Friday, November 29

It's worrying. at my age, to find that I suffer from earworms.  I didn't know that this was my problem until I came across the term in something I was reading and, apparently, it's a real thing.  Here's a definition: 

An earworm or brainworm, also described as sticky music or stuck song syndrome, is a catchy or memorable piece of music or saying that continuously occupies a person's mind even after it is no longer being played or spoken about.

I usually only have one earworm at a time and it doesn't hang around for more than a day or two.

Today, I am sad to say, my earworm  is the song 'Davy Crockett'.  Isn't that sad!  

If it were the chorus from La Boheme or, even something by Kate Bush, it might be OK.  But 

Davy Crockett!!

Davy Crockett was a great thing when I was a kid.  We all had Davy Crockett hats and followed 

his exploits in comic books.  Looking back, he was not really a hero but the USians have never let

that little detail stop their veneration.

Today's story is a bit of personal history, tweaked to fit in with the topic.   I note it was written almost exactly four years ago

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES                                                            20 NOVEMBER 2020

My first teaching job was at a small privately-owned school in Randwick, NSW.  I wore a good suit to the interview and had always prided myself on my careful speech so I felt that I gave the impression of being an appropriate person to work in a fee-paying school in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs.  It must have worked as I was appointed to the position and was told I would start the following day.  I didn’t know at the time that the previous teacher had had a heart attack and the Principal was desperate to find a cheap replacement in a hurry.  I was flattered that I might be considered for this position and was happy to accept a salary of 20 pounds per week which was a bit less than I had been earning in my previous job.  I   knew the position had not been advertised and I only knew about it because I had received a phone call from the college where I was studying for my teaching qualification encouraging me to apply.  At that stage I had attended only a handful of lectures so was hardly a prime candidate for the role.

Nonetheless, I was thrown in the deep end, and it was not just in an educational sense: I was being dropped into a different social world from the one I had been brought up in.  My family had emigrated from Britain in the early 1950s.  My parents had both left school at 15 and we had lived in a rundown tenement building near Glasgow in the dark days following World War 2.  Emigration was an escape.  With no capital behind us, we were fortunate to be allocated a house in a Housing Commission suburb in Wollongong and my father travelled on the train each day to the steelworks at Port Kembla.  Most of my friends came from a similar background and yet, suddenly, I was being thrust into living and working in one of the most affluent areas of Australia. 

The parents of my students were all wealthy, educated, professional people who took it as their due that they would have access to the best that money could buy, be it housing or holidays, entertainment or education.  Many parents were from Europe: refugees, mainly from Italy and Greece, Hungary and Palestine.  Coogee Prep. School was hardly in the same class as some of the better-known independent schools but, through some long-standing arrangement, Coogee Prep students had guaranteed access to both Scots College and Sydney Grammar.  Parents who lived around Randwick and Coogee found it convenient to have their young boys at a local school where they would receive a good grounding for their chosen secondary school.

It’s fair to say that I was welcomed warmly by the parents and I received frequent invitations for meals.  Perhaps, some parents had an ulterior motive and were hoping that their child might receive some favoured treatment but I feel the invitations were genuinely given.  When, after a year or two, my wife had joined me and we set up in a flat in Coogee, the invitations increased.

For the first time in my life I saw something beyond the rather narrow horizons of an industrial city built around mining and steel-making.  We saw that not all homes are the same.  When money is taken out of the decision-making process, the opportunities are limitless.  We met people who lived in traditional suburban homes, and grand Federation mansions, in modern architect-designed display homes and high-rise apartments.  We were introduced to the delights of the theatre.  Although we were always on a budget, we had the opportunity to learn about drama and musical-comedy and even ballet and opera.  In our frequent dinner invitations, we learnt about different food styles.  We ate Japanese food for the first time and Greek.  Wine became a normal part of our diet and we learnt how to tell a good wine from a more ordinary one.  We heard different styles of music and broadened our taste beyond the Top 40 and Folk Music we were used to.

Later, as our careers took us to private schools in different parts of Australia we saw more and more of the lifestyle enjoyed by those who had an above-average income.  Better still, we were able to indulge in that lifestyle ourselves.  In Queensland, we sailed in the Twilight Yacht Races on Townsville Harbour and caught coral trout on the Great Barrier Reef.  In NSW, we attended a party at Jimmy Barnes’ house and inadvertently ate hash cookies.  We fished for trout in a private lake in the Snowy Mountains.

Through friendship with a pilot, we’ve been upgraded on flights and were guests of honour at a traditional Japanese banquet in Kanazawa where over 50 tiny, exquisite courses were served. One of the richest men in the Philippines invited us to a birthday party on his estate.  He and his wife collect religious art and the walls of his house were covered with priceless paintings rescued from churches in the Philippines and elsewhere.  The food was served, spread out on a table and eaten with the fingers.

At another wealthy man’s dinner party in the Philippines, the dining table incorporated some mechanism which groaned throughout the dinner and flashed coloured lights. The house where we ate is one of several he owns and is only used for dinner parties.  Back in Tasmania, we’ve dined at Government House and spent the weekend at the Governor’s holiday shack at Swanwick, trying to cook scallop soup over an open fire.

They say that it’s dangerous to have champagne tastes on a beer income but we’ve thoroughy enjoyed our experiences with how the other half lives.