Tuesday, June 24

 Marilyn set her alarm this morning to make sure we were up at a reasonable time.  After years of early-rising I think I can be relied upon to have my eyes open by 7 o'clock but there have been too many cases recently when I snored until later.  My bladder is a pretty reliable alarm clock but not such a great time-keeper.  After all, who would choose to get up sat 3.17 am as I did this morning.

Today is Marilyn's day for going to her Craft group.  It's more of an excuse to meet up with some other ladies for a bit of friendly gossip.  This group also raises money for charity by having what they call a Trade Table.  Everybody donates something and buys something else back.  Marilyn might come home with jelly crystals or home-made chocolate slice.  Who knows?

A few months ago we tried ordering Meals on Wheels but it wasn't successful, so we cancelled it and went back to preparing our own.  When I had my Aged Care assessment the young woman recommended ordering meals from Toosey, the local Nursing Home, and our first try was great: good serving, plenty of meat and tasty vegetables.  So, we've decided we'll order a week's menu to see whether it might work for us and save Marilyn the drudgery of being in the kitchen.

Every little bit helps.

Monday, June 23

Looking out of the window, I think today will be spent at home: the air is cold and there's a persistent drizzle; typical Tasmanian winter weather.  I've watched a couple of videos on Youtube before breakfast  but didn't find them particularly satisfying.  Perhaps I need more stimulation than watching Scott stumble along the streets of some town in Germany or an unshaven Steve looking for another ferry trip.  Maybe I need to do some research and see what else is out there on You-tube.  But, where do I start?  I will have to draw up some parameters: no Americans, for a start.  Maybe limit the selection to travel, or even narrower, travel by train.  Will that be too limiting?  Who knows but I can only try.

 Today's story was written in 2021, one of the first I produced for the Writing Group I belonged to.  I can't claim it is one of my best.

THE ONE WHO CAME BEFORE                                                                                                     2021

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 for William, he decided.  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!

Sunday, June 22

 The Coles man has been so the pantry is stocked up and we have what we need for the next few days.  he was saying that there is fog on the highway but I don't suppose we can expect anything else at this time of year. It made me think of driving on the Maddens Plains near Wollongong and the fog which seemed to hang around there.  One time I remember I had to get back to Sydney on a foggy Sunday evening.  I had borrowed my brother's car (I think mine had been stolen) and I ran into the back of a car which some fool had stopped on the highway while he got out (I think) to relieve himself.

He came back and saw the damage to his car, claimed to be a policeman who had stopped to investigate a suspicious vehicle and threatened to arrent me.  Not a happy memory.

I have another memory which is a bit more intriguing.  When I was 3 years old I had my tonsils out.  It was not in a hospital but in my Aunt Jenny's bedroom in my grandparents' house.  Sheets were hung on the walls and all concerned wore hospital gowns.  It would have been 1946.  Later, in about 1948, I remember having my tonsils removed again, this time in a proper hospital.  I remember the long rows of beds down the walls of the ward and having icecream afterwards on the way home.

It's never made sense to me: why was the operation at home the first time and in a proper hospital the second?  And, the answer came to me this morning as I browsed the internet.  Something happened between 1946 and 1948 which made going to hospital the norm: it was the introduction of the National Health Schene in Britain.  I'm glad that's cleared up.

Saturday, June 21

 I've just been watching a Youtube video about a fellow taking a trip from Darwin to Adelaide.  Of all the possible ways to do it, he decided to take the bus. He might have enjoyed the luxury of The Ghan but that was a bit too expensive, or he might have flown for a few hundred dollars but, instead he opted for many hours on a Greyhound coach. The coach took 40-odd hours to get to Alice Springs where he had an overnight stop at a motel, then another 40-odd hours to Adelaide, and it still cost him nearly $800.  Madness!

Why does anybody do it?  

It's overcast here today but we have nothing arranged so it doesn't matter.  Marilyn says we have to order a few things from Coles and that might end up being the highlight of the day.

Friday, June 20

There's nothing much planned for today.  Our cleaner will be arriving shortly and that's my cue to change the sheets on the bed but, otherwise, it will be stress-free.  We had a call yesterday from a fellow who has been given the job of putting grab rails in our two showers.  We already have the removeable ones you can buy at Bunnings but, apparently, they're not reliable.  However, they've been there for the nearly four years we've been here and haven't let us down yet.  Not that they've ever been used.  Still, what we can do today isn't necessarily what we can do tomorrow,  

As the young lady from Aged Care said, they'll do anything to keep us at home. The full list of recommendations of what we need is out there on the internet and various suppliers will be in contact with us.  I'm not sure who pays what but I'm sure all will be revealed

Today's story was after a challenge to write about something mundane, like a cup of coffee.

I understand that the Flat White coffee was invented in Australia and has become a favourite choice in the US, UK and other places frequented by Aussies.  If this true, it is a cause for national celebration, for the Flat White is an invention to stand alongside the Hills Hoist and the Victa Mower.

The sad thing is, though, that the Flat White is so poorly regarded in its home country.  I would have thought that the defining feature of a Flat White is that it is flat – no froth nor foam, just a warm coffee- and milk-flavoured drink with no frills.  Those of us who now order Flat White are usually escapees from the days when the best you could hope for in a café was a poorly frothed latte.  The introduction of the Flat White was as important an event to us as the arrival of the first cargo of coffee beans to Australia.

Those of us who choose to wear a moustache, and I apologise to my female friends if they think I am being sexist (but you could have a moustache too if you worked hard enough at growing one), are particularly disadvantaged by the café owners’ confusion between a Flat White and a Latte. They are not interchangeable!  There is nothing worse than having the constant reminder of a sub-standard coffee trapped in the hairs on your upper lip.

You might say I should complain to the barista, or send the inappropriately named coffee back.  But I don’t blame the hapless, lowly paid employee. No, I blame the greedy multi-national who owns the coffee shop and is saving money on staff training.   In the meantime, I’ll keep recording the delinquent cafes on my black list and continue to frequent the patriotic little coffee shops where they take pride in their work.

Thursday, June 19

 It's a wet. miserable day here and our plan is to stay indoors as much as possible. I've started the day by watching a video on Youtube: a fellow called Scott who was spending a day in Andorra, a place I'll never visit.  Marilyn is now watching one of her favourites: a young woman called Brogan and I can't stand it so I'm retreating to my desk to write this blog.  I've tried to analyse why I can watch Scott wandering through the streets of Andorra but can't tolerate Brogan visiting a town in England. I keep coming up with the word 'shallow'.  Scott just goes out and wanders through different places, catching public transport, eating local food and so on.  Brogan, on the other hand, talks too much, goes on shopping trips, models the clothes she buys, loves Disneyland, collects pins and has a gormless husband called Benjy who wears his baseball cap backwards.  All of that drives me crazy.

We were probably better off before television entered our lives.

Wednesday, June 18

 We're up and about, both dressed and the houser reasonably tidy because we're waiting for a visitor.  Following the interview last week with Aged Care, somebody from Toosey, the local retirement home, is coming to talk to us about how they can get involved.  They can provide meals, assistance with gardening, washing windows and so on.  The last thing the government want is for old people to demand places in retirement homes.  Too expensive, so they will do whatever they can to keep us at home.

At the moment we're in the process of seeing what part of the system can be of assistance to us.

I always check Youtube in the morning when I get up.  I like to check what Steve or Scott is doing and, lately, I've been catching up on the exploits of Donald Trump.  He really is a three-ring circus, the entertainment which keeps on giving. I wonder how long it can last before someone says, 'That's enough!'

Update: Rebecca from Toosey has just left and we've signed up for a couple of meals each week and exercise classes. They also offer Water Aerobics but we would have to go into Launceston for that and we're not keen.  

Tuesday, June 17

 I scratch my head thinking of more interesting ways to introduce this blog each morning.but I'm afraid I'm bereft of ideas.  

"Clear your mind of all extraneous thoughts," the experts say, "And inspiration will come."

I listen carefully to what is in my head and all I can discern is the repeated refrain: 'Life gets tedious, don't it?'

It's a phrase from a song from my childhood and I can still hear the distinctive accent of Walter Brennan, an aged actor from a TV show which might have been call The Real McCoys.  I can't remember ever watching the show but the song became a hit and he became a household name.

However, back to the sentiment of the song.  Yes, life does become tedious.  Each day has a sameness about it, as if it is just a repeat of the day before: the same stuff for breakfast, reading the same kind of book while having the standard morning tea, with one Scotch Finger biscuit, and so on.  The highlight might be Jamie bringing Archie for a visit or a quick trip to the supermarket for something we've forgotten on the order.

I've realised that I really look forward to getting a parcel, or anything new. It doesn't have to be anything exciting: another pair of glasses will do it or a three-pack of new socks.  In fact, anything to break the tedium of another day just like the 3500 which came before.

Of course, it's better than being dead.

Monday, June 16

 

It's cold this morning, and overcast, so I think we'll plan for a day at home.  I was up at my usual hour of 7 o'clock and, as is my wont, turned on the TV to see what is happening in the world.  I can't take my eyes off the US at the moment, watching a once-great nation deal with a self-inflicted wound.  I've been saying for years that Trump thinks of himself as a king and now the NO KINGS protests are bearing that idea out.  Of course, the weakness is the US Constitution which gives the President too much power.  Sadly, I don't see a happy ending.

I've just found the results of a survey ranking the happiest nations in the world.  USA has dropped from 18th to 23rd in the last year.  Australia hangs around 8th and New Zealand is 9th.  That says something, but I'm not sure what.

Maybe I've posted the following story before; if so, I apologise, but here it is again.

ONE SUMMER LONG AGO

Summer in Australia can be a magic time. Along the coastline are thousands of tiny beaches and, in the hills can be found cool fern gullies where the sting of the sun can be forgotten. Most of us look forward to the summer as a time for long days of relaxation and fun.

 Summer for some people, though, can be a terrible time. One summer, long ago, I found myself transferred to a little one-teacher school in an insignificant town in New South Wales. The kids were great, the locals welcomed me and it was not long before I was a regular at the local pub, playing games of pool and going out for the occasional ‘roo shooting adventure at the weekend.  It was hard living alone but there were other compensations

One Friday night, I was at my usual table in the pub when one of the locals came over to talk to me.  I’d seen him around and knew he was well-respected; among other things, he was in charge of the local volunteer fire brigade. I had heard that fire-fighters give their all to protect their community and when I lived in the city I’d sometimes glance over the stories in the newspapers of the sacrifices made by ordinary men and women who regularly risked their health and their lives.

I’d had a beer or two that evening and was feeling relaxed when the Fire Captain told me that the fire season was about to start and asked me why I hadn’t joined the local brigade.  Caught without a reasonable excuse handy, I thought I might be able to feign a bad leg or asthma to avoid risking my life, but to no avail.  It wasn’t long before I found myself, literally, in the line of fire.

After some basic training I had been called out to my first fire.  Dressed in my firefighter’s orange uniform I was wondering why I was there.  A girlfriend had once told me I had the body of a dancer and the soul of a poet, but now I was fitted out in the trappings of a man of action.  I’d taught my students about the beauty of the Australian bush but had never thought that I might be called upon to make some sacrifice to preserve it.  My self-belief didn’t stretch to considering myself a hero. Heroism, surely, is reserved for those gifted few who have the ability to set aside their own individual fears in the pursuit of some result which will bring them no personal gain.  If I were pressed, I might have thought the dedicated volunteers who worked tirelessly year in and year out ‘ought to get a life’.  Yet, here I was, kitted out in unaccustomed, unflattering and ill-fitting orange, wielding an unfamiliar heavy tool, expecting at any moment to be ordered to meet the on-coming fire face to face.

I’ll gloss over the details of my baptism of fire.  I survived the fire season more by good luck than by ability and was pleased that my transfer back to the city arrived before I was forced to endure another summer like that one long ago.

Sunday, June 15

 Jamie and Nera have gone to Hobart for the weekend so we are baby-sitting Archie, their chihuahua.  This is not a problem but he insists on sleeping in our bd and he generates a bit more heat than I'm used to ... and takes up too much room for a little dog!

Winter is certainly here; the air is cold outside and there's a cold wind blowing.  However, the sun is shining and the sky is blue so all's right with the world.

I have a couple of good TV shows that I've been looking forward to watching.  Well, I assume they are good but it remains to be seen.  One is Towards Zero, an Agatha Christie thriller and the other 14 Peaks which was recommended by or (Nepali) cleaner.  I wonder when TV recommendations became part of the duties of a cleaner.  I hope I can convince Marilyn to watch one this afternoon as, if we try in the evening, we tend to fall asleep.  However, we find it hard to overcome a feeling that TV watching during daylight hours is somehow sinful.  And it is Sunday after all so sinful applies double.

I watched an interesting interview on Youtube the morning - Michelle Dotrice talking to Michael Crawford.  They, of course, were Betty and Frank Spencer in Some Mothers Do 'ave 'em,  I know Michael Crawford later became a celebrated singer but he still looks like Frank to me.

Saturday, June 14

 A delivery van pulled into our little cul-de-sac yesterday.

"It looks like Paul is getting anoter delivery," commented Marilyn.  Paul lives alone and I think his hobby is ordering on-line.  All the local delivery drivers know his place well.

But, the driver ignored his place and came to our door, handing Marilyn a mysterious box.

"Have you been ordering from Temu again?" she grumbled, but I was as bemused as she was.

It wasn't a big box and, when I opened it, all it contained was a knife, a fork and a spoon, all with rather fat handles.  The penny dropped.  They must have come from Aged Care, following my appointment last week.  I remember we had talked about how I was having some difficulty with normal cutlery.  Clearly, Kaia had made a note and followed it up.  How nice!

I've racked my brain to think what else we identified as being on my wishlist.  I remember an electric lift chair, a bed that lifts up to help us get out and a four-footed walking stick.  I'll look forward to seeing what the next delivery van brings.

Friday, June 13

 Friday, 13th!  Should I be worried or is it just another old wives' tale?  Certainly, the weather is foreboding: leaden skies and very cold air.  Our cleaner has just arrived so my job is to keep out of his way and not appear to be watching what he is doing.

I've been reading a short story by Graham Masterton which is set in Northern Ireland and I'm intrigued that so much of the language is familiar to me.  I don't mean the standard English bits, but the Irish vernacular shares a lot with the Scots language I grew up with.  Still, the fact that it's familiar doesn't make it any more attractive.

Nothing much is happening today.  Sometimes I think it would be nice to just get into the car and drive somewhere if only to break the routine but that would be a futile exercise.  I just have to accept the fact that we're now in the slow lane and take advantage of that opportunity.  It's easy to say that, though.  There's a sameness about each day now which is the new reality, and I can hear the old song in my brain, over and over:

What's it all about, Alfie?

Talking about language, today's story touches on that.

IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE                                                     MARCH 21, 2024

It’s not every day you get a chance to work in your dream job but Gerard was one of those lucky people who always landed on his feet. “If he fell in a cowpat, he’d come up smelling of roses,” his mother would say.  Alma, that was her name, prided herself on being well-read.  She had devoured every Danielle Steel ever written and was on the list at the library to be notified each time a new Nora Roberts was released. She also belonged to the local Reading Circle and enjoyed sharing her knowledge of the world with her group of similarly well-read friends.  She was very proud of Gerard who had worked hard at school and had even won the Founder’s Cup for most promising student in Year 6.

When Gerard heard he had landed the job at Automotive Industries, he was on the ‘phone in a flash to tell his mother.  She could not have been more pleased and, without pausing for breath, she rang around her friends to let them know. 

Gerard started his new position on the following Monday.  He was shown the desk he would use and it was suggested he might take the first morning to acclimatise himself to his new surroundings.  It all seemed too good to be true and Gerard rubbed his hands together with delight.  However, precipitously, everything changed.  As he was being introduced to his fellow-workers, one of them seemed familiar.  Where had he met her before?  And, like a shot, it came to him.  It was Beatrice Brown, his nemesis from primary school.

In a flash, those long-repressed memories came flooding back.  He squirmed as he recalled how she had teased him, told tales about him to his class-mates and dobbed him in to the teacher.  They had been together in the same class for the whole six years of primary school and had only been separated when his parents had made the sacrifice to send him to the local grammar school.  Now, it seemed, he and she would be working closely together.  His heart sank as he thought of all the things that would go wrong if they had to work together.  What could he do?  But, as ever, when put on the spot, his brain didn’t let him down.  Like greased lightning, the words tumbled from his mouth.

“Beatrice and I are old friends.  I don’t think it’s appropriate that people who know each other well should work closely together so I suggest that a job be found for her in another department.”

Not wanting to upset their new star employee on his first day, management agreed in a trice.  Beatrice looked quite down in the mouth but it couldn’t be helped.  Presto, the problem seemed to be solved.

I’d like to think that everybody lived happily ever after but life’s not like that. Beatrice was no fool and, instantaneously, she reacted with her usual savoir-faire.  “I have a better idea,” she said.  “Why don’t I become Mr Brown’s secretary.  I know him better than anyone and can anticipate how he might want things to be done.  And, because I’ll be working so closely with him, he can make sure that nothing goes wrong.”

In a wink, it was done.  The Managing Director, who, if truth be told, rather fancied Beatrice, agreed to the proposition and Gerard was forced to smile and accept it.  In the blink of an eye, all his hopes and dreams were shattered and he could do no more than look forward to a bleak future with Beatrice involved in every aspect of his life.  What would his mother say?

 

Thursday, June 12

 I woke up this morning with an insistent little voice in my head berating me.

"You must be getting old, you silly bugger.  You think you're clever because you know the answer to 161 Across.  But, it's got nothing to do with winning a prize when you were 12.  You had come across the answer long before that."

I thought about it and the voice was right.  I had come across HMV products long before that and, particularly one which was badged 'Little Nipper'.  

When our family moved into our first Gwyneville house in Northfields Lane (in 1952) we had very llitte furniture.  Mum and Dad bought beds, of course, a laminex table and chairs for the kitchen and an icebox ... and not much else.  Except, a little HMV radio, covered in brown and cream bakelite with the famous logo and the words Little Nipper.

That radio spent most of its time on the mantelpiece in the loungeroom and we listened to Bob Dyer and Jack Davey, and various serials like Martins Corner.  We had nothing to sit on so we would drag the mattress off one of the beds and settle down.  The radio might have looked like this:

Wednesday, June 11

 I was working through a crossword yesterday afternoon and came across the clue: 161 across - Famous gramophone logo dog.   It was one of those things which triggered a memory.  In about 1955, I used to go to Scouts every Thursday night at the Church Hall behind St Andrews in Kembla Street, Wollongong.  Just up the street from the hall was an electrical store called something like Lindsay's Electrical.  In the window one evening I saw a notice for a raffle -' write your details on a card and you might win a valuable prize'.  They were shut, of course, but I went back the next day took a handful of cards and filled them in.

After Scouts, the next week, I looked in the window of the shop and there was a sign "The lucky winner is ... John Christie!'

The shop was shut, of course and the next day was a public holiday.  I was so disappointed that my mum rang an after-hours number she found somewhere, spoke to someone who said, "Come to the back door and I'll get it for you."

And what does that have to do with 161 across?  The prize was a His Master's Voice' Little Nipper' portable radio, and the HMV logo, of course, was a dog listening to his master's voice coming from a gramophone 'trumpet'.  The dog's name was Nipper.

Tuesday, June 10

 Marilyn is getting ready to head out to her regular Craft group.  I don't know how much actual craft gets done; I think it's just an excuse for a group of ladies to get together for a chat.  No matter!  I'm waiting for someone from the government to arrive, also for a chat, about how I am coping with getting older.  It's interesting: the assumption is that at our age we can't cope any longer with the stresses of living and yet, I made a point of getting up earlier just so that I could have breakfast, clear away the dishes and make sure the house was clean and tidy, ready to welcome visitors.  I nearly said 'nosy visitors' but I know they're only doing their job.

Jamie has said he will be here to show that we have supports in place.  The particular 'support' he is showing this morning is to make sure Marilyn gets to her craft group to save me the bother..

I need to say how lucky we are in Australia, having a government and a system which takes the responsibility of looking after its citizens seriously.  When I look at the shambles of a 'government' that they have in the 'Land of the Free', I thank my lucky stars that my parents chose to come to Australia in 1950 rather than that other place.

Monday, June 9

 It's a cold morning.  I was tempted to turn over and go back to sleep when my eyes opened at about 7 this morning, but I did that yesterday and didn't get up until 8.  I know, nothing is spoiling, but I have to have something to boast about and early rising is the best I can come up with. There's nothing much planned for today but I'll spend a little time getting the Probus financial statement in order for the meeting on Wednesday.  I'd normally do that on the Tuesday but I'm expecting a visit tomorrow from the Aged Care Assessment Team and I'd hate them to find me doing something intellectual.  

Today will probably be a day at home.  Marilyn has a couple of things for me to collect from the supermarket but that won't stretch the capacity.  We've been watching a show called A Place in the Sun where Brits are helped to buy a holiday home in one of the southern European countries.  Recently a follow-up show called A Place in The Sun - What Happened Next?, where the presenters of the show go back four or five years later to see how things turned out.  There's no action, no violence, no sex but we find the show interesting and it doesn't matter if we drop off to sleep in the middle.  

This brief piece of writing was a 5-minute exercise one day at mt writing group.  The topic was 'Hairdresser'.

It was the smell which struck me first: medicinal, sweet, intrusive, chemical, I decided.  The cheerful young receptionist asked me to take a seat and twittered that my consultant would be with me momentarily.  Consultant?  I wanted more than a consultation; I hoped she at least had a pair of scissors.  The seat was comfortable enough and I became aware of the chatter of voices from the deeper regions of the salon.  Not much basso, I perceived so I was probably the only male in the premises.  The other voices were shrill, ranging from the cracked tones of the older ladies getting their blue rinses, to the cheerful trills of the younger hairdressers.  Interspersed were the world-weary voices of the older hairdressers struggling to maintain a professional cheerfulness but failing to hide their boredom.  I was offered coffee which I happily agreed to but when it arrived I couldn’t shake the feeling that the chemicals which imbued the air must have settled in the cup and I swear I could detect a tang of hairspray in the contents.

At last It was my turn to be professionally dealt with.  The hairdresser was efficient, brusque and sensible enough to understand that I didn’t want to tell her my life story so, within a few minutes, I felt the cover being whipped away and I was able to leave.  I felt the outside cold air around my ears and knew my $30 was well-spent.

Sunday. June 8

I suspect that I have a bit of an obsessive streak.  I think that it is fairly common and not everyone will own up to it; but I do.  If I put my mind to it I can recall many of the times I obsessively collected all the Everley Brothers records I could find, and all the Biggles book I could read; I went through a stage of collecting DVDs and CDs and, when I discovered how to ger free downloads from the internet, I went mad with films, TV shows and music to the point where it would be impossible for one person to watch all the movies I have in my collection, or all the TV shows, or listen to all the music.

My most recent craze is to look for books and, if I lived on a desert island for 100 years, I would not get through them all that I have on various disks and CDs. To compound the problem, I am now re-reading some of the favourites I first encountered in the last decade.  Currently, I am re-reading the first in the series by Richard Osman, The Thursday Murder Club.

This is in preparation for being able to watch the new televised version of the saga.  I don't know on which network or channel it is being shown but it doesn't matter: I'll just download it.

Saturday, June 7

 Marilyn tells me that the young man who came to clean yesterday was named Stevin rather than Stephen. Of course, I don't know if I've used the correct spelling but I'm sure it's close enough.  It turned out that he was from Nepal and was interested to talk to us about places we had visited when we were there in 2010.  We have a lot of Nepalese and Bhutanese people in Tasmania and many of them live in Deloraine where they form a significant proportion of the staff at the two Nursing Homes that Nera manages.

Anyway, Stevin was very pleasant and might be back another time.

It's rained all night here and the skies are still very grey.  Jamie has already dropped Archie off on his way to work. Nera is not at work today, of course, but has a whole range of appointments: nails, hair, feet. and so on, so Archie would have been home alone.  Better for him to be here where Marilyn can feed him endless little treats.

Friday, June 6

For years I've reliably woken at 7 o'clock without the help of artificial aids such as alarm clocks or roosters.  Recently, though, I've been sleeping longer, sometimes not opening my eyes until after 8.  It's not necessarily a bad thing: the days can be long and it's unlikely I would have an early appointment.  Friday is different.  Our cleaning lady, Sandra, is likely to arrive quite early and I have a couple of chores to do before she gets here.

I strip the bed. The doona and pillows are transported to the front room. All the linen: sheets, pillowcases, are put into the laundry for washing, and fresh linen brought out from the cupboard.  There's a 'topper' over the mattress which has to be rotated regularly so I do that.  So, it's all ready for Sandra to get on with it.

At 8 o'clock, she still hasn't arrived, nor at 9.  Is she sick or is there another problem?  Finaly at 10, the doorbell rings.  But, it's a young man.  "I'm Stephen," he says.

There's no explanation but Marilyn explains the routine and he cheerfully gets on with it.  We still don't know what's happened to Sandra.

Today's story, Poor Relations, mentions whistling. It's not the only story I've written about whistling and I wonder why I'm so obsessed.

POOR RELATIONS

I suppose our family is just like any other.  Some members have had more success in life than others but, at the end of the day, we all have a roof over our heads and enough to eat.  I have five cousins: 2 girls and 3 boys; there are 5 years between the oldest and the youngest and, while we were growing up there was a lot of rivalry among us, comparing toys, marks in school, clothes (especially by the girls) but, generally, we got on well.

One Christmas, though, I realised that, in one important aspect of life, I stood out as superior to all the others.  We were all together at our usual family Christmas and all the kids were in Nana’s backyard getting over the big Christmas lunch.  Unconsciously, in my contentment, I began to whistle Jingle Bells.  A thought struck me.  Wouldn’t it be good if we could put together a whistling choir and the adults would be delighted if we showed how clever we were by whistling Christmas carols to entertain them.

To my surprise, though, none of my cousins could whistle.  The girls, I suspect, thought it unladylike and refused to take part but the boys blew and blew with no real tune coming out.

“Wet your lips, like this,” I said, “and make a little circle.  Put your tongue behind them and blow, but not too hard.”  I found it easy but they were hopeless.  I smugly thought that I was much cleverer than all my other poor relations

Life has moved on now and I find myself with time on my hand, having taken early retirement for reasons I don’t want to go into.  I live alone, my wife deciding to make a new life for herself with a bloke she met at the gym.  My constant companion is the TV set and I spend too many hours watching day-time soaps and right-wing crackpots telling me how they would run the country.

By chance I met my cousin, Greg, in the bottle shop one afternoon.  He was a bit aloof and told me I didn’t look too well.  What a cheek and I thought, ‘This is the fellow who couldn’t even whistle when we were kids.  I wonder if he’s managed to achieve that goal.  What makes him think that I want to hear his opinion?’

He said to me that it was about time we had a family reunion and that all my cousins would love to see me again and catch up.  I thought he was a bit patronising but I couldn’t see any harm in spending time with my poor relations and I would probably enjoy some company and a home-cooked meal.

I thought long and hard about the forthcoming get-together.  I didn’t want to appear as the failure of the family with everyone looking down on me because I had lost my job and my wife, and wondered how I could make sure that I didn’t appear to be the sad case that needed looking after.  My mind went back to that Christmas Day all those years ago when I was the one who outshone the others.  How could I bring back that feeling of superiority?

We were to meet for a barbecue at Greg’s.  I took particular care with my appearance, shaving neatly and wearing my best casual clothes.  I brought a bottle of a fairly expensive wine though I could ill afford it and turned up at the door.  I was made welcome, although I felt a definite atmosphere of sympathy for me.  I hated that.  I took the glass of wine I was offered and, before I knew it, the glass was empty. ‘Slow down,’ I thought. ‘Don’t push it too hard.’

I knew my cousin, Darren, went sailing on the weekend and I asked him if he ever had trouble when there was no wind.  “I’ve heard,” I said, “That sailors in the old days used to whistle up a wind if they needed one.  Have you ever tried that? Oh, no, I forgot.  You can’t whistle.” And laughed.

Later when my cousin Helen was telling us about the church she attended I asked her whether she had come across the verse which said that ‘a crowing cock and a whistling woman is an abomination to the Lord?’  “But that wouldn’t worry you,” I said. “I remember, you can’t whistle.”

I looked for other opportunities to remind them of my superiority but the rest of the afternoon is a blur.  I suspect I drank too much and Greg had to drive me home, to my lonely flat, but at least I didn’t have to put up with my poor relations any longer..

Thursday, June 5

 It looks like another quiet day.  I have a note in my diary that I have to pick up Nera's nephew, Brendan, from Deloraine at 2 o'clock.  Normally Jamie would do this but he clearly has something more important (or more interesting) to do.  The note has been there for a week or more but Jamie tells me it might now not be necessary for me to make the trip.  I await the final decision with interest.  It's a 100km round trip which is not a problem but I'd rather find something else to do.  

There are some changes happening at Probus at the moment which are causing me some consternation.  I tried to resign from the job of Treasurer at the last AGM but nobody else would take the job.  At the last meeting we had a new member who took over the job of Secretary and he announced he had a mate lined up who would be happy to take on Treasurer.  Happy days!  He wasn't yet a member so all he had to do was get him to join.

I had a note yesterday from the new secretary asking me for my resignation.  His plan was that this new member would be inducted to the club and, at the same meeting, would immediately, become Treasurer.  I was a bit non-plussed and suggested it might be better if he at least got his feet under the table before taking on a job.  The new secretary has now got his knickers in a knot and is assuming I don't want to give it up. 

So, this morning I will write my resignation, send it to the Secretary and hope everything works out for all concerned.

Wednesday, June 4

 It's not yet 10 o'clock, I've finished my second cup of coffee for the morning, Jamie has dropped Archie off on his way to work and the rest of the day stretches out in front of me.  

Yesterday afternoon Jamie and I were at the Bowls Club checking out a little PA system to use at our Probus meetings.  It's a big room and the screen we use is at one end and the only speaker we can see is at the other.  Some of the older members (not me, of course) complain that they can't hear the guest even though he has a microphone.   The suggested solution is to buy a little portable system and put the speaker right in front of the members who are hard of hearing.  Jamie has one that might do the trick and has offered to let us try it out.

So, we turned up at the club to see if it works.  There's a group of men and women there having a roll-up (see how cleverly I use the jargon!) and they're just finishing off and coming in to the bar.  Our President, Steve, who is a retired Baptist minister and has the gift of the gab starts explaining to the barmaid why we were there and what we are trying to do and where is the switch for the PA system?

"Talk to Lance ," she says, cutting him short, "He's our President."  Lance (or it might have been Cliff) listens patiently to Steve and says, "Are you sure you're turning it on properly?  Those little circles you can see in the ceiling (there must have been thirty of them) are all auxiliary speakers and will come on if you push this switch, here."

Jamie has a look, pronounces that his little system could never match that and we all went home.

Tuesday, June 3

 I'm always up by 7 but, for some reason, I slept in until 8.30 this morning.  Marilyn has an 11.30 appointment at Mowbray which is a good half hour away so the pressure is on.  Still, it won't be the first time I've gobbled down a slice of toast and left the house clutching a banana.

I'm meeting with a couple of members of Probus this afternoon to try out a new PA system.  The existing one at the Bowls Club isn't working for us and Jamie is suggesting a new set-up.  We'll see how it goes.

Monday, June 2

 I thought I was to receive a visit today from the Aged Care Assessment Team to check how I was coping with my advanced age and whether I needed any government intervention.  However, it's been postponed until the 10th so I will just have to cope until then.  In fact, we're coping very well.

Although we both suffer from the expected aches and pains, our lives are generally very positive.  We get a bit of help from a cleaner who comes on Friday for a couple of hours, and most of our groceries are delivered by a big red truck, Marilyn still copes with the cooking, I get to the shop most days for the little incidental stuff like fresh fruit , bread and milk, and I am still capable of mowing the lawn and watering the plants.

The reason that ACAT is coming on the 10th is that I have my heart set on getting a new, flash, armchair which has a mechanism to help hoist me to my feet when I want to get up.  If I can display that I need some mechanical assistance to get up, they might subsidise the cost.  I will have to play it carefully: be decrepit enough to need assistance but not too far gone that I should be in a home.

In reality, it's time for that chair.  My back has been an issue for years and it needs all the help it can get.

Today's story is part of a series using titles from traditional folk songs - Maire's Wedding.

MAIRE’S WEDDING                                                                 21 MAY, 2021

Life was generally very placid in Jacaranda Crescent.  People went about their business without any fuss.  Neighbours smiled at each other when they met and shared a drink at Christmas, so no one in the neighborhood was expecting a genuine feud to break out between two families who lived next door to each other. Some wag said it was like the Hatfields and McCoys but that was in West Virginia and they had guns so it was not quite the same.

Nobody is quite sure what sparked off the feud. Walter, Mr Brennan, says it began at a Saturday football match when Ronald, Mr McDonald, made some intemperate remarks about young Rory Brennan’s ability on the field.  Words were exchanged between the two fathers and it might have come to blows if other fathers had not intervened.

Mr McDonald has a different story; he says that ‘that bugger Brennan’ had ruined his chances of becoming secretary of the Bowls Club by telling lies about him to other committee members.  Yes, he did have a few drinks at the Bowls Club Christmas Party but it’s a lie to suggest he said anything improper to Peggy, the barmaid, and he certainly never touched her.

Mrs Brennan and Mrs McDonald had no choice but to publicly support their husbands and, if truth be told, both of them take enjoyment in gossiping about the other.  Elspeth Brennan has mastered the art of making the occasional snide remark about Flora McDonald’s hairdo, couching it in sympathetic terms as though she is troubled by the disaster which has been inflicted on her friend by an incompetent hairdresser.

Flora, on the other hand, plays a much more overt role, leaving no room for misunderstanding her feelings towards her rival.  “That harridan, Elspeth Brennan, has been at it again.  She’s been trying to poison our cat because she says it’s peeing on her pansies!”

One positive aspect of this unfortunate episode is that children are not good at feuds.  Young Rory still plays football happily with Hamish on Saturdays and 18-year old Maire MacDonald is more than a little interested in Sean Brennan.

Time passes, and life goes on.  Resentments simmer and, occasionally, tempers flare and, on one bright Sunday morning, Maire McDonald announces that Sean Brennan has asked her to marry him, and she has said Yes.

Ronald is stunned. It’s very difficult for a man, who sees himself as the head of the household, to be faced with the realisation that he is powerless when the two women he has nurtured and protected and provided for line up against him.  All his objections are cast aside, his reservations are discounted, his anxiety about the suitability of the match is pooh-poohed.  The wedding will go ahead and you will have to like it or lump it, he is told.  Oh, and you will have to pay for it, too.

Mr and Mrs Brennan knocked on the door of No 6 Jacaranda Place a few days later determined to make peace for the sake of the children.  Mrs McDonald welcomed them in and set about burying the memories of the years of resentment she had felt.  Ronald, sadly, found he didn’t have the strength of character to let bygones be bygones.  It’s too hard, he thought, and he mouthed the words of apology and promises to move on, while continuing to nurse all the bitter feelings which had sustained him for years.

It might have been appropriate if the Saturday of the wedding had been grey and dismal to match Mr McDonald’s mood but it wasn’t.  The sun shone brightly and, if angels didn’t sing, the magpies in the churchyard certainly did.  Sean Brennan stood waiting in the church supported by his best man, who was trying to conceal the fact that he had had a fortifying drink on the way to the church.  Sean felt he was on a train over which he had no control and which was taking him to a destination he couldn’t envisage.  But he knew he loved Maire and trusted her that his life would not be complete without her by his side.

The mothers of the bride and groom beamed and their joy in the happiness being shown by the newly-married couple lifted their spirits and laid the foundation for a new friendship.  Walter Brennan, more phlegmatic, was happy that his son seemed to have made a good choice and offered his hand to his neighbour. 

But Ronald McDonald remained surly, unable to lay aside the real and imaginary insults and resentments of past years.

Sunday, June 1

 It's our great-grand-daughter's birthday.  Macy is 10; we think of her as our Tasmanian great-grand-daughter as she was born in Launceston.  Unfortunately, she now lives in Brisbane and we don't see enough of her.  Madeleine, her Mum, told her that when she (Madi) was 10, her grandparents took her to Japan which included trips to Disneyland and Universal Studios.  Macy thinks that she should have the same adventure.  If only we had the energy!  Unfortunately, I don't think I could sit on a plane for the eight to ten hours necessary.

Being reminded about that trip got us thinking about the various trips we have done over the years.  One of the most bizarre was, again, to Japan where we used our timeshare to get a week's accommodation in Osaka and then joined a cruise which took us to a couple of ports in Japan, over to Korea, then to Vladivostok and ending up in Beijing,  I could write a book about that trip but I'm delighted that I have the blog to refer to and refresh my memory. 

I don't look back over the blog often enough.  It's taken a lot of energy to write and dedication to keep it going and I should make more of an effort to keep it alive.  Another resolution!  Let's hope it lasts longer than all the others.

Saturday, May 31

 It's after 12 and I'm just getting around to thinking about the blog.  Jamie called in earlier on his way to doing something else and he brought Archie with him.  Jamie always say "Can't stay" but we get talking and playing with Archie and an hour passes easily.  When he left, Marilyn produces a short list of things she needed at the local supermarket: fruit and fresh bread, and a couple of things to pick up at the chemist.  I've moved on to Webster packs for my regular meds an d they're always ready on Saturday so I picked them up as well

I had a parcel from Temu delivered yesterday; nothing special, just a few things we couldn't live without.  There was a time when we would have made a trip into KMart or Target to get those things, couple it with a cup of coffee and we would have used up half a day.  The cost of the goods would have been about the same but add in petrol and coffee and it's much cheaper to buy online.  Of course, there are intangibles that don't get considered: the value of having to get dressed; to leave the house, to see other people, and so on.

Still, I'm happy to let my fingers do the walking.

Friday, May 30

 

I had a call yesterday from some Government Department checking up on how I am going.  It happens occasionally and will be followed up a visit in a couple of days.  They wanted to know if my advanced age is causing me any problems, have we got rid of  any trip points in the unt, are there grab rails in the shower?  And, is there anything I need to make my life easier?  I mentioned that I was considering getting a lift chair to help me stand up.  I find that I get quite stiff if I've been sitting for a while and I easily lose balance when I stand up.

Mention that to the person who comes to visit, he said, and we might be able to provide some funding.

What's not to like about how we look after seniors in Australia?

The story I've dug out today was in response to a challenge to write a story about an unusual place we have been.  In January 2007, Marilyn and I were off-loaded from a cruise ship in Penang when she had a fall down some stairs and broke her nose.  We spent a couple of nights in a hospital while she was operated on and then four or five days in a hotel while she recuperated.  Not the best circumstances for a holiday but it turned out to be very interesting.  We flew on from there to the Philippines as if nothing had happened although Marilyn had to wear dark glasses to disguise the bruising,

GEORGE TOWN, PENANG, MALAYSIA                                                              21 JULY 2023

Eliza wandered through the streets expecting to feel a sense of familiarity.  After all, she had lived here for several years, nearly three decades ago, she had gone to school in this city and still had friends living here who sent her cards on her birthday and even the occasional letter.  But there was little about this modern and thriving metropolis which sparked any recollection in her memory.  She hadn’t been back since the day in 1995 when her father had been posted back to Australia and Eliza found herself having to become accustomed to an Australian school in Queensland. 

Some of the old British colonial buildings remained but she was surprised with the recently-built, modern glass and polished steel office buildings with their granite and faux marble embellishments.  She turned into a familiar narrow street expecting to see a row of Chinese shop-houses with their brightly -coloured facades and their windows filled with extraordinary goods and hand-painted signs in Malay, and Chinese characters, and, rarely, in English.  But it had all changed; now there were rows of multi-storey modern apartments.

Happily, there were still many rickshaws.  One of her fondest memories was of having an occasional rickshaw ride home from school but it was clear that today’s rickshaws were for tourists only.  The rickshaw drivers wore colourful outfits, suitable for the photographs of the tourists, unlike the loin cloths that drivers of Eliza’s childhood would have worn.

Eliza took a right-hand turn knowing that this narrow street would take her closer to the water and, if her memory was correct, to the Chou Family Jetty which was one of her favourite play-areas of those happy times.  She smelled the sea before she saw it and walked a little faster in anticipation of what she might find.

The jetty was certainly there but not as she remembered it.  It was run-down, almost derelict, with planks missing from the decking and no sign of the many sampans which used to be tied up along its length.  There were the remains of brightly-coloured wooden furniture which the inhabitants of this jetty would have used but, apart from another tourist or two looking vaguely about them, there was no evidence that this was once a thriving centre of life.

Eliza’s father had been a pilot with the RAAF and, for a time, had been stationed at the Butterworth Air Force Base on the mainland just opposite Penang Island.  Eliza’s mother had decided that the family would live in George Town on the island so that her children would have the experience of living in another culture rather than on the base with other ex-pats trying to replicate their Australian way of life in this foreign corner.  There was a bridge connecting the island to the mainland so there was no feeling of isolation.

It had been a culture shock for Eliza, six years old and having to cope with a new way of life.  It would have been harder if she had not been befriended on her first day at school by a skinny little Chinese girl with straight black hair worn in pigtails, and prominent teeth.  Her name was Li and she lived in one of the sampans tied up at the Chou family pier.  Eliza and Li explored every corner of the city she grew to love.  They had no fear of becoming lost and it was not unusual for them still to be wandering the streets when the moon was shining and the sky was filled with stars.  Nobody, in those days, imagined that anything would happen to two little girls on their own.

Eliza grew to love Penang Island and, especially, the city of George Town.  The native Malay people were almost outnumbered by the immigrant Chinese who had made this beautiful island their home.  The calm, peaceful manner of the indigenous Malays was complemented by the energy and vitality of the immigrant Chinese, forming a resourceful and harmonious community: a perfect place for a small Australian school-girl to begin her life.

Eliza had arranged to meet her school-friend, Li, and waited expectantly in the coffee shop.  It would be interesting to see what Li had become.  No doubt, the pigtails would have disappeared and, perhaps, the uneven teeth might have been straightened but nothing in Eliza’s imagination had prepared her for the elegant, sophisticated, beautifully-dressed young woman who stood before her.  Like her city, Li had been transformed.

Thursday, May 29

 I'm sick of watching middle-aged men on Youtube, taking pointless trips to out-of-the-way places in the hope of getting a few miserable viewers to watch them, adding to their headcount so they can scratch out a living. I think what spurred me to think again was watching Steve and Alijca on the Queen Mary, sailing to New York, and he never shaved once on the voyage.  What a scruff!  I wanted more so I opened a clip at random.  Success!  It was a dance troupe, what I think they call a Flash Mob, dancing to Gotye's Somebody That I Used to Know.

The dancers were dressed in ordinary clothes, albeit it a little eccentric.  Some of the men were even in suits.  And the dancing was quirky and immaculate.  I'll bookmark it (if I can work out how) to watch it again,

Flushed with success, I browsed further.  I noticed the name Barbara Dickson and I immediately recalled a tallish, blonde, Scottish soprano who used to sing on The Two Ronnies.  She had a hit song, a duet with Elaine Page called I Knew Him so Well.

In this clip she was dragged out of the audience by some nameless comedian and forced to sing the duet with him.  Again, brilliant!

I think I'm, on to a good thing.  

Wednesday. May 28

 There's an old Baptist tabernacle in the main street of Longford, unused except for a Funeral Director who had an office there.  A couple of years ago it was bought by the Tasmanian Farmers and Graziers Association and work started on changing it to become their headquarters.  Being nosy, our Probus Club invited itself to have a conducted tour of the premises and that took place this morning.  

It was interesting.  They employed proper Heritage Architects to plan the work and the result is great.  Our Probus President happens to be a retired Baptist Minister and was stationed there for a short time early in his ministry.  Other members remember attending a Youth Club there and others attended Sunday School.

Being an incomer, I had no connection to the place but even I could appreciate the historical; significance of the place and how pleasing it is that it still significant today.

Tuesday, May 27

I'm waiting for the phone to ring alerting me that Marilyn needs to be picked up.  She's gone to her Craft group leaving me to look after the house.  I have spend the time browsing the internet looking for interesting articles which don't involve Donald Trump, suggestions for TV shows to watch and recommendations for books I might get around to reading.  I've finished the Hamish Macbeth I was reading and moved on to John Grisham and I wonder how that will work out.

I'm expecting a call this week from Aged Care to arrange a visit so they can assess whether I might get some funding towards a lift chair. It's the next major purchase I'll need to make life easier so I've been practising getting in and out of my current armchair, very slowly with a pained expression on my face.  I don't want to overdo it but the reality is that it is getting harder every day to do things as simple as sitting and standing.  I can't complain, though.  Generally, life is wonderful and I wouldn't give it up for quids.

Monday, May 26

 We've woken up to a miserable day.  The sky is grey with low-lying clouds, the air is cold, and we've had rain overnight.  I can't think of any reason to go out although Marilyn is hinting that she might need something from the shop.

There is one thing we've been discussing which will necessitate a bit of research.  I've been finding it more and more difficult to get out of my comfortable chair in the loungeroom.  It's connected to my on-going back problem.  Since much of our world now revolves around our lounge-room and we spend more and more of our time sitting in our chairs, the problem is becoming more and more evident.

I've been putting off doing something about it but it's becoming clear that something will have to be done sooner or later.  There are chairs, of course, that have electric motors to shove you up on to your feet.  Smokey Dawson used to advertise them.  Several stores in Launceston sell them and you can buy them on-line from places like Kogan and even Temu.  They come with one motor or two but I don't understand the difference.

Anyway, Jamie has offered to take me to have a look.  It's a bugger getting old ... and expensive too.

Here's a little story I wrote in an attempt to produce a love story:

VICTORIAN LOVE STORY                                                               JULY 24, 2024

Beatrice straightened her pinafore, tugged at her pigtails and drew a big breath.  At 16, she needed to give some serious thought to marriage. Her mother often said as much, hinting broadly that her father could not be expected to continue feeding her forever.  The few pennies she brought in from helping old Miss Parsons with her chores around the house made very little difference to the family expenses and Father’s income had been reduced following his accident at the Squire’s colliery. 

She looked again at her reflection in the shabby, stained mirror which hung on a nail over the kitchen sink.  She didn’t think she was a particularly pretty girl but she knew that the boys of the village turned to look at her when she passed by.  Her mother would be ashamed if she knew that Beatrice often deliberately swayed her hips when she knew that the boys were watching.  Sometimes, she heard whistles from them and that gave her a sense of satisfaction.  She drew in a deep breath as she thought about that feeling of power.

Marriage?  What would that be like? Almost every adult in the village was married but the only marriage that Beatrice knew anything about was that of her parents.  Even though other girls at the village school giggled about what it meant to be married, Beatrice knew that it was just nonsense they were talking.  If she ever married herself, she hoped her husband would have more idea of the situation than the silly girls at school.  If her parents’ marriage was any guide, it seemed to be about the man going off to work to earn money, and the mother staying home to look after the house and the children.  It didn’t seem to be anything to giggle about.

When she told some of the other girls what she thought about marriage, they just laughed and she still didn’t understand why they were giggling.

Her steps had brought her to the little, stone hump-backed bridge over the Mill Stream. At this time of the year, after the recent rain, the stream was flowing strongly and Beatrice knew that the miller would be taking advantage of the flow to grind as much of the grain as he could.  Mr Miller worked hard but Mrs Miller seemed to spend most of her days visiting her many friends. Beatrice knew that the miller and his wife didn’t have any children and they were able to employ a maid and a girl to help around the house.

Beatrice could feel her heart leap in her chest as she noticed the figure on the bridge.  As she had hoped, James, the son of the Vicar of the little church in the village, was spending his afternoon fishing in the stream.  Any fish he caught would only be small but would be as welcome in the vicar’s house as any in the village.  A country parson’s stipend was tiny, and the small takings from the collection plate each Sunday reflected the relative poverty of his congregation.  When James turned a little and caught sight of Beatrice, his face lit up.  His voice, although he was clearly delighted to see her, gave no hint of the pleasure he felt.

“Hello, Beatrice. What brings you here?”

“Hello, James,” she replied. “It’s such a nice day, I thought I would take a walk to see whether there are any new ducklings on the river.  But I can see that none of the eggs have yet hatched.”

“I’ve had no luck with the fishing, either so I’m ready to set off for home.  Would you like to walk with me, you can say hello to my mother and father and there might be some fresh milk that we could share?”

“That would be lovely, James,” she replied.  “I hoped I might see you here and I was looking forward to seeing how many fish you had caught.”

James laughed. “I don’t come here to catch fish,” he said.  “I come to think and dream.”

Think and dream, Beatrice thought as they walked along together.  Occasionally, as they walked, their hands inadvertently brushed together and Beatrice was surprised at the feelings of pleasure each touch brought.  If I have to be married, she thought, I hope it will be to someone I like as much as I like James.  The next time their hands brushed, she impulsively grasped his fingers in hers and they walked on hand-in-hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sunday, May 25

 We're running a bit late this morning. It's not unusual for us to watch a Youtube video with breakfast and today's was a little longer than normal. It was, in fact, a couple of our favourites, Steve and Alicjia, on a cruise from London to New York; the whole nine-day voyage.  We could have broken it half-way through but it was particularly interesting so we watched it right through.

We're now waiting for the Coles man to arrive with our order.  He's sent a message that he's running thirty minutes late.  No matter!

I've just poked my nose out to check the weather.  The sun is shining, it's a beautiful day although the air is cold.  I think I'll aim for two walks today.

And here's the man in the red hat.  Only three little bags .. $80!

Saturday, May 24

 Archie had to go the vet yesterday and, because Jamie was busy, Marilyn and I took him to the local practice.  They've just moved into a purpose-built facility on the outskirts of town and it's a thriving business.  Archie loves going there, seeing the other dogs and, especially, one of the staff who is called Madi.

There was another, tiny, chihuaha in the waiting room and a couple of other, much larger, dogs as well. No cats.  Maybe cats are more hardy or their owners don't care as much.

It's raining today but we have no plans to go out.  We need some groceries but that's all done on the computer now.  It's better for a Coles employee to get wet than for us to make the trek to nearest supermarket.

I've been struggling to find something to read and, now that I have a new ereader, it's imperative that I do.  I'd get severely criticised if the flash new gadget sat on the desk being ignored.  Eventually, I stumbled on a series by MC Beaton, featuring a detective in the highlands of Scotland called Hamish Macbeth.  I've read them before but they are a very undemanding read and it doesn't matter if I 'lose the plot.'

Friday, May 23

 Winter has come to Longford and I didn't enjoy going out early to the chemist to pick up a prescription.  Our local chemist is just a little hole-in-the- wall place with 2 or 3 rows of shelves covered with the usual array of miracle cures.  This morning there were two pharmacists behind the counter and five other staff .. seven people to run a pharmacy in a small country town!  How do they keep themselves busy?

We have a cleaning lady here this morning so I'm keeping out of her way.  It's someone different from our usual person and I haven't picked up her name yet. I find it best to retreat to my desk and let them get on with it.

I'm running out of stories to post on this blog and I might have to start writing some more.  I can always find plenty of ideas for stories on the internet but it's motivation to write that's the problem.  With a cleaner fussing around behind me, this might be the perfect time to get busy.

I wrote today's story as an exercise, with a prompt I found on the internet,

Write a story about two people who meet at a wedding.

IS MARRIAGE CATCHING?

When I told my father I had been invited to a wedding, he nodded wisely and said, "Get used to it, son.  You’ll be invited to a lot more over the next couple of years and then, all of a sudden, there will be no more invitations.”  I thought this was quite perceptive until I understood the reality: it’s a generational thing.  It’s people of my age now who are getting married and when they’re all fixed up, there will be no more until the next generation, apart from the odd second-go-round.

There was, of course, the matter of a gift.  It was my cousin who was finally marrying his long-term girl-friend and they had suggested the most convenient way to approach this was to go into the local Myer store and view their Marriage Register.  I’d never heard of such a thing but I wandered in one day and spoke to the first girl I noticed who was dressed in the customary black skirt and white blouse.

“Oh, I don’t work here,” she said. I’ve just popped in during my lunch break to pick out a gift for a girl I used to go to school with.  Come with me and I’ll show you the ropes.”

Quite chuffed about how things had turned out, I followed her as she hurried in to the Homewares Department.  Confidently, she approached the stern-looking woman who stood behind the tiny counter.

“We’d like to see the Gift Register for the Brown/Atkinson wedding, please,”

“Certainly,” was the surprisingly pleasant reply.   The woman felt around under the counter and retrieved a slim folder with Brown/Atkinson in large letters on the front.  Inside there seemed to be several lists under various headings.  Several of the listed items had hand-written names beside them and I assumed these had already been ‘taken’ by other gift-givers.

I took a closer look and was pleased to see that each item had a price attached, ranging from 2 coffee mugs at $12 to a Spode dinner set, $465.  I wasn’t sure how much it was appropriate to spend but finally settled on 6 crystal champagne flutes at $52.  I was interested in what my erstwhile companion would buy but she brusquely sent me on my way.

“It was nice to meet you,” she said and pointedly waited until I had left before she turned again to the gift selection.

I thought about her again in the weeks leading up to the wedding.  She really was extremely pretty and I could still remember the floral scent of her perfume.  Did she have a boyfriend I wondered, and would she bring him to the wedding?  I was surprised how my attitude to the wedding had changed. Prior to the gift selection experience, I had regarded it as just something I needed to attend, but since meeting Alicia, I found myself looking forward to the event, knowing I would see her again.

It was raining on the day of the wedding and I have no doubt there were tears from the bride-to-be when she looked out at the grey skies,  However, the show must go on, as they say.  I arrived at the church a little early and was given a seat about half-way down.  “Are you here for the bride or the groom?” an usher had asked gruffly and pointed to a space for me to occupy.  I looked around for Alicia; I couldn’t see her at first and was surprised at my rush of pleasure when she walked in, taking a seat on the other side of the church.

I don’t want to make too much of it, but, when the gifts were being opened, there were two groups of champagne flutes.  I found Alicia standing beside me and I asked. “Did you …?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Knowing how much they enjoy entertaining, I thought a dozen flutes would be more useful.”

I don’t know why that admission gave me such a good feeling.  It still surprises me years later even though we are now celebrating our fortieth wedding anniversary.

Thursday, May 22

 I promise this will be the last time I mention recycling but I couldn't resist drawing a line under the whole issue, especially as this latest piece of news vindicates me and proves that I was right all along.  Bertine rang the council to ask how they could identify which unit owned the delinquent bin.  The shame-faced officer she spoke to admitted they couldn't identify the actual culprit so sent a letter to every unit to make sure the message reached the right person.  Ha!  I knew it!

Winter has reached Tasmania for this year and the weather bureau is predicting the first major snowfall of the season on the Tiers just above us.  Marilyn and spent some time yesterday putting all our outdoor potplants under shelter to protect them from frost and there's not much more we can do.  I have brought our birdbath back indoors in case it gets damaged. The birds will just have to make do without it until September.  It's a very nice piece of pottery and we'd hate to lose it.  The water in it had already frozen when I brought it in so it was time.

Jamie had booked my car in this morning for a wheel rotation at a local dealer but realised we still had a voucher from the Launceston place where I bought the last set so I'm pleased not to be going out in the cold.  I'll get an appointment next week when it might be warmer.

The Coles' man has just arrived with our order and Archie is having hysterics so I had better leave it here.

Wednesday, May 21

 I bumped into Bertine from Unit 5 yesterday and she complained to me that she had received a letter from the council saying that they had noticed contamination in her recycling bin. Oh-ho!  I've started to think about this and have formulated another theory.

So, there's a camera on the truck scanning all the stuff that is being collected.  But there are five bins outside Number 40 Burghley Avenue; how does it tell them apart?  Yes, I have a label saying number 2 on my bin and I presume the camera can pick that up.  Is it just a coincidence that Bertine's bin was contaminated the same week as ours? Not likely, if you knew Bertine!

I'm also aware that Rhys from Unit 3 doesn't have a number on his bin so my preferred scenario is this: Rhys's bin was contaminated, the camera picked it up but couldn't identify which unit was delinquent, so the Council sent a letter to every unit to make sure the message was received by the culprit.  The rest of us were just collateral damage.

I feel better now.

Tuesday, 20 May 2025

 I spent a half-hour yesterday musing about what might have been if a particular decision had not been made in late-February, 1951 at Corrimal Primary School.  At that time the headmaster of the school decided that I didn't fit into the class where I had been placed (I think it was Year 2) and 'promoted' me to Year 3.  Maybe I was too tall, although I remember there were a couple of tall Dutch kids who towered over me and they stayed where they were.  I like to think it was because I could read well for my age.  After all, I had a couple of years of the Scottish education system under my belt and that was regarded as the best in the world.

I did all right in primary school although I was younger than most of the other kids but the troubles started in High School where I found that being among the youngest students was no advantage.  I left school in 1959 with a scholarship to study at Wagga Teachers' College, and the marks to get me into university but there was no way I had the maturity to take up either of those options.

So I ended up at Hills Buses.  I often think how my life might have been different if it had been decided to keep me in Grade 2 at Corrimal Primary.  But, I suppose it's turned out all right.

Monday, May 19

Nera has arrived back from her trip to the Philippines.  She left Manila yesterday morning, arrived in Melbourne after midnight and flies into Launceston this morning.  She has reported her mother's health is much better.  I know Jamie will be delighted that she is back.  There's no fun in being a short-term bachelor.

 Marily has a couple of engagements today.  First there is the Craft group, which she quite enjoys and that segues into a game of Bingo with lots of prizes which are mainly donated grocery items.  I enjoy the house to myself until I hear the phone ring to tell me is ready to come home.

The only thing I have planned for today is to finalise an order from Temu.  There are a couple of things I want and, with a bit of imagination, I can easily bring it up to the minimum of $50.  I haven't had an order for a while so this is a real treat.

Today's story is Faces in the Street.  I seem to have two stories with the same name and I note that one has been posted before.  But which one?  I hope this is the other one.

FACES IN THE STREET 

Evolutionists tell us that the most successful members of the animal kingdom are those who can live and work together cooperatively.  Animals which can work as a team in hunting their prey bring home more food for their young.  Huge swarms of fish might attract predators but the very size of the shoal and the sheer number of individuals in their group means there is a better chance that an individual fish will live to swim another day.  Even something as simple as animals being able to huddle together for warmth in cold weather might mean the difference between life and death.

Historians tell us that it is our innate ability to live cooperatively which has made the human race so successful in populating the world.  We are able to work together to solve problems, create innovation, plan huge development projects and, of course wage wars. There is no doubt, we are very good at working together with colleagues to get things done.  But what about the others, the ones we don’t know intimately or even casually, the strangers, the men and women behind the faces in the street?

We hardly notice them, do we, those faces in the street, as we walk along?  We keep our own faces looking vaguely downward, our gaze averted, our eyes hooded as if we are fearful of being recognised.  Are we frightened to draw attention to ourselves?   Is there safety in anonymity? 

Why are we like this, so ashamed to look our fellow-citizens in the eye?  Our mothers warned us not to talk to strangers, but is that enough to explain our antipathy to those who are not part of our circle of friendship?  Is shyness a factor or is it the result of the stress of living in our high-powered, dog-eat-dog society?

Maybe we’re frightened that the infection which stalks the streets of the US will come to us here in our little city on the edge of the world - 197 gun deaths in St Louis, Missouri last year.  What effect would something like that have here in Launceston?  I remember the movie quote, “You talkin’ to me?”, fair warning that to make eye contact, let alone initiate a conversation can have dire consequences.  It certainly doesn’t pay to take chances.

We’ve all met those well-meaning individuals who go out of their way to be friends with everyone, the ones who have unrealistic expectations that a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet, who actually say things like that and are surprised when you look at them as if they are mad.

I’ve occasionally thought that I should institute a new approach to co-existing with my fellow-man.  No longer would I hide myself in a cloak of anonymity, afraid to make eye contact in case someone takes my fleeting glance as an invitation to start a conversation.  I’d be ready to embrace new friendships, believing that most people are basically good and kind, and anxious to become another part of my friendship circle.

But, of course, that’s not how the world works.  Man is a co-operative animal, it’s true, but he’s also a tribal one.  Innately, we believe in ‘them’ and ‘us’.  ‘Us’ are the people in our family and immediate circle, ‘them’ is everybody else, the faces in the street, if you like.  Behind their blank expressions, we can’t know what anxieties and fears and distresses they are dealing with.  When talking about serial killers after they have been found out, their neighbours always say, “He seemed such a nice man – quiet, kept to himself but the sort who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” But, they didn’t know him; he wasn’t one of ‘us’.

I think evolution has served us well.  We have evolved from the basic family group of hunter-gatherers to small bands of cave dwellers to clans and tribes, still linked by family and customs, to village-dwellers and townsfolk, to city dwellers.  Through all of this, we have kept our innate suspicion of the stranger, the unknown face in the street.  This reserved attitude has served us well and we would be foolish to abandon it too quickly.