Saturday, June 27(2)

A quick update:  the prospective buyer's friend had her inspection this afternoon and promised to ring Adelaide with a thumbs-up.  Matt and Jamie have come up with a strategy to deal with the problem the Adelaide woman is encountering, so everything is positive on that front.  In the meantime, Matt has put the property back on the market and four people have rung him to express interest.  Three cars have driven past slowly this afternoon to allow people to sticky-beak.

All in all, not a bad day's work.

Saturday, 27th June

Yesterday was the deadline for the buyer of our house to secure his finance but we heard on Thursday evening that his bank had said No.  That, of course, has real implications for us.  One option might be to give the fellow more time to go to another bank but it's unlikely he would be more successful the second time around.  I blame it on the Banking Royal Commission which put an end to banks throwing money at anyone who asked.  Being responsible lenders is all very well but it has repercussions on those of us who have other plans.

The agent, Matt, said "Don't worry' because that's his job and contacted the prospective buyer he had always said was waiting in the wings.  Apparently, she has cash but, unfortunately, she lives in Adelaide and is not keen to buy something she hasn't seen - the proverbial pig in a poke.  We're not sure when the Tasmanian borders will open again so she can't just fly in to have a look..However, she has a local friend who is coming this afternoon and will report back on her impressions.

If all else fails, we will put the house back on the market and see what eventuates.  Whatever happens, though, we will have to let our offer on the unit in Longford lapse.  We only have until Tuesday to have our ducks in a row and there is no possible chance of everything being finalised in that short time.

No matter, there are plenty of other properties out there and we're confident something will pop up.

Friday, June 19 (2)

We’ve been trying to watch the new series, Operation Buffalo, on ABC but it’s hard going.  There’s something about Australian productions in general which almost make us cringe.  The male characters too often come across as shallow, uneducated boofheads.  Operation Buffalo is about the nuclear testing at Maralinga so you would have thought there might be the odd intelligent physicist or engineer knocking about but the producers have decided to highlight the coarser element of the workforce.  

The reviews of the show say that it was intended to be a comedy-drama.  Well, this biased viewer would like to say that it misses out on both counts: It’s neither funny nor dramatic so we will probably end up going back to overseas shows we’ve downloaded. Shame really.

We're certainly watching more TV than we did: a combination of the pandemic forcing us to spend more days at home, and the sense of disquiet that comes from waiting for something important to happen.  We know that we'll be moving into a new house but we have to suffer the long wait for the process to take its course.

There's already been one hitch: the buyer of Sherborne Drive has had a hold-up in his application for financing and we've had to allow him an extension.  He now has until the 26th to pin that down but we had a call yesterday to let us know that someone from his bank will be here on Monday to check some measurements.

It shouldn't take forever but apparently Coronavirus is now the handy excuse for anyone who wants to slow down the way things ought to happen.

Friday, June 19

This week's Writing Group topics was 'Possessed' and I produced the following:

I was a bit of a loner at school. I was shy and not very sporty and found it difficult to make friends in the rough and tumble of the playground.  I did try, though, making a special effort with any new kid who turned up but, as soon as they had found their feet, they were off to the more satisfying social life with the in-crowd, although I didn’t hear that term until years after I had left school.

There was one exception to this pattern.  A new girl appeared one morning.  The headmaster brought her to the classroom door and I thought he looked a little more flustered than usual.  He told us the girl’s name was Amy and we were to make her welcome. She was not wearing school uniform, I noticed and her dress was a bit too long and she had laced-up boots on.  Her dark hair was in two pigtails and she didn’t smile, even when we all chorused, ‘Hello, Amy.”  I also noticed, through the window, her mother as she left after her meeting with the headmaster.  She was not like any of the other mothers.  She also had very dark hair, and was dressed in dark clothes and she didn’t look, well, motherly.

I don’t want to suggest that Amy and I became friends but we were both misfits in that particular school so we did find ourselves spending a bit of time together.  I think Amy was only at that school for about 6 months and she didn’t seem to get into a lot of trouble in that short time. But, she certainly had the teachers spooked. For some reason, they were very wary of Amy, and often suggested she might like to have a break, or visit the library or go for a walk during a lesson.  Her mother also came to the school a lot.  I don’t know whether she chose to come or was called in by the headmaster but she certainly spent more time talking to him than any other parent.

We also had more visits from the police around that time, and often we saw important-looking people in Department of Education cars coming in to the school.  There seemed to be an outbreak of illness among the teachers who more often took days off and one of my favourite teachers took early retirement.  After school one day, I saw a Catholic priest arriving to attend the staff meeting.

I didn’t understand what was going on; it was all a bit strange but I suspected that much of the discussion was about Amy.  Nobody told me anything, of course, but if they had asked me I could have told them a few things.  Like the fact that cats seemed to be attracted to Amy and would follow her down the street, rubbing themselves against her legs.  Or that dogs seemed frightened of her and would cower when she passed by.  Or that I had seen her in the distance one afternoon with a crow sitting on her shoulder.

I could tell them about the time that one of the other girls told Amy she was weird and Amy just stared at the girl and, as I watched, the tyres on the girl’s bike went flat. Most importantly, I could have told them that there seemed to be something odd about Amy’s eyes.  It was like looking through the window of a house and seeing something moving behind the curtains, like a cat or a bird.  But something slimier and sneakier than a cat or a bird – more like a rat or a snake.

But they didn’t ask me, because I was only a kid.

Friday, June 12

For today's writing group I chose the topic 'Dont Ask" I should say, from the outset that no member of my family, dead or alive, is depicted in the following piece of fiction.

Do you find, like me, that some people seem to have been born with the ability to irritate everyone around them without really trying, or meaning to?  I had an uncle like that.  Whenever he was around I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle, obviously some sort of primitive warning that it was time for me to run away.  To be fair, he never did me any physical harm but he had a terrible effect on my state of mind. I’ve often wondered what it was about my uncle that attracted my aunt but she often spoke dreamily about Richard Gere and Harrison Ford so clearly she wasn’t looking for subtlety or depth in her ideal man.

I also tried to analyse what it was about my uncle that irritated me so much and there were several things which sprang to mind.  He had a perpetual smirk: an expression which seemed to signify that he had an innate sense of superiority.  I know you can’t choose the face you are born with but surely you can control to some extent the expression you put on it.  

To go with his smirk, he was what we used to call a smart-aleck.  No matter what the topic of conversation, he always claimed to have special insider knowledge not available to the rest of us.  And he used cutting expressions like: “Didn’t you know that?” and “What did they teach you at that University you spent so many years at?”  

His name was Lancelot. Yes, I know it’s bizarre but perhaps his mother had a romantic yearning for the days of King Arthur, and her husband was happy just to let her have her way, but it was an unusual name for someone living in a middle-class Australian suburb.  I would have thought it would make sense for him to use his middle name (William) or shorten his first name to Lance but, no, he clung to the incongruity of the name as if using it as a weapon to beat all the rest of us plebs.

Another of the things which irritated me most about Uncle Lancelot was his speech. He had a whiny voice, like a querulous bank manager complaining to a junior clerk about taking an extra five minutes for his lunch hour.  When he began one of his lengthy monologues about what the government should be doing about the current fiscal downturn or the pitfalls of our immigration policy, I had to use all of my willpower to stop myself from screaming.

And on the top of my list of things I hated about my uncle was his habit of turning any polite inquiry about his state of health or a throwaway remark about how he was going into a tirade about the extraordinary trials he was dealing with and the unfairness of life.  I confess, I didn’t have a comprehensive vocabulary of conversation starters but my tentative “How are you?” or How are things?” would invariably be met with a “Don’t ask!” and my heart would sink as I knew what was coming.

Sunday, June 7th

Some of the COVID restrictions were eased today so we were able to meet up with a couple of friends in town for lunch.  We've lost touch with places to go but found a new little restaurant called Local Hideout.  How brave is it to open a restaurant in the middle of a pandemic but we have to wish them every success for their bravery, and it was great.

Our writing group met again on Friday via Zoom.  It's been a busy week so I didn't write anything new but one of the topics was 'Looking for a Word' so I dug out a little poem I wrote a while ago.

LEARNING JAPANESE

In the wilds of far Tasmania, it’s rare to hear the chatter

Of jolly Japanese jabbering about things that really matter

In this typical selection of the Aussie population

It’s English that we speak, like the rest of this great nation.

If we all could choose a language that we use to tell our story

And we all chose something different, conversation would be gory

To concentrate on English is a sensible decision

It means that all we need to say can be said without revision

But when we go to foreign lands, we’re faced with much confusion

The natives there don’t speak like us – I’ve come to that conclusion

Next time I go to distant climes, I’ll sort that out, by jingo

By learning how the natives speak and speaking in their lingo.

Instead of saying Good Afternoon, I’ll say Konnichi-wa

And sumimasen, kudasai and Mo tabemashita ka?

I’ll cause a stir where’er I go, they’ll stop me in my track

To hear me speak like natives do and slap me on the back.

I’ll order food in restaurants and chat with passers-by

They’ll think I’ve lived here all my life, I’m such a clever guy

I’ll know about the things that happen to people in the street

And talk about the weather with everyone I meet.

The Emperor will serve me tea and laugh at all my jokes

I’m told that all the Royal mob are just like other blokes

They sip their beers and scratch their bums and talk about the footy

And open fetes and wave to crowds and carry out their duty.

But really, when all’s said and done, I’m just a lazy fellow

Who thinks that folk will understand my English if I bellow
If I shout out loud and wave my hands my meaning will be clear

So I’ll leave my learning Japanese on the shelf for another year.

Thursday, June 4th

It was zero degrees when I put my toe out the door this morning, and our first serious frost of the season covered the grass.  I should have crawled back into bed but the birds were gathering for their breakfast.  The galahs and pigeons wait quietly but the magpies seem to feel that if they set up their carolling it will encourage me to hurry up.

It's not just the frost I have to crunch through: at this time of the year the ground is never quite dry.  We have clay soil so there are always pools of water in various spots.  It's frustrating that I can't do one last mow before we leave, but there's just too much moisture in the grass.  We must be mad to consider moving house in the winter.

I've been trying to clear out our little shed and move the junk to Jamie's bigger one.  I have a pretty good trailer with a cage but I've made four trips already and there's still more. With the wet ground I haven't been able to drive the car right up to the shed, so I have to ferry all the stuff in the mower trailer to the harder ground where the car is parked.  It's double handling and it's not fun. 

And it's galling that none of the junk is worth keeping.  I have memorabilia collected over years, not only by us but by my parents and Marilyn's, and my aunt and uncle.  I have a dozen examples of tapestry completed by my Aunt Mabel, all framed and mounted behind glass.  I'll never hang them and they will not be valued when we've gone, so why are we holding on to them?  There are boxes of old books that Marilyn and I had as children, videos we thought we might watch again some day, souvenir programs from events we enjoyed, dozens of cassettes of long-retired or dead musicians, knick-knacks which came from the two families' china cabinets, ornaments which we one thought beautiful.

We've made a resolution: we haven't the time now but, when everything is in Jamie's shed, and we've settled into the new house, we'll have a comprehensive cleaning-out. 

On a more positive not: we have been watching an outstanding TV program called The English Game, about the early days of the FA Cup in England.  I had assumed Marilyn wouldn't be interested and was watching it surreptitiously but she wandered in part way through Episode 2, became enthralled and insisted I go back and start the whole thing again.  It was written by Julian Fellowes who did Downton Abbey so it is more a social history than a bald documentary.  It's outstanding and I hope more people watch it.  I found it on Netflix.