Sunday, July 6

 I found myself involved in cooking this morning, a very rare occurrence these days. Our normal fare is pre-packaged meals and, more recently, brought-in meals from Toosey, the local Nursing Home.  However, Marilyn was determined this morning to prepare a large pot of Osso Bucco.  Because there was a certain amount of chopping, stirring and moving of heavy pots, I became involved as well.

It was actually a pleasant exercise and I'll enjoy eating my share of the result.

We have Archie staying with us at the moment.  He seems to have a couple of nights each week here and he must see us as his second home. 

With our coffee, I turned on Youtube to see what is happening and found a video made by Steve, one of our regulars.  He was in Nova Scotia and was clearly in love with the place.  His video was nearly 50 minutes long and would certainly encourage anyone to visit.

It's a beautiful day; the sun is shining but the air is cold, typical winter weather in this part of the world.  Some people think that Tasmania at this time of the year is bleak, cold and wet, but nothing could be further from the truth.  Yes, we will have rainy days which are not much fun but the normal weather is crisp and sunny ... bracing, I think they call it. 

Saturday, July 5

 We seem to have got out of the habit of watching what I call 'traditional' television.  What I mean by that is getting involved in a regular tele-drama and looking forward to each episode as it appeared: shows like Country Practice, Blue Heelers, Silent Witness, and so on.  After a diet of crime shows we're a bit tired of the format and are looking for something a bit less challenging.  So, currently, we're absorbing ourselves in 'lifestyle' shows like A Place in the Sun and, most recently, Cruising with Susan.

Susan Calman is a short, tubby, Scottish comedienne.  The premise  of her show is simple: she goes on a cruise, solo, and meets up with other passengers, encouraging them to get involved in some of her exploits. Clearly, companies like P&O are delighted to have the great publicity the show offers but, from our point of view, it's a particularly interesting travelogue with some poignant moments.

We have a state election coming up in a fortnight and it's hard to avoid the plethora of advertising bumpf which fills our letterbox.  There's not a great deal of money sloshing around Tasmanian politics but some of the material is pretty unpleasant.  Marilyn has worked at the past few elections and has received pleas from the Electoral Commission to put up her hand again but I'm glad she's continuing to refuse.  Let the younger ones do it!

Friday, July 4

 We have Archie staying with us at the moment.  Jamie and Nera had a big party to attend last night and dropped Archie off with us so he wouldn't be home alone.  Normally, we leave the back door slightly ajar for him in case he needs to go to the yard overnight but the weather is too cold so Marilyn closed the door and put down mats for him to use if he was desperate.  He wasn't happy about that so woke her up early this morning to tell her to get up, he was desperate.

The weather is very cold and we'll certainly be staying home today.

I note that it is July 4 and that is usually a day of celebration in the US.  However, I wonder whether their celebrations today will have a touch of desperation about them.  The holiday, supposedly, is to celebrate their independence and yet twice now they have voluntarily handed over the rule of their country to a would-be dictator.  Makes you wonder whether they might have been better sticking with Britain; then they might have turned out more like Canada or Australia, and that would have been no bad thing.

Today's story is a more recent one. The first lines are from a song by Judy Collins.

RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME                                                              MARCH 14, 2024

My father always promised us that we would live in France.  We’d go boating on the Seine and I would learn to dance.  To a young girl, growing up in the shadow of the Port Kembla steelworks, it was a gloriously romantic notion.  We didn’t have TV in those days but I haunted the library looking for picture books about France and its capital.  Madeleine was my hero. As well, I demanded to be taken to the pictures if a film remotely connected with France was being shown.  I must have seen An American in Paris five or six times, and I loved The Red Balloon and Mon Oncle with Jacques Tati.

Somehow, I convinced myself that, on my seventh birthday, my father would, with a flourish, produce the long-awaited tickets which would magically transport my family to the enchanted city of my dreams.  Imagine my disappointment when my father sat me down and said in a soft voice,

“Happy birthday, sweetheart and we hope you have a wonderful day.  Sadly, there is no birthday present this year.  You know that I’ve been on strike for weeks and there just isn’t the money available for extras.  But, when we’re back at work, I’ll make it up to you.”

It was like I had been slapped in the face.  “But what about moving to Paris?” I burst out.  “You promised we would move there and I would have dancing lessons.”

His voice hardened.  “Those dreams will have to be put on hold and, anyway, you’re a big girl now and you know that sometimes promises aren’t real.  Living in Paris is a dream and dreams don’t always come true.”

I went to the room I shared with my big sister and threw myself on my bed, crying in disappointment.  I would show them. I would run away and then they’d be sorry.  I scrabbled around under my sister’s bed until I found the backpack she had taken to the last school camp.  I would fill that with all the things I would need to look after myself and I’d move away.  Then they’d be sorry.

I quickly found my spare pyjamas and a jumper in case it got cold, a few socks and handkerchiefs, and my slippers.  I dragged the backpack into the kitchen and thought about what else I would need.  Opening the fridge, looking at what was there. 

“Mum, can I take this leftover jelly”.

“Yes, dear.  What are you going to put it in?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Do you have a plastic bag?”  Then I noticed some leftover cooked sausages.  They would be handy as I hadn’t thought about how I would cook things.

In the pantry I found a few small bags of chips and some crunchy bars.  I thought a bit more and realised I would need something to drink.  Mum wouldn’t ever buy me soft drinks but there was a carton of milk in the pantry.  That would be handy although the thought of drinking warm milk made me feel sick.

My big brother came in about then, rubbing his hair.  “It’s starting to rain out there.  I think we’re in for a stormy night.  What’s this backpack doing in the middle of the kitchen floor?”

 

“Oh, Cheryl is running away and we’re helping her gather the stuff she will need if she’s going to survive on her own.”

Oh, good” my brother replied. “It will be good to have one fewer person in the house.  That will make a little bit more room for the rest of us … and, one less mouth to feed.  But you’ll need something to protect you if you are attacked during the night.  I can lend you my folding army knife.  It’s very sharp, so be careful.  And I have a compass and a pair of binoculars you can borrow.  It’s a shame I won’t have time to show you how to use them but I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

He walked over to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked out.  “That rain has really set in.  I wouldn’t let a dog out in that. That reminds me.”  He turned to me and asked, “Have you organised some shelter for bad weather?”

“Don’t worry about me,”  I said.  “I’ll be OK.”

”I’ll sure you will be, dear,” said my mother. “But I can’t stand here talking.  I have to start making tonight’s dessert: French crepes with warm caramel sauce and ice-cream.”

“Crepes?” I thought, and rain. Maybe this is not such a good idea.

“I think I’ll stay one more night,” I said, “And see how I feel in the morning.”

“That’s nice, dear,” said my mother.

Thursday, July 3

 I woke at my usual time, made Marilyn a cup of coffee and turned on the TV to see what has happened overnight.  It wasn't the news which interested me; it was what was happening on Youtube which catches my attention.  Scott and Steve were quiet but there was a video from a fellow called Josh which attracted me.  His site is called 'Josh Goes Slow' and that's enough to spark my interest.

His plan was to travel to each of the six Australian capital cities and the two territories in 24 hours.  He started from Darwin, dealt with the inevitable delays and ended up in Perth with about 15 minutes to spare.  It's the whole pointlessness of the exercise which interests me, and the fact that there are enough sad individuals out there with too much time on their hands who will watch the show, which will, magically, generate the funds to pay for it.  I don't claim to understand how Youtube finances work but I know there are hordes of people making a living at it.

If only I had heard about this years ago! 

Wednesday, July 2

 I was slow in getting organised this morning and, before I could gather my thoughts to write something, Marilyn dragged me out the door. I'd forgotten a podiatrist appointment and you mustn't be late for those.  The current podiatrist is an Irish fellow; he tells me he's enjoyed his time in Tassie but he and his girlfriend are heading back to the Emerald Isle at the end of this year.  The owner of the business will be unhappy as she can't replace them.  There's a real shortage of medical professionals in the Apple Isle.

There was a thick package in the letterbox when we arrived home from the appointment. It was the report of my recent visit from My Aged Care, page after page of comments about my weakness and failings, and suggestions about how they could be ameliorated.  I didn't realise I was so disabled although I assume the young woman anticipated I would have deteriorated a bit more before the right support could be allocated.

Nowhere did it mention that I have difficulty making sense of government reports, and that is certainly an issue.

Tuesday, July 1

 There was a ding on my phone last night and the message told me that the lift chair I had ordered was on its way. There was a diagram attached to the message showing me that the chair was sitting on the side of a road near Moorabbin Airport in Melbourne.  I assume the chair was in the back of a truck.  Later, the diagram changed and I again assumed the chair was on its way.  Since then I haven't been able to access the tracker so we'll have to wait in anticipation.

I've been watching Steve on Youtube who has decided it would be fun to travel from Glasgow in Scotland to Glasgow in Nova Scotia.  I realised I could do something similar here: travel from Longford in Tasmania to the original Longford in Ireland..  Well, not real travel but virtual travel is nearly as good.

The itinerary is something like this:

* Car from Longford to Launceston airport

* Jetstar flight to Melbourne Airport

* Overnight flight with Emirates to Dublin via Dubai

* Train from Dublin Airport to the city

* Train from Dublin City to Longford.

I might flesh it out with dates and costings if I have a spare hour or two today which is very likely.  I seem to have lots of spare hours at the moment,

Monday, June 30

 In past years I might have been starting to get anxious about what this date signifies but, as I haven't put in a tax return for 15 years, I've forgotten what a pain it was. I can't help thinking about how our national financial system must be coping with the fact that we are all living longer.  When the system was devised. the average citizen might work (and pay tax) for 48 or 49 years, and then live in retirement for, maybe 10.  The tax he or she paid in their lifetime easily covered what they would draw out in the decade they were dependent on the pension.

But now, when we can expect to live until 80 or more, the sums don't add up as well.  The longer we live, the more of a burden we are on the government.

I'll bet there's a government department which spends its whole time thinking of ways to deal with the problem of a horde of pensioners drawing on the financial resources of the country, not to mention the over-use of the health system.

If I were a more sensitive person, I might feel badly about being a drain on society but, luckily, I don't give it a second's thought.

Happily, I've found a story called One Hundred Years and Counting.

100 YEARS AND COUNTING                                                                    NOVEMBER 10, 2023

“Please listen to me,” I said.  “I don’t want a party.”

They won’t leave me alone.  You’d think that, at 99 years and 11 months of age, a man could be treated with some respect but they think that they know best.

“You’ll enjoy it when you get there,” they say, “And it will be good to see all your old friends again.”

All my old friends?  There’s not one of them can even remember his own name, let alone mine.  They’ll be winkled out of their nursing homes by whichever member of their family has responsibility for them this month and dragged along to be sat down in a corner and ignored until it’s time to go home.  Why would I inflict that on them?

And my own family?  What are they going to get out of it?  My kids are in their seventies and almost ready for a nursing home themselves.  Their kids, in their fifties, are too busy to be bothered with such nonsense and the next generation is so intent on getting rich, the thought of a party for an old has-been with one foot in the grave will be the last thing they want.

What I would like is for my birthday to be treated like every other day of the year with no fuss and no cards and no presents.  What would they buy for a 100-year old, anyway?  I haven’t even opened the presents I got for last Christmas: I know it will be more underwear and pyjamas to add to the collection I already have.  One of the carers here told me that the local paper has been informed and they’re planning to send along a reporter to interview me.  I can’t think of anything more boring.  I‘ll fix them, though.  I’ve been practising my ‘dotty old man’ act and, if I act senile, they might take the hint and leave me alone.

I’ve been listening to an audiobook which came from the library.  Some bright spark discovered I am turning one hundred and decided I needed to hear this book called The 100-year-old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared.  I wish I could do that. I haven’t heard much of it as I keep falling asleep but, apparently, he has many adventures and meets important people.  I remember the first chapter where the hero, Allan gets one of his carers to smuggle vodka into the nursing home.  Maybe I could try that, although I would prefer Whisky to Vodka.

My grand-daughter is coming to see me this afternoon.  She is clearly the next one in line to try to make me change my mind.  My daughter left in tears last week after I told her that I would rather die than have a birthday party.  Maybe I was a bit harsh but, just because I’m old doesn’t mean that I can be treated like a child.  I’ll have to remember to apologise to my daughter when I see her next and try to be on my best behaviour when my grand-daughter gets here.

Thinking about parties brings back wonderful memories.  I can barely remember going to parties when I was child but there was one, later, which stands out: I was turning 22 so it would have been 1945.  I was in the army, of course, and we had just been de-mobbed and were on a train travelling down from Brisbane to Sydney We were just so grateful to be alive and could just imagine the wonderful opportunities opening up before us.

And, they were great times.  We had been promised ‘a world fit for heroes’ and, although we worked hard, we knew we were building a better future.  I met my wife around then and we were married for over 60 years.  I’m not able to remember very clearly the details of all that occurred but I do know there were significantly happy times, and some sad.  I know we fell out from time to time but we always made up again.

So, I know what I want to do for my birthday.  I don’t want a so-called Birthday Party, sharing my significant day with people who are there out of a sense of duty, putting on false smiles and offering insincere good wishes.

I want to enjoy my 100^th birthday with my memories, the ones that remain.  The best present I could receive is to be able to re-live those wonderful years when I was in my prime.  And I have my photo albums.  When I tell my family that this is what I would like to do, they say, “But won’t you be lonely?”

And I say to them, “I won’t be alone,” but they don’t understand.