Saturday, October 26

I’m sitting at my computer, as I often do, drawing a blank, as I often am.  My assignment for my Writing Group 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 about myself.

Could I write about Dark Secrets without stumbling into clichés 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 cranes, employed in erecting even more units to meet the insatiable demand.  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 heard of Sydney sometime during the year 1950.  At the 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.  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 the 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 in 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 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 our marriage, at Coogee and it 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 the great restaurants.  It’s been nearly 70 years since Sydney first became my special place and it’s special still.

Monday, October 21 (2)

We seem to watch quite a bit of TV these days so I'm always on the lookout for something new on the screen.  But, I'm amazed to find that they're bringing back stuff like Hawaii 50, Magnum PI and Dynasty.  Are they mad?  Nostalgia is one thing but reviving programs like this flies in the face of the normal order of things.  What's next?  I Love Lucy?

Monday, October 21

We went to the Casino yesterday for lunch.  When we were in the habit of going more regularly, we joined their loyalty program and started to accumulate points each time we visited.  The program seems to have changed and points magically appear whether we visit or not.  If we do visit, and put a few dollars in the pokies, we get more points.  Each time we go now, we seem to have enough points to get a free meal.  Some items on their menu are available for 150 points and our usual allocation of points can be as high as 1000.  

I can't understand how the mathematics works and can only surmise that their average customer spends much more on the pokiesthan the cost of the meal to the Casino.  Sadly, they're not in front with us.  We might spend a few dollars on a glass of bubbly for Marilyn and cake and coffee, but the margin on those items wouldn't cover the cost of our meals.

Yesterday, there was another promotion.  When we checked in we were put in a draw.  Every two hours, someone's name was pulled out and he/she was given the chance to throw a big plastic dice to win a prize.  We hung around for the 2.30 draw; a fellow's name was called and this yobbo wandered out of the pokie area with a can of beer in his hand.  He wasn't letting go of the beer, so took the dice in one arm and tried to throw it.  I think he needed three 6s to win the big prize.  The best he could do was drop it clumsily on the floor but, whatever he scored, he won $400!

Still holding his beer, he wandered back to the pokies.  There's no justice in the world.

m time to time I like to download some TV shows which we can't get on free-to-air TV.  And we're hopeless at keeping track 

Monday, October 14

Nera's mum and sister are reaching the end of their 3-month holiday in Tasmania and we met up with them today for afternoon tea at the Launceston Gorge.  It is a truly amazing place and the local council has spent some money recently turning it into a must-see attraction.

The suspension bridge and the rhododendron gardens have always been an attraction and the number of peacocks which roam around.  There is also a beautiful swimming pool, surrounded by lawns, but the council has now added a terrific playground for kids, barbecues and an inclinator to help oldies move between the Carpark, and the lower level where all the good bits are.

For visitors from the Philippines, it is gob-smacking.

We were walking between the restaurant on one side of the gorge to the other, when we noticed a fellow with a walking stick  coming towards us.  I happened to have my stick with me as well; the man caught sight of it and recognised a fellow-sufferer.  He was obviously struggling and his speech was very difficult but I worked out that he was from Ballina, had recently had a heart operation and was now equipped with a pig's valve.  Everything had come through the DVA.  He had worked out that my problem was associated with a stroke.  We chatted for a while, shook hands and he moved on.

It's clear I've reached a particular stage in my life when people see me in a particular light.. no longer the upwardly-mobile young professional, I am now the poor old bugger who will be grateful for a friendly word to brighten his day.  Bah, humbug!

I'm struggling with a slow-motion cold at the moment.  It started about 8 days ago with a tickle in the throat.  The sniffles began about Thursday, and the streaming eyes came upon me this morning. Once upon a time, I could deal with a cold in just a few days but now it's a three-ring circus, with no end in sight.

Saturday, October 12

Who could deny the importance of science to our society if they read the article in this morning's media.  Japanese scientists were asked to find a solution to cows being harassed by flies.  Some bright spark noticed that zebras didn't seem to have the same problem as cows so suggested it might be useful to disguise the cows as zebras.

Five minutes with a tin of white paint and the problem was halved.  Close observation noted that the number of flies on a black cow was 112 and, after painting, this was reduced to 55.  Apparently, the stripes confuse the flies and they go off to find a more comforting target.  Who would have thought?

This might be the origin of the phrase, no flies on him.

I turned on the TV this morning to get the news and found myself watching Rage.  Not my favourite program by any means, but this morning a video clip was just starting.  The song was Someone You Loved by a Scottish singer, Lewis Capaldi and featured the actor, Peter Capaldi, who is a distant cousin.  The song is good, but the clip is brilliant.  I've always felt Peter Capaldi is a terrific actor but this three minutes with no dialogue shows the depth of his talent, every emotion shown by facial expression.

Thursay, October 10th

It's another public holiday in Launceston today, supposedly to allow us yokels to attend the Launceston Show.  From a city of about 100,000 people, 2 or 3000 might go to the Show for an hour or two; most will be school kids who are on holiday anyway, and will be looking for things to do to relieve their boredom, and they will only be interested in the Show Bags and the carnival rides.  Oh, there are still some animals to look at but it's a shadow of its former glory and only managing to survive through government subsidies, ridiculous charges for stall-holders and extortionate prices at the gate.

It's ludicrous that a tradition which was begun more than a century ago, in quite different circumstances, has become so sacred that we can't undo it in the name of common sense.

I've just finished reading Plots and Prayers by Niki Savva, an explanation of the way in which Malcolm Turnbull was ousted from his job as Prime Minister.  Did the Liberal Party learn nothing from the experiences of the ALP when they tried the same thing years ago?  Nobody in this debacle come out with any credibility.  They forget that they work for us, and that their own personal ambitions and petty quarrels should not be allowed to affect their day jobs.

For a dose of something more sensible, I'm starting on the three volumes of the continuation of the Millenium Trilogy.  The original author, Stieg Larsson, died, of course, before he could complete the books he had planned, and a new author, David Lagercrantz, has picked up the reins.  He has already produced three more books about Lisbeth Salander.  I've been getting them as they have been released but am only now getting around to reading them.

Wednesday, October 10

We woke up this morning to a sparkling Tasmanian Spring Day.  The sun is shining, the air is warm and there are a couple of new magpie chicks learning how to warble just outside our lounge room window.

As the poet said, all's right with the world.  What could possibly spoil this good mood I'm enjoying?

As I bask in the delight of the day, a car comes up our driveway, parks on the grass and two men get out: dressed in jackets, wearing ties, and carrying briefcases, their purpose is all too obvious. In fact, they've been here before, on their usual round.  They're missionaries, peddling the beliefs of, I think, Jehovah's Witnesses.

"Bugger off!" I shout, and shake my fist.  I don't really, although it goes through my mind, shaken out of my reverie by the unwelcome intrusion.

Instead, I say politely, "I don't want to talk to you this morning, and I would prefer if you didn't drive your car up my driveway, uninvited. 

They come regularly and, if we're not home, they leave their literature at the front door.  Somehow, we've been conned into allowing these organisations to operate tax-free so that unwanted literature is subsidised by the Australian tax-payer.  Did I get a say in that decision?  Not likely. 

Each time these blokes come,  I tell them I'm not interested but their business plan depends on ignoring my wishes and persevering with their visits in case someone more amenable answers the door.  Maybe a previous occupant made them more welcome and there's a big tick beside this address on their To Do list. 

Whatever the reason, like death and taxes, missionaries seem to be always with us.  Perhaps it's time to get a big dog.