Tuesday, May 30

I'm a great fan of word puzzles. I've enjoyed crosswords since I was at school and I can still remember when I solved my first Sudoku puzzle. It was 2004 and I had been looking for something to amuse Madeleine on one of her visits to us. For some reason we were travelling to Canberra and were in a cafe in Goulburn and had come across the puzzle in a newspaper.

I was hooked immediately. I got into the habit of downloading a few from the Internet and printing them out, six to a sheet. When the time for retirement loomed, I started to stockpile them for the long boring days ahead. There was always plenty of spoiled photocopier paper around and we were only being charged 1c per sheet for the printing so it was cheaper than buying books.

Over a few months, I almost filled a carton with the sheets, plenty to keep me busy - 5 reams to a carton, 500 sheets to a ream, 6 puzzles to a sheet. You can do the maths. More recently, I supplemented them with an app on the iPad but there's something reassuring about old-fashioned paper and a sharp pencil. I retired at the end of 2009 so it's taken a while, but I finished the final sheet last week.

I still have my Sudoku app but have been looking for a new challenge and, happily, I've discovered a good app for acrostics. You answer 25 to 30 crossword clues and transfer the letters from the answers to a grid to spell out a quotation. It's just as addictive as Sudoku so I'm looking forward to many months of pleasure.

Out of interest, I looked up the Internet to see which oriental hermit first invented the sudoku puzzle. Surprisingly, he wasn't Japanese. Of course, the Americans claim that it was invented by one Howard Garn in the Land of the Free, but that's not right either. The most likely candidate is a Swiss mathematician, Leonhard Euler, in 1783.

Friday, May 26

I'm a great fan of the Prime Suspect TV series and Helen Mirren is top of my list of celebrities I would like to invite for dinner. So, when I saw that Lynda la Plante had written a prequel to the original books and it was being turned into a new series called Prime Suspect 1973, I was excited.

We saw the TV series first and it was pretty good. The actress who played the young Tennison was a bit glossy but the scenes of 1970's cops at work were great. They reminded me a lot of Life on Mars which is still one of my all-time favourites.

However, the book, Prime Suspect: Tennison, is another matter. I'm on page 732 of 892 on my iPad and I've struggled through every paragraph. Maybe it's because I already know the ending but you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that, in a crime novel, the baddies will get it in the end. No, I'm sure it's the awful writing.

Critics excuse Ms la Plante's writing style by saying it is "direct", "in your face" and so on. One I read said, "Ms la Plante makes sure you know every detail." ... (whether you like it or not). Her style is turgid, pedestrian and tedious. Her sentence structure has little variety and her dialogue is woeful. No doubt she understands the Cockney idiom but her attempts to write it are childish.

I'm pleased that Ms la Plante has made a successful career as a novelist but I suspect this is more to do with the success of the TV spin-offs than her riveting prose.

Thursday, May 25

Amid all the devastation of the appalling bombing in Manchester, it's good to see that some reporters winkle out the stories of courage and defiance, and the triumph of the human spirit.

After the blast, everyone would have panicked and rushed to the exits, trampling others in the rush. That instinct of self-preservation is human nature. But, after that first response, it is heartening to hear that many people turned back to help others; that's human nature, too. Two homeless men, hanging around outside, became 'heroes' for giving a hand.

People will talk about the 'spirit of the blitz' but that's just a convenient handle to hang this very human situation on. We see it every day, around the world, in responses to natural disasters and missile attacks and so on. The Poms seem particularly good at it but it's not exclusive to Anglo-Saxons or Celts.

One special moment for me, in the hours following the explosion, was the response of Manchester poet, Tony Walsh. Poetry has the capacity to strike to the heart of the matter and Tony's poem certainly does that.

“There’s hard times again in these streets of our city, but we won’t take defeat and we don’t want your pity, because this is the place where we stand strong together with a smile on our face, Mancunians forever,”

The words, Cometh the hour, Cometh the man, sprang to mind and I rushed to Google to find the source, expecting a Roman poet or an Elizabethan dramatist. Not so, it was first uttered by an English cricket captain, Cliff Gladwin, in December 1948 when he scored the winning run against South Africa. I wonder if he came from Manchester.

Tuesday, May 23 (2)

Virginia and Michael on ABC Breakfast this morning were talking about their favourite TV detectives and I was surprised when they opted for Columbo, and Stabler from Law and Order SVU. I've always thought of Columbo as a caricature and the writing on that show was cliched and gimmicky. Detective Stabler had no personality and filled his role like an automaton. Maybe I'm just showing my prejudice against American cop shows and I'm prepared to admit that.

Who are my favourites? I've considered Inspectors Morse and Frost, and, more recently DCI Banks, but I can't go past Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes or Ken Stott as Rebus.

The top award, though, goes to Saga Noren from The Bridge, and I also give a nod to Bargearse from the 1970's Late Show.

Tuesday, May 23

A politician-free zone on Q&A last night; the panel were all from the Sydney Writers' Festival. It's a pleasure to hear from intelligent people who don't look at the world through the narrow lens of some ideology, and who are not trying to sell us something or convince us to think in a certain way.

And yet, these articulate and impressive thinkers hardly have access to an audience and are relegated to a fringe program, watched by a minority, while ratbags like the fake Imam being feted by the mainstream media at the moment because of his controversial comments against Islam, have access to the biggest megaphone of all.

Sometimes, on Q&A, the best comments arise from tweets from the viewers. Last night, somebody tweeted, "Political correctness used to be respect, politeness and good manners. Before it was weaponised."

And "Freedom of Speech" has become weaponised too and, sadly, two phrases which should be complementary have been pitted against each other.

Saturday, May 20

It is the Model United Nations Assembly this weekend and I had allowed myself to be roped in to be the President for the first session this morning. As always, the standard of debate was very high and those of us watching were suitably reassured that the next generation is likely to make a better job of running things than we have.

Of course, there were some outstanding performances. One young woman, representing China, spoke with great aplomb and I had a vision of her in thirty years time, standing up in the Senate, challenging her colleagues to accept her point of view.

The speech of the morning for me was made by a young man representing North Korea. He talked about the Dear Leader (may he live for 10000 years), and claimed that North Korea would be the Voice of Reason in the debate about making it easier for people to move across borders. Of course, he was opposed. His arguments were naive but made with such confidence and passion, they were compelling.

By lunch-time tomorrow, we will have to nominate a winning team, who will go on to the national MUNA in Canberra, representing Tasmania. It's hard because we have to vote on the strongest team and, too often, one delegate stands out and the second speaker is not as effective.

Friday, May 19

They say that when you get old you fall into routines that hardly change from day to day. That might be happening to us. When we're at home, I'll ask Marilyn, "Would you like to watch something with lunch? Invariably, the reply is, "Let's have an Eggheads."

Yes, we've become addicted to Eggheads, that quintessentially British institution, even to the point where Marilyn worries about what we will do when its run comes to an end.

The Eggheads, themselves, are a group of unprepossessing citizens who happen to have won one or two major quiz programs, which the Poms take very seriously. They include Kevin, whose specialty is dates. "When did Hans Holbein the Younger die?" 1453. Chris is an overweight railway nerd, with an unruly haircut and a propensity to break into song, or a funny voice.

CJ is insufferable. He hates to lose and is prone to make exaggerated head-slapping gestures if someone gives the wrong answer. Daphne is everyone's idea of a maiden aunt and shows a preference for hand-embroidered blouses. Judith has won Who Wants to be a Millionaire? but is the Egghead most likely to get beaten.

The contestants, in teams of five come from all over the UK hoping to win a few dollars. Some are serious quizzers; others might work together or are a group of old codgers who meet at the Bowls Club every Tuesday. There seems to some competition to find the stangest team name. Today's group was a Roller Derby team called the Tiger Bay Brawlers. Sporting orange shirts and lots of tattoos, they had nicknames like Shahn of the Dead and Ariel, the Little Murder-Maid.

Surprisingly, they did quite well. One of them eliminated Judith but knowledge paid off in the end and the Eggheads won. I don't know why we watch it, but we are addicted. And it's part of our routine.

Wednesday, May 17

I first came across Richard Fidler as the baby-faced member of the Doug Anthony All-stars. Then, miraculously, he emerged as the consummate interviewer on ABC Radio's Conversations.

To continue his rise, he now makes his mark as the author of the surprisingly high-brow book, Ghost Empire, a description of the city which became the centre of European civilisation - Constantinople.

Like Richard, I learned at school that the Roman Empire collapsed in the late Fourth Century with the fall of Rome. In fact, the Roman Emperor, Constantine, had moved his capital some time before to Byzantium. This city became the centre of the Roman Empire for another 1000 years. In honour of the emperor, it became known as Constantinople.

It's a great book and has grown out of a journey Richard took with his 14 year-old son, Joe to this part of the world. It's good, solid history, interspersed with personal anecdotes of the travellers, and stories of the wonderful characters who trod the stage of those times.

Do yourself a favour and look for it.

Sunday, May 13 (3)

Jamie and Nera have arrived for dinner, bearing the most beautiful Mothers' Day cake; in fact, a group of pink cupcakes on a decorated board. Too nice to eat

Sunday, May 13 (2)

Mothers' Day today and Marilyn and I are meeting Madeleine, Melanie and their entourage for morning tea on the riverbank in Deloraine. The weather is nice so chicken sandwiches in the sunshine sounds quite attractive.

Jamie and Nera will be down during the afternoon and we'll have a meal together. Marilyn's choice is fish and chips from the local shop which is pretty enlightened, and better than a three-course extravaganza at Stillwater.

Sunday, May 13

The new committee of our Probus club has decided we need more 'fun' in our meetings. Of course, everyone's idea of 'fun' is different so it's left to the president to put her spin on it.

We've decided to cut our business meeting from 30 minutes to 15 to allow more time for 'fun' activities. Then, couples will not be allowed to sit together and, at morning tea, we'll be issued with a card. Our task will be to match our card with someone else and spend the morning tea time with him or her. All of a sudden, 'fun' has been defined as forced socialisation. What's 'fun' about that?

More jokes is another strategy. We don't have jokes very often but it's been decreed that we'll have them more regularly. It's like castor oil; you need to take it regularly to get maximum effect.

Each committee member has been charged with finding a supply of jokes. The internet is an obvious source so, I googled 'jokes for Probus Clubs' and was directed to the website of Ringwood Probus Club. Now, there's a club who think they knows how to have 'fun'. Their website is packed with funny poems, humorous monologues, riddles and limericks and jokes of all kinds.

Unfortunately, I had to discard most of them for being sexist, racist, rude or just plain unfunny. Obviously, humour is in the eye of the beholder.

I must stop stop myself from being cynical. Probus is a social club and my preference for being a hermit should not stop me from trying to act more like a human. Although, I don't think I'll be visiting the Ringwood Probus Club any time soon.

Friday, May 12

We spent the day in Launceston yesterday catching up on a few appointments. Marilyn had to deal with her hair and I had physio and optometrist to endure. After the usual 'stand up, walk around, sit down' the physio was happy to scratch me from her books. As she said, "You know what you have to do; it's up to you whether you do it." I detected a note of cynicism, but that's OK.

The optometrist was more positive. No signs of deterioration, all good. In fact he said, "You're tracking well." Or, it might have been, "You're trucking well." But in either case, it's a daft metaphor. What's my progress have to do with bloodhounds, or huge vehicles hurtling down the highway, squashing small animals and spewing diesel fumes into the atmosphere?

I'm a fan of colourful language, but it has to maintain some connection with reality.

Wednesday, May 10 (3)

I've taken the role of driving the bus which takes some locals in to the Launceston Aquatic Centre for Hydrotherapy. The hospital provides the bus, a flash Mercedes 12-seater, and the locals pay the entry fee to the pool. I think there's a bit of a con going on because they seemed more interested in popping into the Veggie Shed on the way, and working out where they were going to have lunch.

Anyway, I just kept my mouth shut and drove.

Jamie and Nera came for a roast lamb dinner for his birthday. Nera complained that her watch was loose on her wrist and borrowed my watch-making kit to remove a link. I bought the kit from eBay when I went through a binge of buying watches. I made bids on several auctions and was successful in a couple. Being able to remove links, replace batteries and change watch bands seemed like a good idea at the time but since my stroke I've lost dexterity so it's all too much trouble.

Wednesday, May 10 (2)

Congratulations, Mr Morrisson, on the birth of your second offspring. It's clearly healthy and seems to have a good future. But, are you sure you're the father? It doesn't seem to have many of your attributes: mean-spiritedness, deference to the rich, etc. There's one snide dig at the young unemployed, one of your favourite targets but, apart from that, It looks to me a lot like the old Malcolm. Has he involved himself a bit more than he is admitting?

Word of advice for Mr Shorten.

Hi, Bill,
This seems to be a pretty good budget. A bit dodgy around the edges but, surely, you could live with it. Instead of playing the usual negative game, what about a bit of bi-partisanship. You've acknowledged that we, the public, are sick of the political game. Well, don't play it! Support Malcolm in this; you might be surprised at our reaction. We're crying out for a statesman. It might as well be you. I'll even give you some lines to use.

'We're pleased Mr Turnbull is at last listening to the people and has given us a budget which starts to address some of the problems facing Australia today.'

'It's good that Mr Turnbull is finally standing up to the reactionary wing of his party and is putting the needs of the Australian public in the forefront.'

If you're worried, Bill, that you might be giving comfort to the enemy, Malcolm has to be better for the country than anyone else in the LNP. In any case, your support might encourage his right wing to bring back Tony, or promote Perer Dutton, and you know, as we all do, that can only end it tears.

Wednesday, May 10 (Jamie's birthday).

The name Louis MacNeice popped out from something I was reading and my mind went back to the poetry we studied at High School. The curriculum called for the Romantics but our teacher also shared some of the more modern poets who wrote during World War 1 and in the years following. Louis MacNeice was one of them

I loved his Bagpipe Music:

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

But, his more serious stuff was a nice relief from the soppy optimism of Keats and Wordsworth.

PRAYER BEFORE BIRTH

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

Powerful stuff and wonderful understanding and use of English.

Meanwhile, the Americans continue on their rape of our language with abominations like 'burglarize', 'anesthesiology', ' cremains', 'he shined his torch' and so on.

Oh, why didn't the French colonise America. Then the Academie Francaise would have to deal with them.

Tuesday, May 9 (2)

How did I miss the news that the Government is building a new monument at Villers-Bretonneaux in France, at a cost of $100 million? Construction started early last year, with no fanfare. That doesn't sound like our Government who make a hoo-hah about every petty cash transaction.

What a boost for the local V-B community. Local tradesmen and suppliers are rubbing their hands together at the largesse provided by Australians, and the local tourist operators will be anticipating their future profits. It's not as if there wasn't a monument there; the current one was opened in 1938 but, of course, doesn't have the bells and whistles of the new one. But do people who visit a memorial for a period of quiet reflection needs bells and whistles?

The Minister for Veterans' Affairs could only say, 'But we're spending $350 million on Veterans' mental health issues.' He didn't point out that the monument was approved more than a year ago, and the mental health initiative only recently. That says a lot about their priorities. Also, without the new centre, he would have an extra $100 million to spend on our current and future veterans.

Who on earth thought it was a good idea to build a tourist attraction in one of the wealthiest countries in Europe? And what ever happened to 'Australia First'?

Tuesday, May 9

One of the (minor) drawbacks of our new unit is that the clothes line is a little too high for Marilyn to use comfortably. I've suggested high heels and have even offered to get her a box but she is adamant that hanging out the washing is now my job.

I'm not really bothered but it is a mind-numbing job and I have to come up with ways to overcome the boredom. I tried singing, but it sets off next door's dogs, and, if I wear an iPod, the cords get tangled. In desperation I've resorted to making patterns with the pegs.

At first it was simple, matching colours so that each pair of undies looks organised, making sure that only blue pegs were used for socks, use pink pegs for Marilyn's stuff, and so on.

Then I tried mathematical patterns, like the 3 times table but have now moved on to more exotic arrangements like the Fibonacci Sequence. Using the various colours, I can set the pegs to display 1 - 1 - 2 - 3 - 5 - 8 - 13 .... The next number is 21 but I don't have enough pegs of the same colour and I can't explain to Marilyn why it's important to make a non-essential purchase like that. I'll just have to live with the frustration.

Monday, May 8

it's reassuring when you hear a story like the one doing the rounds on Facebook this morning. Scott van Zyl, a professional big-game hunter, who made his living murdering lions and leopards, has met his end by being eaten by crocodiles. Karma is a wonderful thing.

I wonder now what fate awaits the cretin whose grinning picture we saw last week posed beside the giraffe he had just shot. It takes a real man to shoot a 17ft herbivore. All in the name of sport!

Saturday, May 7(2)

I'm not surprised when I come across a word I've never heard before but it's rarer to encounter a new meaning of a familiar word. It happened to me this morning in a book by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child.

There was a sudden silence in the vault. Margo could smell the dust in the air, and the faint odor of excelsior.

'Odor of excelsior'? My three years of Latin tells me that 'excelsior' means 'higher', but does it have a smell? The problem was solved when an American Dictionary informs me that one meaning of 'excelsior' is 'wood shavings used for packing'.

And I thought it was being used figuratively, like 'smell of fear' or 'smell of excitement'. But it's just the Americans mucking around with the Queen's English.

Sunday, May 7

I'm sitting enjoying the sun, with Insiders on the TV and watching the bumblebees outside the window. Bumblebees are not all the same size and there's one monster which must be an inch long.

For years, against all the evidence to the contrary, scientists held to the belief that bumblebees could not fly. It's only recently that they have admitted their understanding was flawed and, of course, bumblebee flight is possible. I'm glad that's been cleared up.

Bumblebees only arrived in Tasmania about 20 years ago when a fertile queen, accidentally or deliberately, arrived here from New Zealand. Since then, they have spread across most of the state, but not yet to the mainland where honey producers are worried they might add to the danger of some horrible disease affecting honey bees.

Tasmanian tomato producers are keen to use bumblebees to help pollinate their plants but the authorities are very reluctant. Where will it all end?

Saturday, May 6

We've been in our unit for four months now and are starting to feel more at home. After the first flush of enthusiasm, when we went to everything happening in the town, we've become a little more circumspect and are a little more selective in our decisions.

I haven't got back into the habit of going to Rotary every week but that will happen in due course. In the meantime, Probus is filling that gap. I'm standing in for the Secretary at the moment as well as organising the program of guest speakers, so life is pleasantly busy.

in the first week we were here, we were surprised to find that some kind soul took it upon himself to bring our rubbish bin back up the driveway when it had been emptied. He didn't bring it all the way but far enough to make my life a little easier. In fact, it appeared he did it for the three units. We suspect it is the fellow who lives in the little house at the bottom of the block and it's his way of helping out his elderly neighbours.

Last week, our bin did not arrive at its usual spot and I had to collect it myself. Hmmm! Did he forget, or was he away? This week we were out when the garbo arrived and we were surprised to find the bin still lying on the footpath, not delivered, when we got home hours later.

So, we're either out of favour, or the welcome has expired, or he's realised I'm not as decrepit as he thought and I can collect my own bloody bin. Marilyn believes the fellow has seen Jamie around and is happy to leave the job to him. In any case, the task of dealing with the bin is now back on my shoulders.

Thursday, May 4

Jamie sent me an anagram generator where you input some letters and the program rearranges them to make other words. His name, JAMIE CHRISTIE, throws up MAJESTIC HEIR I, but my name only come up with rubbish like ENRICH HIS JOT, CRETIN HI JOSH or RICE HITS JOHN.

DONALD TRUMP surprisingly translates to DAMP LORD NUT and MALCOLM TURNBULL could also be TALCUM BUM LOLL MR.

Oh, small things amuse small minds.

Tuesday, May 2

Be careful what you wish for. I complained yesterday about the Treasurer who treats us like morons, using terms like good debt and bad instead of recurrent and capital expenditure. In an article about the expected budget this morning, Greg Jericho offers the following explanation of another measure the Treasurer uses to divert our attention from the worsening state of the economy.

'In essence the net operating balance is the “fiscal balance” minus net capital investment. The fiscal balance is not the same as the “underlying cash balance” (which is the balance we talk about when we talk about a budget deficit or surplus), as it is an accrual measure while the cash balance is (oddly enough) a cash measure.'

At least he had the good grace to admit that it was the most boring sentence he had ever written

I'm not in mood to comment on Q&A last night. Whenever Barnaby Joyce appears, it's like a train wreck. Tanya Plibersek, in an exasperated voice, blurted out, 'What year are you living in, Barnaby?'

The best comment of the evening, though, was from Barnaby, 'I have about 70,000 followers on Twitter and 69,999 hate my guts. On Facebook you have friends; on Twitter you have crazies.'