talent than by basking in the limelight of public life?

Perhaps, for some, it is their ego providing the spur, that insatiable insistence that nobody can do it better.  I wonder whether a thick skin is an essential corollary to a hyper - functioning ego.  Does the presence of an ego help you to withstand the slings and arrows which beset a politician 's life?

Is it a lust for power - the yearning to feel the buzz of knowing that a simple word from you can change the course of the life of an asylum-seeker, or a fruit-picker from Tonga, or a French au pair.

Is it more mundane than any of the above?  Is it simply personal greed which is the primary motivator?  Is it the lure of access to all the trappings of a  privileged life - to the chauffeur-driven cars, the luxury jets, the tax-payer-funded junkets, the well -padded expense accounts?

Is it the desire to  be 'set for life' - the knowledge that a few years in parliament, with all the on -going benefits, will eventually ensure a comfortable retirement income in later years?

Is it the need, perhaps, to please a more powerful sponsor - industry, developer or union?  Is there an expectation of preferment, after a career as an undercover agent,  of well-compensated employment when parliamentary life is over?  Are our budding politicians no more than plants in our parliament to promote the interests of powerful sponsors?

Perhaps it's none of these, or only some of them but, it is just as likely that every one of these is represented in our parliament.  What seems to be patently obvious is that we are not attracting the right people.  Where are the committed men and women with the intellect, breadth of vision and compassion to be the leaders of our community?

Instead, we are at the mercy of mediocre, time-serving foot soldiers of corrupt political parties, who work under the constant threat that, if they don't toe the party line, they will lose their seat at the next election.  And their first loyalty is to the political party which holds their future in its hands.  Is it too much to expect that our employees should give  their first loyalty to the people who pay their wages?

I know that, nowadays, Politics is regarded more as a career than a civic duty.  Once upon a time, a man (and they were almost all men in parliament) might take some time off from his law practice or running the family farm to spend a few years in Canberra.  Now, they go straight from school to university, to a job as a political staffer, until they can snaffle a pre-selection spot.  Nepotism is rife and the only criterion for selection is whether they can win the seat.  No points are given for intelligence, or common sense, or honesty, or respect, or that old- fashioned word honour.  So our parliament is filled with con-men, shysters, chancers and grifters.

God help Australia!

Tuesday, 12 November

It's exam time again and another opportunity for me to be involved in supervision.  This year, Marilyn has also put up her hand, having enjoyed the few days work we did together at the Election Re-count earlier this year.  Even Jamie has got himself involved; he applied while he still had time available and, although he has a busy schedule with his main job, he'll still pick up four ofr five shifts with the exams.

Marilyn and I expected our first shift today but I was called in yesterday when there was a last-minute need for an extra pair of hands.  By the end of the fortnight we will have completed 16 or 17 shifts between us.  Some can be as long as 3 hours 45 minutes, and we're not allowed to read or do puzzles, so the time goes slowly.  I always have a pad handy and scribble down random thoughts, some of which I will transcribe into the blog to preserve them for posterity.

Wednesday, November 13

Marilyn's expectation that we will be working together was dashed when we were allocated to different exam rooms yesterday.  No matter, we find ourselves together in Japanese this afternoon.  

We only have four students and there are five parts to the exam.  The first part is Listening:  I play a CD and the students have to listen to several passages and write answers to a few questions in one of the booklets.  I listen carefully and manage to pick out a few familiar words: sumimasen, kudasai and so on.  I also hear Hobarto, the Japanese pronunciation of Hobart and I am delighted to discover the passage included the question How far is it from the Huon Valley to Hobart?

Saturday, October 26

I’m sitting at my computer, as I often do, drawing a blank, as I often am.  My assignment for my Writing Group this week is to tease out, from my imagination, a few hundred words on one of three  nominated topics.  Nothing comes to me.  I can’t even decide which topic I will choose.  Something Precious?  Yes, I do regard some things as precious, but they’re very personal.  John Green said once that a writer is an ‘introvert who wants to tell a story without making eye contact’, which describes me to a T.  I want to tell my story without giving away too much about myself.

Could I write about Dark Secrets without stumbling into clichés and predictability?  Probably not, so I’m left with My Special Place.  I’ve had a few special places in my lifetime but which one deserves to be singled out for special attention?

Pondering on this dilemma, I suddenly realise that my very special place is staring me in the face.  The screen saver on my computer is a view of Sydney.  In the middle is Sydney Tower, with its famous revolving restaurant.  On the left is the building site of Barrangaroo where yet another Casino is being built.  On the right are cranes, employed in erecting even more units to meet the insatiable demand.  So there it is – Sydney, my special place.  Maybe a city the size of Sydney shouldn’t qualify as ‘a special place’; after all, there could be millions of ‘special places’ for millions of people all contained in that metropolis.  I could even identify a couple myself: Luna Park, for example, or Coogee Beach.  But Sydney holds a special place in my thoughts; it’s the most special of my special places.

I first heard of Sydney sometime during the year 1950.  At the time we were living in Scotland in a bleak industrial town still trying to get over the ravages of war. My family lived in a tiny apartment in an old tenement building with no bathroom, no electricity and a shared toilet.  It was a great day when Dad came home from work and told us he had been offered a job in Australia and we were moving to the other side of the world.  Our ship would take us to Sydney.  That very name took on a magic aura for me.

My teacher at school made a fuss about our move and found pictures of this fabled land, including one of a school class being taught out-of-doors, under a eucalyptus tree.  This became the symbol for me, of our Shangri-la and, because our ship would deliver us to Sydney, all of the hopes and dreams I had of a new life became focused on this one special place.

We left Scotland in a cold and dreary December and arrived in Sydney in a warm, sparkling Australian summer.  Before travelling to our new home in Wollongong, we had ice-creams and milkshakes in a milk bar in Pitt Street and, to an 8-year old, used to unrelenting rationing, this was the height of luxury. Although, we didn’t live in Sydney at first, it remained the symbol of all that was good.  We went there for special days out: to go to Luna Park, to visit the zoo, to swim at Manly, to marvel at the Harbour Bridge.

In later years we did live in Sydney, at Drummoyne for a time, and, in the first years of our marriage, at Coogee and it has never lost its magic.  The Opera House has now been added to the list of my special places 

We travel there still, to sail on the harbour, to see a show or to have a special meal at one of the great restaurants.  It’s been nearly 70 years since Sydney first became my special place and it’s special still.

Monday, October 21 (2)

We seem to watch quite a bit of TV these days so I'm always on the lookout for something new on the screen.  But, I'm amazed to find that they're bringing back stuff like Hawaii 50, Magnum PI and Dynasty.  Are they mad?  Nostalgia is one thing but reviving programs like this flies in the face of the normal order of things.  What's next?  I Love Lucy?

Monday, October 21

We went to the Casino yesterday for lunch.  When we were in the habit of going more regularly, we joined their loyalty program and started to accumulate points each time we visited.  The program seems to have changed and points magically appear whether we visit or not.  If we do visit, and put a few dollars in the pokies, we get more points.  Each time we go now, we seem to have enough points to get a free meal.  Some items on their menu are available for 150 points and our usual allocation of points can be as high as 1000.  

I can't understand how the mathematics works and can only surmise that their average customer spends much more on the pokiesthan the cost of the meal to the Casino.  Sadly, they're not in front with us.  We might spend a few dollars on a glass of bubbly for Marilyn and cake and coffee, but the margin on those items wouldn't cover the cost of our meals.

Yesterday, there was another promotion.  When we checked in we were put in a draw.  Every two hours, someone's name was pulled out and he/she was given the chance to throw a big plastic dice to win a prize.  We hung around for the 2.30 draw; a fellow's name was called and this yobbo wandered out of the pokie area with a can of beer in his hand.  He wasn't letting go of the beer, so took the dice in one arm and tried to throw it.  I think he needed three 6s to win the big prize.  The best he could do was drop it clumsily on the floor but, whatever he scored, he won $400!

Still holding his beer, he wandered back to the pokies.  There's no justice in the world.

m time to time I like to download some TV shows which we can't get on free-to-air TV.  And we're hopeless at keeping track 

Monday, October 14

Nera's mum and sister are reaching the end of their 3-month holiday in Tasmania and we met up with them today for afternoon tea at the Launceston Gorge.  It is a truly amazing place and the local council has spent some money recently turning it into a must-see attraction.

The suspension bridge and the rhododendron gardens have always been an attraction and the number of peacocks which roam around.  There is also a beautiful swimming pool, surrounded by lawns, but the council has now added a terrific playground for kids, barbecues and an inclinator to help oldies move between the Carpark, and the lower level where all the good bits are.

For visitors from the Philippines, it is gob-smacking.

We were walking between the restaurant on one side of the gorge to the other, when we noticed a fellow with a walking stick  coming towards us.  I happened to have my stick with me as well; the man caught sight of it and recognised a fellow-sufferer.  He was obviously struggling and his speech was very difficult but I worked out that he was from Ballina, had recently had a heart operation and was now equipped with a pig's valve.  Everything had come through the DVA.  He had worked out that my problem was associated with a stroke.  We chatted for a while, shook hands and he moved on.

It's clear I've reached a particular stage in my life when people see me in a particular light.. no longer the upwardly-mobile young professional, I am now the poor old bugger who will be grateful for a friendly word to brighten his day.  Bah, humbug!

I'm struggling with a slow-motion cold at the moment.  It started about 8 days ago with a tickle in the throat.  The sniffles began about Thursday, and the streaming eyes came upon me this morning. Once upon a time, I could deal with a cold in just a few days but now it's a three-ring circus, with no end in sight.

Saturday, October 12

Who could deny the importance of science to our society if they read the article in this morning's media.  Japanese scientists were asked to find a solution to cows being harassed by flies.  Some bright spark noticed that zebras didn't seem to have the same problem as cows so suggested it might be useful to disguise the cows as zebras.

Five minutes with a tin of white paint and the problem was halved.  Close observation noted that the number of flies on a black cow was 112 and, after painting, this was reduced to 55.  Apparently, the stripes confuse the flies and they go off to find a more comforting target.  Who would have thought?

This might be the origin of the phrase, no flies on him.

I turned on the TV this morning to get the news and found myself watching Rage.  Not my favourite program by any means, but this morning a video clip was just starting.  The song was Someone You Loved by a Scottish singer, Lewis Capaldi and featured the actor, Peter Capaldi, who is a distant cousin.  The song is good, but the clip is brilliant.  I've always felt Peter Capaldi is a terrific actor but this three minutes with no dialogue shows the depth of his talent, every emotion shown by facial expression.

Thursay, October 10th

It's another public holiday in Launceston today, supposedly to allow us yokels to attend the Launceston Show.  From a city of about 100,000 people, 2 or 3000 might go to the Show for an hour or two; most will be school kids who are on holiday anyway, and will be looking for things to do to relieve their boredom, and they will only be interested in the Show Bags and the carnival rides.  Oh, there are still some animals to look at but it's a shadow of its former glory and only managing to survive through government subsidies, ridiculous charges for stall-holders and extortionate prices at the gate.

It's ludicrous that a tradition which was begun more than a century ago, in quite different circumstances, has become so sacred that we can't undo it in the name of common sense.

I've just finished reading Plots and Prayers by Niki Savva, an explanation of the way in which Malcolm Turnbull was ousted from his job as Prime Minister.  Did the Liberal Party learn nothing from the experiences of the ALP when they tried the same thing years ago?  Nobody in this debacle come out with any credibility.  They forget that they work for us, and that their own personal ambitions and petty quarrels should not be allowed to affect their day jobs.

For a dose of something more sensible, I'm starting on the three volumes of the continuation of the Millenium Trilogy.  The original author, Stieg Larsson, died, of course, before he could complete the books he had planned, and a new author, David Lagercrantz, has picked up the reins.  He has already produced three more books about Lisbeth Salander.  I've been getting them as they have been released but am only now getting around to reading them.

Wednesday, October 10

We woke up this morning to a sparkling Tasmanian Spring Day.  The sun is shining, the air is warm and there are a couple of new magpie chicks learning how to warble just outside our lounge room window.

As the poet said, all's right with the world.  What could possibly spoil this good mood I'm enjoying?

As I bask in the delight of the day, a car comes up our driveway, parks on the grass and two men get out: dressed in jackets, wearing ties, and carrying briefcases, their purpose is all too obvious. In fact, they've been here before, on their usual round.  They're missionaries, peddling the beliefs of, I think, Jehovah's Witnesses.

"Bugger off!" I shout, and shake my fist.  I don't really, although it goes through my mind, shaken out of my reverie by the unwelcome intrusion.

Instead, I say politely, "I don't want to talk to you this morning, and I would prefer if you didn't drive your car up my driveway, uninvited. 

They come regularly and, if we're not home, they leave their literature at the front door.  Somehow, we've been conned into allowing these organisations to operate tax-free so that unwanted literature is subsidised by the Australian tax-payer.  Did I get a say in that decision?  Not likely. 

Each time these blokes come,  I tell them I'm not interested but their business plan depends on ignoring my wishes and persevering with their visits in case someone more amenable answers the door.  Maybe a previous occupant made them more welcome and there's a big tick beside this address on their To Do list. 

Whatever the reason, like death and taxes, missionaries seem to be always with us.  Perhaps it's time to get a big dog.

Thursday, October 3

To celebrate Nera's citizenship, many of her family and friends decided to go out for dinner.  I might have thought a meal at the pub might have been more typically Australian, but they decided to try out a new Japanese restaurant which has just arrived in town. 

We sat on two sides of a large rectangular table, twelve of us, and were given 2 iPads, which had illustrations of the meals on it.  We used the iPad to select what we wanted, and the meals arrived on a conveyor belt above our heads.  We took the meals, and clicked a RETURN button on the iPad to send the trolley back to the kitchen.  If we fancied something else, we ordered it and it would appear in due course.  Everything was accompanied by bells and whistles to alert us when something was happening.

The food was good but working out the bill was a nightmare.  Each iPad produced one bill and it had to be shared out in some way.  Marilyn and I had very little but a couple of fellows opposite were determined to try everything on the menu.  I suppose it's the old story:  I if you're frugal, you'll end up subsidising someone who spends money as if there's no tomorrow.

It might have been better if each couple had their own iPad for ordering, and maybe that's a refinement the restaurant owners will have to consider.