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.