Thursday, July 4

 They say you tend to repeat yourself when you get older and I'm afraid it's true for me.  I was scouring the internet yesterday looking for ideas for stories and found a site which promised 'prompts' to get writers started.  One idea was to write about being a spectator at your own funeral.  I wrote a terrific 800-word story, Outsider at a Funeral, which I had planned to publish on this site today.

However, there was a nagging thought bothering me: the idea seems familiar so I dug through the hard drive and there it was: Onlooker at a Funeral which I wrote in August 2023.  I'll put that older one up today and save the updated version for another time.

Jacob was feeling quite pleased with himself.  It was a clever move, disguising himself as a gardener; nobody ever paid any attention to the staff and, as long as he didn’t get too close to where the funeral was taking place, he was safe from discovery.  He adjusted his hat and scratched his neck; wearing a false beard was a necessity but it was no fun.

 

Some of the words being spoken by the funeral director travelled to his ears, “.. to lay to rest, the mortal remains of our dearly-beloved, Jacob ….. sadly-missed by his loving wife, Sonya  … dust to dust.  If this weren’t a solemn occasion, Jacob might have felt like throwing up.  The hypocrisy of it all!  That witch didn’t have a kind word for him while he was alive, let alone a loving one.  But now that he was presumed by all to be dead, she was all sweetness and light.   Probably she was mentally counting her anticipated legacy.  Isn’t she in for a surprise!

 

Jacob suddenly realised he was tired.  This plan to convince his parasite of a wife that he was dead seemed simple when it occurred to him but putting it into practice was much more difficult than he had anticipated.  He had no idea how many people he would have to bribe to make sure there were no holes in the plot, and he could not have imagined the number of fake documents he would have to pay for.  In the long run, though, he knew it would all be worth it.  When he and Tiffany started their new life together in their beachside villa on San Miguel Bay in the Philippines, life would be wonderful.

 

It was hard to pinpoint when everything started to go wrong with his marriage.  When he and Sonya married, he had been a struggling lawyer trying to make a living in the cut-throat world of the big city.  Sydney was a hard place to get a toe-hold in legal circles.  Universities had discovered that educating lawyers was a good way to maintain their market share: there seemed to be a never-ending stream of applicants for the available places, there was no need for expensive laboratories, nor staff to run them, and the clean-cut, private-school educated students weren’t interested in student politics so caused no disruptions on the campus.

 

The problem came at the end of their education cycle: too many young, hungry, barely-trained legal practitioners hit the job market at about the same and there were just not enough available positions for all the applicants.  Those who got ahead were often the ones who were most ready to cut corners.

 

It was a chance encounter at The Fortune of War pub in The Rocks which gave Jacob his start.  Jacob had called in for a quiet drink after another day of trudging from one meeting to another trying to pin down a job.  The fellow on the stool beside him might have been called a colourful character in a previous generation.  He had a florid face topped by a narrow-brimmed hat, a prominent beer-belly and a loud, hectoring voice.  He noticed Jacob nursing his beer.

 

“Cheer up!” he said. “You look like you’ve lost a fiver and found a threepenny-bit,” he said in a jovial voice.  Jacob, unsure of the reference, still answered politely that he had just spent another fruitless day looking for a job.  One thing led to another and Jacob found himself on the payroll of one of the best-connected crooks in downtown Sydney.

 

All that happened thirty years ago and Jacob knew that it was time to make plans for the next stage of his life.  By any measure, he was wealthy and, to the casual observer, he had a loving wife and family, and a lifestyle to be envied, but Jacob could not imagine seeing out his remaining years like this.  His children had grown up and left home so, in Jacob’s eyes, now was the time to make the move.

 

As in all things, Jacob planned meticulously.  He had been transferring money overseas for many years, partly to avoid taxation but, in the back of his mind, there was always the thought that he might have to disappear in a hurry.  He had bought property in a number of other countries but he was particularly attached to his little touch of paradise in the Philippines.  In his mind, it could be a perfect bolt-hole if things came unstuck.

 

Lost in his thoughts, he failed to notice the ride-on mower coming up behind him.  Nor did he hear the driver, ear-buds in, singing along lustily to the most recent blockbuster from Korea.  The coroner said later that Jacob had stepped carelessly into the path of the mower and that it was clearly Death by Misadventure.  

 

 

Wednesday, July 3

We're having a very cold winter here in Longford. Marilyn noted it was minus 4 degrees yesterday and Bertine, the lady from Unit 5 knocked on our door in the morning to check if we had any water,  It was -5 degrees in her back yard, the water pipes had, apparently, frozen and she had no water for a shower.  In the afternoon, I noted that our bird bath was still frozen and chunks of the terracotta base had started to flake off.

Where will it end?

My story today is in response to the challenge to write a story entitled On Top of the World.  It builds on an experience I had in, I think, 1975. 

Oliver stood alone on the rough path gazing at the barren Alpine plain, and holding a bunch of flowers in his right hand.  They were looking a little wilted now as he had been carrying them for a couple of days and the weather was quite a bit hotter than he had expected.  However, he hoped that Emily would understand the significance of what was happening and, in her usual no-nonsense way, say ‘It’s the thought that counts’.

 

The last time he and Emily had been together they had had a falling-out.  In fact they had a serious row.  He accused her of being too friendly with another young man and she had flown into a temper and yelled at him, saying she never wanted to see him again.  He hadn’t had a chance to speak to her to make amends before she left with some friends for a weekend in the Snowy Mountains, but he knew she was staying at a resort in Perisher Valley and she had been excitedly talking about going up to the top of the escarpment on one of the chairlifts, getting off at the top and going for a walk along the Alpine Meadows before taking another chairlift back down to the hotels in the valley.  Oliver hoped the surprise of seeing him up here, with a bouquet of flowers, would encourage her to forgive him.

 

He waited patiently, not knowing whether she was coming or not.  He had already noticed three or four other small groups coming over the rise from the chairlifts bur Emily was not among them.  He was surprised at how summery most of the people were dressed: light shirts, shorts and some even had thongs; most weren’t even wearing hats.  Oliver had long trousers and a long-sleeved shirt and his jumper and weatherproof coat were close by in his rucksack.  He’d heard stories about the sudden changes in weather here which could happen even on the sunniest of days.

 

Oliver had spent the previous night in a cabin at Blue Lake, not far away, where he had been surprised to find  a young couple already established there.  They said they were from Glasgow University and had a grant to study the straight-backed shrimps which lived in the mountain tarns.  ‘What a life,’ thought Oliver, ‘Being paid to travel to this beautiful place to collect specimens.’  Oliver, at first, presumed they were a couple but, as the evening went on, it was clear they barely tolerated each other.  Angus was a typical dour Scotsman who was difficult to involve in conversation; Elspeth was more bubbly and Oliver had really enjoyed her company.  He imagined they would still be at the cabin tonight and that would give him someone to talk to if his hoped-for encounter with Emily went sour.

 

Oliver realised he had not thought this through.  Assuming Emily listened to his apology and fell into his arms, what then?  He couldn’t expect to travel with her back down the chairlift and gate-crash her party of friends. And, anyway, his car was parked back down on the road not far from the Blue Lake.  If all went well, the best he could hope for was that she would listen to his apology, promise that all would be well, and he would then have to leave her while he returned to last night’s cabin, collect his gear and make his own way home.

 

Would Emily laugh at him for concocting this hare-brained scheme?  Would she think him selfish for intruding on her weekend with friends?  After all, she had pointedly not invited him to come with her on the weekend.  Would she be embarrassed having to witness his childishness in front of her friends?

 

Perhaps, I had better forget all about it, he thought.  But it was too late; a young woman walking along the path called out, “Look, it’s Oliver.  I wonder what he’s doing here.”

 

Oliver took a deep breath and walked towards them.

 

“Are you looking for Emily?” one of them asked. “She’s not with us.  She was very upset after your argument, but she got talking to another guest at the chalet last night and she’s spending today with him.”

 

Oliver was surprised at how he felt about this news.  Instead of being devastated, in fact, he felt that a load had been lifted from his shoulders. With his head filled with a vision of a pretty girl with red hair and a soft Scottish accent, and with his heart singing, Oliver turned on his heel and hurried back to Blue Lake, calling out “Thanks!” as he ran.  He was still carrying the flowers.

 

Tuesday, July 2

I've spent the last few days scouring through various corners of my computer(s) to winkle out the stories I have written over the last five ears.  I joined the writing group in 2019 and I've used various computers over that time so there are a number of corners I need to look in and I had to call on Jamie for assistance.  There's something called 'The Cloud' where stuff lives and I had no idea how to access that.  I don't suppose I've found everything I've written but I have enough to go on with.  Until I think of a better process, I'll just post them at random, so today's offering is called Faces in the Street.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Monday, July 1

 I suppose there were times in the past when July 1st was an important day.  I would be frantic closing off the financial books for the previous year, tidying up all the loose ends and hoping that nothing untoward would be found by the auditors when the accounts were delivered to them.

Now, of course, it's just another day and the most important decision is whether to put out the sheets or not.  It's cold but it's not raining so probably a good idea.

Today's story is called Whistling, from 2021.

Even though I will publicly deny it, I do have some bad habits and one of them is that I whistle, constantly and in the wrong places.  And I admit that it’s a particularly unattractive and tuneless whistle.

 My Dad was a whistler and I think whistling was particularly prevalent in his generation and the one before.   In the post-war years, millions whistled while they worked: window-cleaners, builders, delivery boys and, of course, the seven dwarfs. Performers made a living by whistling; no Music Hall bill was complete without a whistler and Ronnie Ronalde, in the 1950s, was acclaimed as the best and most successful whistler in the world. He topped variety bills and every one of his records passed the old grey whistle test, as the Americans say. The first top-40 record I remember which featured whistling was Singing the Blues with Guy Mitchell.

 

Every cowboy performer worth his salt had whistling in his repertoire but there has been some publicity recently suggesting that whistling has become a casualty of modern life. The Sydney Morning Herald, for example, in 2016, bemoaned the fact that whistling is passe and blamed the proliferation of portable music players and even suggested that modern music is less whistleable.  I agree that it’s rare to hear whistling today.  Perhaps whistling has become regarded as what you do when you have nothing else to do and, in our more frantic, busy society it’s no longer acceptable to admit that you’re not busy.  Better minds than mine will have to study whether that is a valid assumption.

 

In fact, there’s a lot of psychology around the art of whistling and there are researchers making a living studying it.  To give it a touch of respectabilty, it’s classified as ‘momentary musical performing’ like singing in the shower or humming while you do the housework.  More men whistle than women and, I believe, older men whistle more than younger ones.  There’s a Scottish and Irish proverb that says: ‘A whistling woman and a crowing hen will always come to some bad end’ but I’m not sure that is the reason that women don’t whistle; it’s probably more to do with their better developed sense of what’s attractive.  However, there is, on Youtube, a video of the Laurelpark Ladies Whistling Choir, performing Bohemian Rhapsody.  Is nothing sacred?

 

There’s quite a bit of superstition about whistling.  It's said to be unlucky to whistle at night and that might have something to do with a belief in evil spirits stalking in the darkness or it might be a throwback from experiences in war when a careless whistle in the dark might give your position away. In Japanese and Chinese culture, people avoid disturbing the quiet of the night by whistling, believing that the disturbance will bring danger.   In Turkey, whistling at night is regarded as calling for the devil.

 

Sailors whistle to increase the wind and, in Russia it’s said that whistling indoors will bring on poverty.  They have a saying ‘whistle money away.’  In the UK, there is a superstition regarding the Seven Whistlers, who may be spirits or birds, and whose whistling foretells death or disaster.  In 1900, hundreds of mine workers stopped work because a strange whistling had been heard in one of the mines.  

 

Apart from the Laurelpark Ladies Whistling Choir, a whistling  enthusiast can winkle out quite a lot of interesting material on Youtube.  There is even a Sydney Conservatorium of Music Whistling Choir’s rendition of Monty Python’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’.

 

So, I’m in good company with my whistling habit.  Sadly, my repertoire is very limited and I tend to whistle the same tune whatever the situation I’m in.  My wife tells me I whistled ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’ for years but, lately, I’m stuck on Abba’s: ‘Take a Chance on Me.’  

 

A British YouGov survey found that 47% of people found whistling irritating but I just put that down to misophonia or ‘selective sound sensitivity syndrome’.   And it might also be jealousy: 67% of people claim they can’t whistle at all.  But I celebrate, every day, that I can.

Sunday, June 30

 I've given myself a major task to be completed today: I'm going to tidy up my desk.  You can talk about the Labours of Hercules but dealing with the Nemean Lion or cleaning up the Augean Stables had nothing on my labour today. It's only a desk but, in many ways, it's the centre of my world on most days.

It's not a typical 6 x 3 ft rectangular office desk.  Instead it's 150cm wide, straight at the back and sides and free-form at the front.  Free-form means it's curved.  From the left front corner, it gently curves outwards, makes a left hand turn and a dramatic whoosh to the right-hand back.  I obtained it from Giant Steps after I had left, having bought it years before in one of those few times when we had a bit of spare money.  The staff hated it and, when I left, they shoved it in a shed, and they were delighted to give to me for nothing if I took it away.

The trouble is, I've got too much junk on it.  There's the desktop, of course, and an Apple laptop, a sort of standing file box, desk lamp, container with pencils, a small bowl with USB sticks, a couple of photographs, a few note books, a small fan ... it's depressing just looking at it.

I have a couple of things to do on the computer and then I'll start today's blog post.  Promise!

The story today is called In the Future, from 2022, and is self-explanatory.

IN THE FUTURE                                                                                                     

 

I’ve made some mistakes in the past, I’m not too proud to admit and, when something embarrassing happens or I do something I later regret, I always resolve that I will be more careful in the future: in the future, when everything is rosy, birds sing and the sun shines every day, my aches and pains miraculously disappear and I never get a day older.

 

Humans, generally, seem to believe that, no matter how dire things are at the moment, they can only get better.  It’s that optimism which allows us to take a boring, soul-destroying job in the expectation that it will turn into a future career.  When we are hardly out of school, we borrow unimaginable amounts of money to buy a house which we may never pay off and which may need to be replaced when our family grows a little more than we expected.  And the system works.  When I was 8 years old, my parents opened an account for me with the Commonwealth Bank and I paid in a shilling a week from my pocket money.  I resented it then, but that account helped me buy the suit I wore at my wedding.

 

Are humans the only animals which plan for the future?  I know that squirrels store away nuts, and some birds stash surplus food for later.  Archie, the dog that’s living with us at the moment, often hides away a biscuit but I suspect he can’t live with the knowledge that there is an uneaten biscuit nearby so he generally retrieves it after a few minutes and takes pleasure in eating it straight away.  However, are these just anecdotal instances and is there more to it?

 

I checked to see what researchers are doing in this field and found that many have found it to be a fruitful area for study.  Thomas Suddendorf and Michael C Corbalis, in a study called ‘The Evolution of Foresight’, suggest that, for us to propose that animals stash their food, meaningfully, knowing that there may be a future shortage, they must be able to display that they have ‘mechanisms allowing prediction of future situations’. The researchers call this ‘mental time travel’ but suggest ‘there is no convincing evidence’ that non-human animals genuinely display that ability.  Researchers take themselves so seriously.

 

Many of us will find this disappointing: that birds, beavers, our precocious pets and other animals are simply following their instincts and, in fact, probably have no sense or concept of the future, let alone being able to plan for it.

 

So, there’s a lot of weight on the shoulders of the human race: bearing the burden that we are the only species who have a concept of the future and can appreciate the importance of planning for it.  We’ve shown that we can save for a rainy day and, if the motivation is sufficient, we will deny ourselves benefits today for a larger benefit in the future.   Are we wise enough, as a race, to reserve something from our present to allow for a better future for all living things?  And, are we mature enough to make the sacrifices today that all living things are relying on to ensure their future?  Of course, I’m not asking the whole of the human race to share in this burden.  Most of the world’s population struggle to survive from day to day.  The burden of saving the planet and all the living things in it must fall on the so-called developed nations.  Are we up to the challenge?

 

It's not looking promising.  Scientists tell us it might already be too late; that the damages we have caused to the environment might be irreversible and the best we can hope for is to slow down the inevitable grinding to a halt of life as we know it.  Will we, in effect, decide to go out with a bang or with a whimper?

 

Harking back to my first paragraph: are we, as a race, ready to admit we have made mistakes in the past and resolve to do better in the future?  Can the leadership be found to lead us into a brighter future where everything is rosy, birds continue to sing and the sun shines every day?  If I thought that the future can be made more secure I might even stop complaining about my aches and pains.

Saturday, June 29

There are five units in our little cluster here in Burleigh Street., all of them similar to ours: 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom, garage, etc.  Perfect, I would have thought for retired couples who have the occasional visit from a family member.    Four of them, though, are occupied by only one person. Number 3, next to us, has a single man, very quiet, and number 5 is an older woman who moved there because her husband is in the local nursing home and she needs to be close.

Numbers 3 and 4 are occupied by young, single women and we heard this week that both are moving out to live with their respective boyfriends.  That's all good but, if that arrangement becomes more permanent, we are faced with the prospect of having new neighbours.  We wait with anticipation for the next development.

I've called today's story A Day In the Life ... just a bit of nonsense.  It's from 2020.

After my knee replacement I was heartily tired of doctors but I needed an ultrasound on my ankle so my GP sent me to an unfamiliar clinic in a part of town I didn’t know very well.  We had no trouble finding the clinic and, after I spoke to the receptionist, I sat down to wait my turn.  The reception area was a good-sized room with the most prominent feature being an enormous Old English Sheepdog, sprawled across a mattress pushed against one wall.  The creature was clearly having some sort of doggy-dream as it was twitching and its head kept slipping off the mattress onto the shoes of a waiting patient who had, for some reason, chosen to sit as close to the dog as possible.  He didn’t seem perturbed even as his shoes became wetter and wetter with saliva. 

While I was waiting, an elderly woman came in, and presented herself to the receptionist who checked her details.  When asked her date of birth, she proudly announced, “27^th of October, 1942,” turned around and looked at me and repeated as if to challenge me, “1942!”  Taken aback somewhat, I responded, “Well done! You’ve beaten me by several months.  I wasn’t born until early 1943.”

After she had sat down, the receptionist called out to her, “Have you ever lived in Carrins Avenue?”

“Oh, no,” said the woman, “but the last time I came here you had builders in and I had to go to a room down the back of the building.  I don’t think I could find my way back there now.  My address is 72b Penquite Road but, before that, I lived in Carrins Avenue.”

The receptionist just smiled.

A buzzer rang and I was shown into an adjoining room where the lights were dimmed.  A cheerful young woman was sitting in front of an impressive piece of equipment which I assumed would be used to scan my leg and ankle. The young woman smiled and said, “Hi, my name is Mandy.  Do you need a hand to take your trousers off?”  I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.

Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?

Friday, June 28

It's very cold this morning and Marilyn is waiting for her cleaning lady to arrive.  We're never sure who it will be but it will be one of three and Marilyn doesn't care which one; they're all pleasant and efficient.  I'm waiting for Jamie to pick me up to do some shopping.  He'll have Brendan with him and it's all part of the program to acclimatise Brendan to living in Tasmania.  He's finding that it's not at all like life in the Philippines.  He's learnt to catch the bus and deal with the fare collection system.  In Balatan, he might use a jeepney and the system there is for the passengers to pass the few coins up to the driver, hand over hand.  Brendan had to learn about bus stops and looking for the number of the bus and being polite to old ladies and so on.  But, he's getting there.  Today, it's about shopping and, for us, a good excuse to go to Officeworks and Bunings.

Today's story is one of my early ones from 2010; not great but all part of the process.

 Walter, somehow, had never got around to having girlfriends.  Now in his forties, he had resigned himself to life as a sad bachelor so, when Anita from his office started to seek him out to sit with him during coffee breaks he was a bit nonplussed. Did she really bat her eyelids at him?  He’d read about that but didn’t believe it was a real thing.  After a while, Anita seemed to think he had proposed to her, and maybe he had, but there was a sense that he was being rail-roaded.  If he were honest, though, Walter would have admitted he was flattered by the attention and all of a sudden it was too late to think again. But he quite liked the idea of another presence in his life.

Even Walter had to admit it was a great wedding.  The bride wore white, which Walter thought was a bit over the top, and had her heart set on a honeymoon at Katoomba where the last three generations of her family had enjoyed the first days of their nuptial bliss.  They had probably stayed at the wonderful and fashionable Hydro Majestic Hotel but Walter had to draw a line somewhere and, instead, booked a few nights at the Three Sisters Motel.

There’s a lot of fuss made about Katoomba but, when all is said and done, it’s now just an outlying suburb of Sydney.  Once you’ve seen the Three Sisters and travelled on the Scenic Railway, the only other worthwhile experience is the social life at the RSL Club.  After a couple of days of walking up and down the main street and drinking coffee in the Paragon Café, Walter was looking for a way to escape.  Luckily, a poster in the window of the café caught his eye.  It was an advertisement for an Air Show in Temora which, in Walter’s view of the world, was just up the road.

“You’ll love it,” he enthused to Anita. “I heard somebody talking about it recently and she raved about it.  So, it’s not just for men.  If we leave now, we can stop overnight somewhere and be in Temora before you know it.”

By nightfall, they had reached Bathurst and booked in to an old Victorian house with a sign saying ‘The Lost Chinaman Guest House’.  “What’s the story about the Lost Chinaman,” Walter asked the young man behind the desk.  “Dunno,” was the reply “But there were lots of Chinese miners here during the Gold Rush and some of them might have got lost, not being locals.”

The room was quite comfortable, if a bit old-fashioned.  Anita was all for having an early night; she was on her honeymoon, after all.  They slept soundly but Anita woke with a start, saying, “There seems to be draught.  I’m cold.”  Walter felt the chill too but found a cardigan for Anita and they tried to get back to sleep.  Walter couldn’t understand why Anita hadn’t brought nightwear more suitable for the weather.  He imagined he could hear his mother’s disapproving voice:  “That nightie is a disgrace; it doesn’t even cover her bum.”  Following his Dad’s advice, Walter always wore flannelette after Easter and didn’t take out his cotton pyjamas until September 1^st.

It seemed to be just a few minutes later that Anita woke again.  “Did you hear a noise?  It sounded like a moan.”  “I didn’t hear anything,” answered Walter, wishing that Anita would stop making such a fuss.  They had a long drive in the morning and he knew he was no good if he hadn’t had his regular eight hours.

His wish was to no avail.  The ghostly presence, or whatever it was, seemed to run through its whole repertoire: apart from the cold chills and disembodied moans, Walter and Anita were treated to the clanking of chains, distant shrieking, clammy breath on their necks and the sound of children sobbing.  The most interesting noise, though, was what sounded like Chinese bells.

By the morning, Anita was a nervous wreck and she insisted that Walter pay the bill quickly so they could get away.  Walter mentioned to the surly receptionist that they’d had a disturbed night but the young man didn’t seem at all perturbed, not even offering a discount.

Anita and Walter never got to Temora.  Walter would have driven on but Anita said she was too upset and insisted they head for home.  In any case, she had some renovation ideas she wanted to explore for the apartment where Walter had lived, contentedly alone, for twenty years: she’d start by replacing some of Walter’s old-fashioned furniture and brighten the place up a bit with some modern touches.  She idly wondered how she could incorporate Chinese bells into the decor.