Thursday, May 1

I think today might be a special holiday in Russia - May Day.  I coold look it up I suppose but I really feel I have enough useless information in my head and I don't need any more.  It was an early start: Marilyn had a carer arrive to help her with her shower so I settled in my chair to keep out of the way.  The carer caught sight of my Kobo and waxed lyrical about how much she enjoyed her own Kindle.  her husband, Wayne, was always telling her to put it down and come to bed.  I can relate to that and I saw the carer in a new light.

Jamie's dropping Archie off while he goes off to his busy day and I have to pick Brendan up in Deloraine after his shift at the nursing home.  Marilyn has an appointment with the eye doctor and I'm not sure how all the elements of the day will fit together.  No doubt, I'll be informed in due course.  I probably need a list.

Wednesday, April 30

Nera has just rung to tell us her plane has landed in Manila and we know family will be there to drive her on to Balatan.  Of course, we hope everything works out for the best.  When we had our first trip to the Philippines about 20 years ago, we had no idea that our lives would become so inter-twined with that country.  I don't know how many trips we had there, nor how many filipinos we sponsored to come to Australia, and we didn't foresee that Jamie would marry a filipina.  Life's funny like that.

It's a beautiful day here: the sun is shining and it's not as cold as we might expect at this time of the year.  We have no plans, although a walk is definitely a possibility and we might end up at JJ's for a coffee..  No doubt Jamie will bring Archie for a visit.

Just another day in paradise.

Tuesday, April 29

 I missed an important anniversary last week; April 23 was the 10th anniversary of the acquisition of our current car.  Details are hazy in my memory so I checked back through the blog to see what was happening around that time.  The first relevant comment was in February when I reported that our current vehicle, a Ford territory, was struggling.  In fact, it was clear that the transmission was shot.  Marilyn and I had booked to go on a cruise to New Zealand so there was no real urgency to find a replacement.

I had already decided to buy a Mitsubishi but couldn't decide between the ASX and the Outlander.  I took Jamie and Nera with us when we went looking and everyone agreed the ASX with panoramic roof and other bells and whistles was the way to go.  It wouldn't pull the caravan, of course, but that element of our lives was behind us.  I remember the salesperson played a trick on us. When we arrived to finalise the order, she showed us a fully-optioned Outlander and said, "You can have this instead for the same price."  I was tempted but both Nera and Marilyn had their hearts set on the ASX.  We put in the order and packed our bags.

We set off on our holiday, flying to Sydney, spending some time in Wollongong, having lunch at the Rowing Club in Sydney and joining the cruise a few days later.  On our return, the car was waiting for us.  I'm struggling to get my head around the timing: the cruise was in February, the rego took effect from April 23.  What happened in the interim?  There's no clue in the blog because I had one of my lazy periods and wrote nothing.  Perhaps I'll never know.

 

Monday, April 28

 I had been wading through a book I had borrowed from the library and, although I was enjoying the content, I was annoyed by the physical difficulty of holding it.  It was a paperback with about 450 pages and the physical effort of holding the weight of it while ensuring it didn't close shut was making my hand ache.  It would be worse if it were a hardback.

Through my irritation, I realised I had the perfect excuse to buy a new ereader; because of my new-found frailty, I needed an ereader as a physical aid!  Perfect!  Jamie wandered by so I cajoled him into taking me in to JB HiFi and the deed was done.

The new Kobo is a step up from the ones I had previously: much slimmer, lighter and with a different way of downloading books.  Previously, I would scour the internet for free copies of what I wanted, store them on my computer, then transfer them to an SD card to slot into the Kobo.  The new Kobo doesn't have an SD slot; it's all done by wifi.  I can connect to various bookshops and pay for my reading (not bloody likely!), to the local library and borrow them (great!) or to sundry, unspecified other sites which may or not be useful.  I have several hundred books on my computer which I would like to access so the issue now is whether I can establish a wifi link between the Kobo and the computer.

Shouldn't be impossible and gives me something to fill the time today.

Today's story is one I wrote recently.

COLD AUGUST NIGHT                                                                                          MARCH 1, 2024

August nights in Longford are always cold.  Hamish pulled his coat more closely around his body, pushed his ungloved hands more deeply into his pockets and trudged wearily to where his car was parked.    There was no one else in the streets and, apart from a bit of noise from the last revellers leaving the hotel, all was quiet.  Hamish was enjoying his job at the Blenheim Hotel but the late finishes were proving difficult.  Maybe he should talk to the manager to see whether a different shift might be possible.

He crossed the deserted street and trudged slowly towards the park where he had earlier left his car; as he passed Ernesto’s Coffee Shop, a flash of light in his peripheral vision caught his eye.  “OPEN” the flashing sign announced to anyone watching.  Open? Hamish wondered.  When has Ernesto’s ever been open at this time of night?   He was tired and might have continued walking but his curiosity won out and he pushed at the door.

A bell tinkled as the door opened and Hamish groped his way into the gloomy room.  He had enjoyed coffee here many times and was familiar with the bizarre collection of furniture: mismatched tables and chairs and stools fabricated from the cast-iron seats of vintage tractors.

“Hello!” Hamish called out. “Is anyone there?”

A curtain swished as a hand pulled it aside and a very odd-looking individual appeared from a back room and appeared before Hamish.  He was dressed all in black and wore a tartan scarf around his neck.

“Good evening, Hamish,” the strange person enunciated, in a gloomy voice. “How nice of you to call in.  I suppose you are wondering why Ernesto’s is open at this ungodly hour.  But I am forgetting my manners.  Would you like a coffee, before I explain the situation?”

Hamish accepted gratefully and took a seat.  Soon, a coffee appeared before him and the strange individual sat down opposite him, took a deep breath and intoned, “Pardon me for being abrupt but there is no time to waste.  I know you’ll agree we live in interesting times and there are some of us who believe that, unless action is taken, we are all going to be surprised at how badly things will turn out.  Politicians are letting us down appallingly and more and more people are living in desperation.  Something must change.”

He paused as if waiting for Hamish to say something.  Hamish hesitated, unwilling to commit himself to an opinion but, eventually, he murmured, “Hmmm, life’s not always easy, is it?”

“Exactly!” exclaimed the other, “And wouldn’t it be great if something could be done about it?”  He paused, as if re-considering what he was about to say. Drawing a deep breath, he pressed on.

“For too long, Tasmania has been the forgotten child of the Australian nation.  For too long, we have been treated as the rather simple young brother, content to be given the leftovers from the grown-ups’ table.  Well, that is all about to change.  A new coalition of a number of active groups is being formed.  There is intelligence in this group, and integrity and energy.  Our objective is to secure the independence of Tasmania from the oppression of the mainland states.  Without the dead anchor of those monoliths holding us back, we can be sure of a bright future.  Here, in the Apple Isle, we have the resources, the energy, the drive to become the Pearl of the Pacific.  We’re in discussion with a local politician to become our new president.  He’ll be only a figurehead, of course, as all the decisions will be made by a committee.  I won’t tell you who he is but you will know of him.”

“Now that I’ve explained the future, will you join us?”

Hamish thought for a moment.  “Where are you from?” he said, at last.

“Sydney,” replied the man.

“Nah, sorry, mate, not interested,” Hamish drawled and headed for the door.

“Wait,” the man called. “You haven’t paid for your coffee.”

What’s he thinking? thought Hamish as he headed for his car.  Who in Tasmania is going to listen to some blow-in from Sydney.  He must be dreamin’,

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday, April 26

 It rained last night so that gives me a good excuse not to water this morning.  I don't know why this gives me such pleasure; the days are long and I'm always scratching for ways to fill the hours.  I suppose I prefer other ways of passing time than mundane tasks like watering.  I certainly have one task which needs to be sorted:  making sense of all the TV shows I've downloaded in the past few weeks and making a plan as to what we will actually watch ... and when. 

For the past couple of weeks Nera's mother in the Philippines has not been well and Nera has decided that she needs to fly home to be with her.  It's not easy; she has a high-powered job and is reluctant to take time off.  However, she would not forgive herself if anything went wrong and she hadn't made the effort, so I think she has a flight booked for early in the week.

I remember back in the 1950's, not long after we had arrived in Australia, Mum heard that her father was ill.  There was no way in those days that it would have been possible for her to get back to Scotland in a hurry but I know she would have gone if she could.  It might have been only a year or two after we had arrived in Australia because I can remember hearing her talking about it in the kitchen of our house in Northfields Lane and we had left there by 1955..

That's one of the difficulties with immigration to another country; the benefits are balanced somewhat by the difficulties caused by the distance you now are from those you've left behind.

Friday, April 25

 Anzac Day, and we have no plans to do anything exciting. There will be a march and service in Longford and my Probus Club will lay a wreath but it's been a couple of years since we've been involved.  Years ago, I was asked to give the Anzac address at the march in Deloraine which was a distinct honour,  Their march is one of the biggest in the region and is always followed by a breakfast at the RSL club.  I can't remember what I said but I remember I mentioned Eric Bogle's song, The Band Played Waltzing Matilda.  

Even earlier than that, I remember marching down Crown Street in Wollongong in my scout uniform with my knobbly knees on display for all the world to see.  

It's rained overnight but the sun is struggling to break through the clouds and it should be okay for the marchers.

Marilyn's watching a Youtube video set in Ireland.  We often regret not visiting Europe when we were young and carefree but circumstances got in the way.  There's only so much you can do and we found that we were obliged to spend a lot of time in the Philippines and, with our limited budget, Europe was out of the question. I did manage to spend a couple of week in the UK but I was on my own, As Marilyn says, maybe in the next life. I found a story I' wrote a couple of years ago called Letter From the War; it may be appropriate on this day.

LETTER FROM THE WAR – March 13, 2020

Somewhere in France

April 1915

Dearest Janet,

I haven’t written to you since I left you all those weeks ago and you know I miss you terribly.  Still, there are lots of my pals from Burnbank here as well, so I have some familiar faces to remind me of home.  Jock Monroe had word last week that his mother was ill and he was given compassionate leave to go home to see her.  You know where she lives, in Carlyle Street, and maybe you could look in to see how she is getting on.  Jock hasn’t come back to the regiment yet so we don’t think everything is good there.

Well, you’ll not be surprised to hear that I’m now in France.  With a lot of the other men who worked in the pits, I’ve been attached to the Royal Engineers. The officers came looking for men who had been working in the mines so we thought that they’d be wanting us to dig trenches and tunnels and that’s what we’ve been doing for the past month, and dirty work it is too.  It’s been raining every day since we got here.  All the trenches have filled with water.  I’ve heard stories that wounded soldiers who couldn’t save themselves have drowned while waiting for help. 

All of us who thought we were coming on an adventure which would be all over by Christmas have learned exactly how awful war really is. We knew there was a chance that we might be wounded or killed by the Germans but nobody warned us that we would never have enough to eat and about the horrible weather and how hard it would be never being able to dry ourselves.  Many of my pals are suffering from trench-foot.  Our feet are always wet and, after a while, they start to get big sores on them and the smell when we take off our socks is terrible.  We haven’t had dry socks for weeks.

Now, I don’t want you to worry, but I’m in a Field Hospital in France. I have a head wound but it’s not  serious, and the doctors tell me I’ll be alright after a rest.  All our letters are being looked at so I’m not sure how much I can tell you but I was with a small gang whose job it was to tunnel  under the German trenches, lay some explosives, crawl back and set off the bomb.  Maybe we weren’t quiet enough, but something alerted the Germans and one of them had the bright idea of sending some poison gas back down our tunnel.  Luckily, we were able to scramble back quick enough to reach fresh air and we only lost one man.  You remember Geordie Murray whose father had the butcher’s shop.  He was always clumsy and he couldn’t move his big feet fast enough.  I lost my helmet, bumped my head in the tunnel and needed a bandage.

The doctors tell me that I’ll be back to the regiment after a few days but because of the gas I’ll probably have lost my sense of smell.  Oh, well, that’s not such a bad thing and at least I won’t have to put up with the smell of the rotting feet.

Give wee Jenny  a kiss for me.  Your loving husband,

Sanny

Thursday, April 24

 I made a rare trip to the library yesterday and even borrowed some books.  I can't remember the last time I did this; when I moved over to ebooks there was an unlimited number available on-line and I thought I'd never have to visit a library again. However, there is a flaw in the system: I can't read a book on my tablet in the direct sunlight and I don't currently own a dedicated ebook reader which is designed specifically for that purpose.

The clear solution to the problem is to buy a new Kobo but I'm reluctant to spend the several hundreds of dollars.it would need.  I've already tried a cheap Chinese model but it's given up the ghost so I'm faced with just one other avenue - the local library.

We have a great little library in Longford and, of course, can access any book in the state-wide system so I turned up full of enthusiasm. There were a few people there, staff and customers, all female but I didn't feel intimidated.  I found a couple of authors I recognised, asked one of the staff if she could recommend any short story collections and left with a Jeffrey Archer, and some short stories by Lee Child and Tom Hanks, of all people.

The Jeffrey Archer is absolute rubbish and I'm now making a start on the Tom Hanks.  It's too early to say if it's any good but you never know.

Wednesday, April 23

If it weren't for medical appointments, we'd have a very boring life.  Today, it's pseudo-medical - the podiatrist.  We're due at 9.20 but er only have to go to the Toosey Old People's Home at the top of the street, so we still have time to spare.  The podiatrist tells us that she struggles to find staff.  New graduates are attracted to the mainland so she tries to bring people i from the Philippines and so on.  However, other western countries are all doing the same and thr supply is bnecoming limited.  What will we do when there's no one left to trim our nails?

I started trying to get my head around the up-coming election in preparation for making a sensible vote but it's hard.  We no longer watch the news and form any opinions we have based on snippets we catch in passing or on prejudices we have from years ago.  Names like Jackie Lambie and Clive Palmer evoke a response, but is it still a valid one?  Feelings about the parties are still coloured by memories of Scott Morrison, Bob Hawke and Bob Brown.  Are they still the same parties?   And what about the Teals?    I only know them as ducks and do we even have them in Tasmania?

Happily, Tasmania is still a small place so nobody is a stranger and there's probably enough residual knowledge about the people on the ballot for us to make a fairly reasonable decision but I'll bet that not every vote is considered as carefully as ours.

Tuesday, April 22

 There's nothing much planned for today: the sun is shining so we'll probably spend some time out of doors but, otherwise, the diary is empty.  Tomorrow, we have our regular podiatrist appointments.  Last time I saw her she told me I needed to have a nail removed.  I imagined she would organise it and take her cut from the proceeds.  Instead, I asked my GP for a second opinion.  He's a surgeon and said he would do it, so I agreed, and it's healing well.  In fact, he didn't remove the nail; he just took a slice from the side.

After the appointment with her tomorrow, the Probus Club is having morning tea at the local cafe.  It will be men only and I find it extraordinary that the two local clubs don't ever have functions together: the women don't come to the Men's Christmas dinner and the men are not welcome at the Women's do's.  My last club, Deloraine, was mixed and was so much better.

Monday, April 21

 I've just come back from my walk, my regular 900 steps up to the corner and back, passing the same houses and the same cars.  Just up the road there's a Leyland P76 parked outside in the street.  I haven't seen one of these for years and it could be 50 years old, the first models coming out in the 1970s.   I wonder if it's valuable and shouldn't be left unattended.

As usual, I was listening to music through my government-supplied hearing aids.  For some reason, the tune which sticks in my brain is With or Without You by U2.  I normally hate that sort of stuff but it helps to keep my mind off the rigours of the walk.  I notice that the wifi link cuts out when I pass a particular house. If I were writing a spy story, I could incorporate that phenomenon in the plot: a radio transmitter in the house is interfering with the wifi signal to my ears. But, maybe not.  There's a mismatch with the technologies: the radio transmitter fits nicely into the WW2 period but the in-ear receivers are more 21st century.  I don't have the energy to try to sort that out, although maybe a Back to the Future scenario ... nah!

MY SPECIAL PLACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, April 20

We always have a family lunch on Easter Sunday.  Jamie and Nera (and, this year, Brendan) come to us and we have a feast of prawns, smoked salmon, chicken, my celebrated fruit platter and, occasionally, a crayfish.  The weather is not wonderful today but no matter.  However, Jamie rang an hour ago to say that both Nera and Brendan are sick and they won't be coming.  He'll come and take a share of the platter home to them but it will be a lonely Easter lunch for just Marilyn and me.  Oh, well, it isn't the first time there's been a change of plan, and it won't be the last. 

Friday, April 18

 Good Friday morning and we're thinking about getting organised for lunch. Marilyn has invited one of our neighbours (from Unit 5) to join us so that will be good.  The weather is no so good so we have yet to decide whether we will be dining al fresco under our new gazebo of around the table inside.  Unless thigs improve, I suspect we will be indoors.

The fellow next door (at Number 42) has just had a load of wood delivered, and dumped on his front lawn.  Before long a couple of young men, in farm trucks, will arrive and wheel it all around the back.  It's the third load this season.  Something similar happened last year and, when the first cold winds came, their fire went on and continued non-stop for the winter months.

Marilyn has decided  that he is a retired farmer and the farm is now being run by his sons who make sure Dad and Mum never get cold.  There is often a flag flying above the roof: blue with a white St George's cross and a white star at the end of each arm of the cross.  He has two flags, in fact.  The one flying today is very tattered but he has a new one which flies occasionally. I think it is the Eureka flag which, of course, signifies the Australian ideal of democracy and 'a fair go'.

 The other day, someone came and erected a large sign in the front yard encouraging passers-by to vote for the local ALP candidate.  I suppose it ties in with the flying of the flag and I suspect he and I might enjoy a conversation.  As it happens, I've never even seen him in the yard.  

THE QUIET MAN                                                                                     AUGUST 20, 2021

ABC RADIO, NORTHERN TASMANIA - TRANSCRIPT OF ANNOUNCEMENT ON FRIDAY, 13^th AUGUST, 2021, 9.06am.  ANNOUNCER: Leon Compton

We’ve just heard that police have been called to a remote farmhouse in Reedy Marsh, near Deloraine.  It seems they received a call from a distraught neighbour worried about strange activities at the adjoining house.  We have no details as yet but our reporter, April McLennan is on her way to the scene

ABC RADIO, NORTHERN TASMANIA, 9.59 am

COMPTON: Our reporter, April McLennan, has arrived at the farmhouse in Reedy Marsh and we now have a live cross:

Good morning, April.  What can you tell us about the happenings in Reedy Marsh this morning?

McLENNAN:       Good morning, Leon.  Things are quiet here at the moment.  There are two police cars parked beside the house where we believe an incident occurred earlier this morning.  The neighbour who reported her concerns, Mrs Shirley Boon, is unavailable for comment but I’m talking to another neighbour, Mrs Fiona Cresswell.

Good morning, Mrs Cresswell, thanks for talking to us.  I believe some of the community have concerns about what’s been happening at this house over the past few weeks.

CRESSWELL:        Good morning, April.  Yes, it’s terrible what’s been going on.  Reedy Marsh is a peaceful little place and we’re just not used to the sorts of goings on that we’ve had to live with recently.

McLENNAN:       Before we get into the details, Mrs Creswell, what can you tell me about the man who lives here?  I believe his name is Stewart.

CRESSWELL:        Well, he’s a quiet man, usually.  Wouldn’t say ‘Boo’ to a goose.  Keeps himself to himself.  I think he works in Lonny at one of those government offices: Centrelink, or somewhere.

McLENNAN:       So, what’s changed? What’s happened to cause your neighbour to ring the police?

CRESSWELL:        Well, it started a couple of weeks ago when Stewart arrived with a young girl in the car.  She only looked about 18 or 19, all tarted up wearing a short skirt and too much make-up.  She marched up to the front door and walked in as if she owned the place.  We were all worried about Stewart.  As I said, he’s a quiet man and we wondered what he had let himself in for.

I went across to see if everything was alright but he said everything was fine and it was just his niece visiting him for a few days.  I didn’t like to say anything but it sounded a bit suspicious to me.  I said to Shirley (that’s my neighbour, the one who rang the police this morning) that it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

McLENNAN:       And, then what happened?

CRESSWELL:        Well, we didn’t see either of them for a couple of days.  The lights went on and off, as usual, but the television never went on and there was no sign of life.  I was worried, I can tell you, but we didn’t know what to do.

McLENNAN:       What happened then?

CRESSWELL:        We didn’t like to pry.  Well, you don’t, do you? But it was obvious that something wasn’t right.  I don’t think Stewart has been at work since his so-called ‘niece’ arrived.  He hasn’t been to the shop and his yard is starting to look un-cared for.  I’m sure she was up to no good, that girl.

McLENNAN:       Can you tell me what happened this morning which made Mrs Boon ring the police

CRESSWELL:        We were woken up early by screams and shouts coming from Stewart’s house.  It sounded like someone was being murdered.  Shirley rang me first and asked me what to do and I said she should ring the police straight away.  I wouldn’t put it past that girl to try to steal everything she could lay her hands on and then sneak out of the house and make her getaway.

McLENNAN:       Thank-you very much, Mrs Cresswell.  I now have Senior Sergeant O’Mullane of Tasmania Police with me.  Thank-you for talking to our listeners, Senior Sergeant.  What can you tell me about the incident here at the Reedy Marsh farmhouse this morning?

O’MULLANE:      Good morning, April.  We received a call at 7.13am this morning alerting us to a disturbance at River Road, Reedy Marsh.  A car was despatched from Deloraine Police Station and it arrived on the scene shortly after.  The two officers who were attending apprehended a suspect and that suspect is now in custody.

McLENNAN:       Can you give us any more details of the incident, Senior Sergeant?  Is there any other information about the suspect?

O’MULLANE:      I’m sorry, April.  I’m not able to make any further comment.  There will be a statement from the Police Media Liaison Unit shortly.

McLENNAN:       Well, there you are, Leon.  Everything is quiet here for the time being.  If I hear anymore, I’ll get back in touch.

 

STATEMENT FROM TASMANIA POLICE MEDIA LIAISON UNIT – AUGUST 13, 2021, 2.30pm

Police were called to a disturbance at a residence in Reedy Marsh, near Deloraine this morning.  The resident of the house reported to the police that he had been the victim of false pretenses and robbery. A young man, whose name is being suppressed, is helping police with their enquiries.  The young man, at the time of his arrest, was posing as a female. 

Wednesday, April 16

 It's Mum's birthday today; born in 1921, she would have been 104 if she had held on.  The sky here is overcast and the day is generally gloomy, in keeping with the occasion.  It's also Nera's birthday which is an interesting coincidence.

I have another medical appointment this afternoon, well, pseudo-medical: it's with the Audiologist to have my hearing aids checked.  He/she will ask me how they're going and I will say 'Fine'.  He/she will ask whether I need any new batteries and I will say, 'No, we're fine.'  In reality, I rarely wear them; in fact, only when I am on my walk when I use the wifi function to connect to my phone so I can listen to podcasts, but I won't inform him/her of that.

In fact, I want to ask him/her whether I can upgrade them to a better version which doesn't use batteries.  Almost daily I get notifications on Facebook that elderly Australians are entitled to flash new models without batteries but they're from different providers.  I don't know whether Specsavers (our supplier) has the same deal.  Hearing aids are not their core business (the clue is in the name) but I can only ask.

Tuesday, April 15

 We wanted to send some flowers yesterday.  Once upon a time, we would ring Pam whom we've known since school.  We knew she would be sitting in her little shop having received her delivery of fresh flowers from the market.  We'd ask her what flowers looked especially nice, how she was, was her Mum getting over the hot summer and ask to have the bunch delivered that afternoon.

Pam's gone now so we go the internet to find a florist near to where we want them sent.  Sarah's Flowers sounds alright so we ring them up and place the order.  Sarah seems a little off-hand but she's probably busy.

When it hasn't arrived the next day, we try contacting Sarah on the web but "Sarah's Flowers' takes us to Temu.  What's going on?  Another try throws up a telephone number and the disembodied voice tells us that the flowers have left the warehouse.  Warehouse?  The image of 'Sarah' sitting on a high stool in the back of her little shop in a Bulli back-street slowly dissipates.

Like everything else, 'floristry' has become just another mass-produced industry with the bouquets being churned out by hordes of migrant workers in centralised factories.  There's no 'Sarah' just as there's no longer a 'Pam'.  Still, I gather the flowers were nice, fresh and smelled pretty.  

Monday, April 14

 The weather is changing and today is a lot colder than yesterday although the sun is shining and we'll still have our morning tea under the gazebo.  I'm in the habit of watching a Youtube video or two with my breakfast and found a cracker this morning.  Steve lives in Montrose in NE Scotland and he and his wife, Alicia, were wandering around some old WW2 ruins.  Today the old, abandoned airfield is surrounded by a world-class golf course, but there is still a lot to see.  In the town there is a museum dedicated to the WW2 pilots who were based here.  It was fantastic.

I stayed in Montrose for two or three nights in 2013 when I was re-visiting the villages where my Dad's family lived.  I had no idea that Montrose was such an interesting place.  Apart from the B&B where I stayed, the railway station, a supermarket and a fish and chip shop, I saw nothing else.  What a shame!

When I read today's story to my Writing Group they thought it was about a real place but, of course, it's not.

THE TOWN I LOVED SO WELL                                                                  18 MARCH 2022

I worked out that it has been more than sixty years since I last walked down the streets of Claymore.  The main street hasn’t changed much.  It is sealed now, of course, and I wonder if my memory is correct in telling me that it used to be dirt which turned to mud in the wet season.  The shops still have their old-fashioned verandahs, with hitching rails.  I can’t imagine the locals still bring their horses into town and suspect the rails are just a throwback to less mechanised days and some local dignitary has decided they should remain, adding a touch of nostalgia.

There might be some tourists who are attracted to that sort of sentimentality but there are towns like Yackandandah and Beechworth in Victoria which do it so much better.  Maybe it’s just laziness or lack of funds which keep things as they were.

There’s Coogan’s Store, the mullioned windows just the same as I remember with the frames now painted a dark, gloomy green.  The painting has been a sloppy job and the tradesman, if I can call him that, hasn’t bothered rubbing back the previous coat so the finish is uneven and certainly won’t last.  There’s a collection of stuff behind the dirty glass: dusty toasters, and other electrical goods at one end and various items of kitchen bric-a-brac at the other.  The door, set back from the windows is shut, and is not very welcoming.  I might have gone in for a browse but I am discouraged from turning the handle and stepping in.  No doubt, opening the door would ring a bell to alert a shop assistant and I’m not ready to talk to anyone yet.

There isn’t much happening in the town at this time on a weekday morning.  It might become busier around morning-tea time when people are looking for their coffee hit but, looking at the deserted street, I would not be surprised if they don’t have a rush hour.

This shop here is where Mr Cartwright made boots for the local gentry.  I can still picture him with his bald head, red face and stained leather apron.  I remember he used to line his boots up on racks on the pavement outside the shop.  Nobody, in those days, would have dared to touch them.  His name is still on the window, in gold letters ‘JH Cartwright: Bootmaker’. The shop still sells shoes and boots, I notice, but they are piled up in the shop in cheap cardboard boxes with Chinese writing.  There’s a large basket filled with odd shoes and a hand-lettered sign ‘All half-price.  This week only!’  There’s nobody in the shop but a depressed-looking young girl, carelessly waving a feather duster about.

Here's another empty shop with a Real Estate Agent’s sign in the window and next to that is the local library.  That’s new. I can’t remember what was in this spot but the library is a typical 80’s brick veneer building.  The only library I can remember as a kid was the couple of shelves at the back of the Year 6 classroom, with a sparse and tattered collection of books which we were encouraged to borrow.  The library is clearly open, with a light showing through the window but the door is shut, no doubt because of the air-conditioning.

I’d lived in a small house a couple of streets back from Morris Street, the main drag, as we called it. My Dad was the Headmaster at the local school and we had come here looking for a quieter life.  In those days, I saw the town through rose-tinted glasses.  I relished the freedom that a small country town offered. I remembered the swimming hole and the oval where we kicked a football about at the weekend.  I remembered learning to ride a horse – an elderly draught horse called Radish - and setting rabbit traps, and picking blackberries in the summer.  I remembered the girls at the country school, with their shining hair and unbounded self-confidence, riding their horses to school, horses with names like Kitty and Jenny, who would spend their days in the school paddock, waiting to carry their precious cargoes home in the afternoon.

We only spent two years at Claymore and then Dad was offered a head’s job at an inner-city school in Sydney. Banjo Paterson summed that suburb up: ‘the foetid air and gritty, of the dusty, dirty city’.  However, I made new friends there and went on to become the adult I am today.  I can’t help thinking, though, how much I owe to those two years in Claymore, a town I loved so well.

Friday, April 11

 I promised (threatened?) a post written by AI ... and here it is.

A Day of Birthdays, Meetings, and Moments of Stillness

Today was one of those quietly eventful days that starts with a plan and ends with a bit of peace.

The day began with a birthday celebration—a nice way to shake off the ordinary routine. It’s always lovely to be part of someone’s special day, and there’s something about birthdays that brings a warm, familiar energy, even if the cake is a bit too sweet or the candles burn a little too fast.

From there, it was on to my monthly Probus meeting. Now, these are usually part of the standard rhythm, but today’s had a little extra spark. It was actually quite exciting—there was a buzz in the air, some good discussion, and the sense that things were really moving. That said, I found myself among a crowd of unfamiliar faces. I didn’t know too many of the gentlemen there, which made it feel a bit like walking into a club where everyone else already knows the secret handshake. Still, it was stimulating, and I’m always up for a good conversation, even if it’s mostly listening in.

The rest of the day slowed down beautifully. I came home and just… sat. There’s an underrated kind of magic in doing absolutely nothing for a bit. Eventually, I spent some time playing with Archie—which always resets my mood. There’s no pretense with dogs. Just joy, energy, and the occasional confused stare when you talk to them like they’re fluent in English.

I finished off with a short walk, the kind where you don’t have anywhere in particular to go, but your legs just want to move. The sky was doing that thing where it can’t decide whether it wants to be dramatic or serene, and I just let the quiet take over.

Now I’m back home, resting. The kind of rest that isn’t just about your body but also your head—letting the day settle in without needing to dissect it.

Not every day needs fireworks. Some days just unfold, and that’s enough.

What do you think?

Thursday, April 10

 I seemed to have fallen into the habit of writing a blog each second day.  It's not deliberate and my intention is to write every day if there's something I can think of which might be worthwhile.  Once upon a time there was lots happening on my life and I had no trouble filling the pages.   However, one way of looking at is that my life is now only half as interesting as it once was.  Let's go with that.

It was my Probus meeting yesterday and the guest speaker had lots to say about AI.  He works in Aged care Support and uses AI a lot.  I wonder if I could get AI to write my blog?  Hmm!  Worth investigating.

I've just come back from my morning walk.  To entertain myself, I downloaded some music which I play on the easy.  This morning, I had some Irish folk songs and one of them was Thye Green Grass of Home by Eric Bogle but sung (badly) by someone called Finbar Furey.  I couldn't help myself and was singing along but luckily there was only the occasional dog out and about to hear me.

I haven't heard of Eric for years but I suppose he is still about, doing his thing. I must look him up on the internet.

PS I di look him up and found that he turned 80 las year but is still doing some gigs.  He performed at the Illawarra Folk Festival in January.  Good on him!

Tuesday, April 8

 I'm at my computer a little early today; Marilyn is watching a Youtube video featuring a young woman called Brogan.  I'm reasonably forgiving about TV 'personalities' but Brogan brings out the worst in me.  She has a gormless husband called Benji ... but I can't write any more; I feel my blood pressure rising.

It's Probus tomorrow so I have to put together a Financial Report.  How do I get myself into these things?

On a happier not; it's a beautiful day her in Longford.  I've already done the watering and will probably head outside with my book to enjoy the sunshine.  Jamie has dropped off a couple of forms for us to apply for a Postal Vote in the election.  He doesn't want us to be bothered lining up, but I've read the criteria and we don't seem to fit; in prison, fear for your safety, religious beliefs, patient in hospital, due to give birth?  No, none of the above.  Now, if they had too lazy to line up, we might be OK.  

Monday, April 7

 My normal Sunday morning routine is to sort out my week's medications.  I have a plastic box in which they live and I laboriously transfer individual tablets into a handy pack with seven compartments, each named for a day of the week.  I bet I'm not alone in carrying out this routine and I don't find it a chore.  However, last week Marilyn commented, "Why don't you get the chemist to do that for you? Sensible people get their Webster packs done for them and it will save you all the bother."

I must have been suffering from a weak moment so I agreed.  I happened to be seeing the doctor the next day so he gave me the official list of medications, the pharmacist accepted it, as if it was nothing unusual, and I picked up my first fortnight's supply yesterday.  It looks alright so I've taken the first dose this morning.

It's just one more change I will have to get used to but this one might not be too difficult.

FRIEND NOT FOE                                                                  OCTOBER 7, 2022

You know what it’s like when you’re a kid: you think the world revolves around you and, once an idea gets into your head, it’s hard to shift it.  It was like that with me when I started at a new school.  My previous school was a tiny one-classroom arrangement in a country town but we had now moved to the city where my father had taken a job at a big factory 

Our new house was bigger than the one we had in the country but the yard seemed tiny, surrounded as it was by high wooden fences.  I had to leave my pony behind, too. Dad often played Eric Bogle records and the words of one of his favourite songs came back to me:

            There’s no drought or starving stock

            On a sewered suburban block …

And I thought, no room for a pony either.

I started at school on a Monday morning, neat and tidy in my new uniform.  I was terrified. I had in my head that everyone would pick on me, the new boy, and especially as I had come from the bush and didn’t know how things worked in the city.

All the kids in my class were about the same age which was a new thing for me.  At my old school, there were only two boys who were 11 and everybody else was younger.  I don’t know how many were in the class but we sat in rows with the desks set out in pairs.  The boy sitting next to me didn’t speak.  He wore glasses and one side was covered with brown paper.  He looked a bit strange to me but I didn’t say anything.

The teacher, who was a tall man wearing a tie and a jumper said, “Good morning, everyone.  We have a new student today.  His name is Blake and I hope you will all make him welcome.  He’s come to us from the bush so he might take some time to get used to our ways.”

I felt like an outsider already.  Miss Mills at Eungarie was young and pretty and smiled all the time.  The students in her class all loved her and we would never have done anything to upset her.   I couldn’t imagine ever liking Mr Buckley.  I didn’t like it when he said I came from the bush; everyone would think I was a country bumpkin.

At morning break, I hung back in the classroom when everyone else ran outside.  Mr Buckley growled at me, “Off you go to the playground.  This is my break too and I don’t want kids hanging around.”

As I expected, there was a gang waiting for me when I went outside: three or four of the bigger boys.  I suppose they wanted to make sure I understood who were the bosses in this school and that I would have to learn to know my place.  There were a couple of girls hanging around too and they looked just as unwelcoming.

The one who seemed to be the leader said, “So, your name’s Blake?  What sort of name’s that?  Did your mother get it from a movie or something?”

They all laughed at that so he carried on, “You’re not a cow cocky now and you’ll have to learn how things work in the big city.  First of all, what’s your footy team?”

What? I wondered.  Why do they want to know my footie team?  If I say the wrong one, will they give me a hard time?

“Melbourne,” I said. “The Demons.”

“Oh, that’s all right, you’ll be in Mitch’s gang.  He’s the fellow with the funny glasses that you sit beside.  Don’t worry about his glasses, he’s got a lazy eye.  His gang has the Demons, the Swans, the Bulldogs and bloody Collingwood.  Where do you live?”

I drew in a big breath.  Perhaps it was going to be alright.  It looks like I might have found a friend rather than a foe.

 

Saturday, April 5

It's after 11, we've both had a walk, the Coles order has been completed on-line and Marilyn has just put on the kettle ... all's right with the world.  We've stopped watching the news but, even in our self-imposed bubble, we're aware of the fact that there's an election coming up.  I resigned from the election workforce a couple of years ago but Marilyn has still been involved.  She's been encouraged to work again this year but I'm pleased that she has seen sense and refused.  The TV ads are for both Federal and State elections so I suspect the state is going to save some money by tacking a local by-election on the main show, although it's only for the Upper House in a couple of electorates and I don't think it includes us. No doubt somebody will tell us in due course.   Jamie has dropped off some application forms for postal votes in the Federal Election to save us lining up; he must think we're getting old.

It's very overcast here today but that's typical of the weather pattern at this time of the year.  I've already watered and hung stuff on the line and I think that is the extent of my day's work.

Friday, April 4

 I bought my first ebook reader in, I think, 2009.  It was a Bebook, manufactured in The Netherlands and used the epub format.  The Kindle had been released a year or two earlier but had a pricing structure which I suspected would prove to be too costly in the long term.  The whole idea of ebooks was new and I remember being on a plane to New Zealand in 2010 when a young woman leaned across and said,

"Excuse me, my husband suffers from gadget envy and wants to know what you have in your hand."  We had a pleasant conversation and they played with my bebook and were determined to rush off and buy one.

Later that year we were in Nepal and I introduced the gadget to the other members of our party.  They all headed off to duty free to see what they could find.  It's a good feeling to be in the forefront of a trend.

Since then, Marilyn and I have had several ereaders, mostly Kobo brand.  We found they were particularly useful when we wanted to read when we were out in the sun, like on the deck of a ship.  They were great when we were travelling but I found we were not using them as much now that we are back on shore.

Until ... We have become particularly sedentary and spend an inordinate amount of time sitting outside in our new gazebo.  What better time to read.  I dug out our old Kobos but they had died of old age and neglect.  Marilyn was quite happy to find something else to do but I was itching for another ereader.  Jamie wanted me to have a Kindle but, over the years I've downloaded hundreds of books in the epub format so I needed another Kobo or something similar.

"Don't buy a cheapie." he said. (He knows me too well.)  I investigated - nearly $300 for a Kobo but there was a cheapie on Kogan for $105.  I couldn't resist.  It came, beautifully packed in a presentation box .  The font was a bit small but my eyes aren't that bad.  I've had it a few weeks now and it was OK, although not as satisfying as a Kobo.  Still, I remind myself , it was cheap!  

Two days ago, it stopped working, refusing to accept a charge. It has died, gone to God, joined the choir invisible, turned up its toes, it's an ex-reader. It's so tiny I can't even use it as a paper weight. Jamie has resisted saying, "I told you so" but, of course, I should have bought a Kobo in the first place.

Thursday, April 3

 It was another trip to the doctor yesterday to have my toe checked, and it was all fine.  I was tempted to ask him whether I would be able to resume my career as a professional dancer but I suspected he wouldn't get the joke.  Fair enough, it's not really funny. 

I was watching Scott on Youtube this morning while he was wandering around Scotland looking for old wells.  I suppose if you lived in a place with such a long history it would be interesting to see the remains of the past.  In Longford, we only go back a couple of hundred years and the closest we come to ancient relics is the evidence of the car-racing track which existed her until the 1970s.  Interesting enough, I suppose but just scratching the surface of history.  He stopped at one stage to point out that there used to be a well at Balgownie. Balgownie?  Not the one near Wollongong, of course. The original Balgownie has been there for thousands of years.

Then he mentioned there was another well at Glennifer Brae.  That was the name of the big house in the paddock near our house in Gwyneville which became a posh girls' school, but that's not where he meant either.  

Later on, he found a site where the bricks were marked Blantyre Ferme and Blantyre is the name of the village where we began our lives before coming to Australia.

It's not unusual to have a connection to some of the things we discover on Youtube but to have three from one program is certainly strange.