Sunday, July 30

With all the hoo-hah about dual-citizenship I've been considering my own case.  I lived on Scotland for almost 8 years before coming to Australia, which is roughly 9% of my life.  So, on that measure, I'm 91% Australian.  But am I?

There's not a single Australian flag in my house, nor any Vegemite, and I don't drink beer.  I couldn't care less whether the Australian cricketers go on their tour to Bangladesh.  If a pampered, over-promoted, heavily-subsidised Australian Olympian wins a gold medal, I don't feel a surge of national pride.  I cringe if someone calls out 'Aussie, Aussie, Aussie' and, as Bob Ellis suggests, I feel a bit of a dickhead when singing the national anthem.

Perhaps worse of all, I can't bring myself to watch Australian drama on TV, although that probably says more about the poor quality of the programs rather than my lack of patriotism.  I just don't like, or can't relate to the characters.  I can't stand Janet King, Rake won't be invited to my next dinner party, and the whole cast of Newton's Law are an embarrassment.

Jamie says the problem is that Australian producers try to be too inclusive.  It's not enough that a character has to be a successful female lawyer, she has to be a lesbian as well.  Every show needs a loveable rogue, somebody ethnic, maybe someone with Down Syndrome and a cheeky smile.  And Ernie Dingo has said he built his career on being the token black.  Producers try too hard to sort out the characters and the story is secondary.

Jamie also sent me an article about a US scriptwriter called Vince Gilligan who has worked on shows like Breaking Bad. 

'Gilligan said a small group of writers plotted every episode intensely before a writer subsequently penned the script itself.

“It’s a sequestered jury that never ends. We’re sitting around all day talking ad nauseam, talking about minute detail,” he explained.

“The breaking of the episodes is the hardest part and takes the most elbow grease. It probably takes on average 3 weeks to break each episode. Sometimes we’ve gone as many as 5 or 6 weeks."'

In Australlia, that process is only allocated two days at the most.  It seems the Australian audience is content to accept second-rate but I wonder how large the potential audience would be if the programs offered were up to scratch.

In the meantime, the 9% of my persona which is British still demands a diet of UK drama.  I'd be hopeless in parliament; clearly 91% is not enough to be truly Aussie.

Friday, July 28

Is it OK to blame your Mum when something goes wrong?

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/jul/27/it-is-infuriating-and-exhausting-to-be-this-angry-i-blame-my-mum?CMP=Share_iOSApp_Other

Thursday, July 27

Only in Tasmania!

Our Probus Club is organising a lunch on August 1st and I'm collecting numbers.  One of our couples will be celebrating their anniversary on that day and the wife sent me the following message:

If it is wet on Tuesday 1st August, we would like to come to the Bush Inn for the Christmas in July lunch. However if it is a nice sunny day George would like to take me to Paradise and Lower  Crackpot!!

I should explain that Paradise is an area in North-west Tasmania  and Lower Crackpot is a tourist attraction of weird miniature buildings and a hedge maze based on the Hampton Court Maze n England.  The village has been developed by an eccentric Scotsman who is always adding more buildings and enhancements.

Currently, he is building a Wall and is advertising that Donald Trump will be flying in to open the attraction on November 25th.  I think we might take the drive down to see the fun on that day.

It's worth noting that the area around Lower Crackpot is call The Promised Land.  I suspect the early European settlers might have been a bit religious. 

Wednesday, July 26

A friend has just come back from a study tour of farms in the UK.  He had another one recently in Canada and he comes back with great stories to tell.  One farm he visited in the UK had 300 acres of poly tunnels, where the farmer grew berries and cherries.  300 acres sounds a lot but the margins are tight and volume counts.  This particular farmer has 300 employees, all Polish. His rationale is that the locals won't do the hard work.  

Our farmers here in Tasmania say the same: it's hard to find farm hands who are prepared to deal with the early mornings, if they're milking, or the all-weather expectations, or the hard physical labour, for not very much money.  The answer in the UK is immigrants and, in the US, it's Mexicans and Filipinos who are the pool boys and the hotel maids.  

Another report in this morning's news is that a recent study is showing a dramatic drop in the sperm count of males from developed Western countries, including The US, Australia and New Zealand.  Is this natural selection at work?  Has Western civilisation evolved to the point of steady decline leading to extinction?  Will we go the way of the dinosaurs, unable or unwilling to work, and unable to reproduce more of our species?

19th century Europeans and 20th century Americans thought they were masters of the universe.  Who will take over that mantle in the 21st century?  It seems a change is on the way.

Sunday, July 23

We were invited out for lunch yesterday, with Jamie and Nera, and several of their Filipino friends and their kids.  We went to Pedro's Restaurant at Ulverstone where we took Brian and Margaret when thy visited from Canada.  The big attraction for the others was Pedro's famous seafood platter, but Marilyn and I no longer measure the attraction of food by the size of the serve.

Although, the platter was spectacular, and every morsel looked scrumptious.  The big attraction was the half crayfish, but there were oysters and mussels, various kinds of fish, huge prawns, smoked salmon, and so on.

My curried scallops looked insignificant in comparison, but there was too much food on the platter, even for Jamie and Nera, so we were invited to share.

At $135 a pop, they weren't cheap but they gave a lot of pleasure to a number of people.  Pedro must have been delighted to serve three of his signature dishes to the one table; probably went a long way to paying the kitchen-hand's wages for the day and, of course, he's not getting penalty rates anymore so that'll help pay the lease on the new BMW.

Saturday, July 22

Marilyn and I went to the funeral, yesterday, of the old fellow who died earlier this week.  He lived a long time in this area so the church was packed; he'd outlived most of his contemporaries but he had touched the lives of many people who came to pay their respects.  Listening to the eulogy from his daughter, I realised he had been born exactly two weeks before my father.  And I realised that Dad has been dead for thirty years!

How unfair is life?  We all come into the world with so much promise but it is a lottery and we can't ever know what cards we will be dealt.  Dad was 68 when he died, his father was just 51 and his grandfather was 61 when their lives came to an end.  Doctors raise their eyebrows when I give them that information but I can't let that worry me.  I have to focus on making the most of the time allotted to me.

When I look back on my life, I find myself focusing more on what has happened in the past twenty years than the first fifty.  That's not to denigrate that first half century, but it's a time when we were so busy getting ahead, we didn't take the time to smell the roses.  What if I had drawn the short straw like my grandfather, John Christie, who dropped dead at 51, walking home from work?

Marilyn and I had our first overseas trip when I was 55, we had our first cruise when I was 63.  I started working at Giant Steps when I was 57 and had our first introduction to the Philippines at 61.  I joined Rotary when I was 58 and directed the Tasmanian Craft Fair four times in my sixties.

At funerals, you often hear the phrase 'a long life, lived well'.  I'm not so sure about the need for a long life, but it needs to be long enough to do some of things which are only possible when your major attention is not just on making a living and feeding your family.  When I go, I hope someone says 'a life lived well.'

Thursday, July 20

One of our Probus members has passed away this week.  We have a number of members in their late-eighties or nineties so it has to be expected but it's sad, nevertheless.  This old gentleman was born on the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918 and was named Charles William Victory Crowden.  The midwife took credit for the 'Victory' part.

I find myself using the phrase 'passed away' when I talk about people who have died, although I'm not a great fan of euphemisms.  The modern trend of saying someone has 'passed' is mealy-mouthed and  I hope it dies a natural death itself.  When I hear it, I always think of a yacht that was moored at Gravelly Beach when we lived there.  It was called Passing Wind.  Wonderful!

A couple of friends have just come back from a cruise in the Mediterranean.  One of their fellow-passengers was Clive Palmer, accompanied by his lawyer and his minder. I've always accused Marilyn of taking extra things on our trips 'just in case', but she's never reached the heights of taking a lawyer, just in case.

Our friends said that the other Australian passengers avoided poor old Clive.  I wonder why?  Surely he would have some interesting stories to tell.  Maybe, people think there is too much similarity between Clive and Donald Trump.

Wednesday, July 19

It was a busy day yesterday; these are quite rare nowadays, so they are treasured. The weather was miserable with heavy rain and cold winds. Our Probus meting started at 10 o'clock, but my first task was to drive to Westbury, about 15 minutes away, to pick up one of our older members. I don't mind that, but he insists on bringing his old dog, which is overweight and arthritic. We have leather seats in the car so the thought of Blaze's claws scrabbling for purchase as it tries to get into the back seat always raises my anxiety level.

Of course, I have a thick plastic sheet but I still have to manhandle the creature to make sure it doesn't shove the sheet aside as it clambers in.

Our guest speaker was one of the local vets and it was extraordinary to see Blaze's reaction when she came into the room. Blaze generally lies comatose on the floor, but she came alive when the vet walked in. Apparently, she hasn't been to that vet for years but the memory lingered on.

After dropping Chas and Blaze home, we had to drive up to Launceston for a couple of things. The weather had become worse, if anything, and there was no joy in the excursion. In the evening was the Rotary meeting, featuring my three-minute talk. There were three of us listed to speak. I complained that my life could not be summed up in three minutes and was told that 20 minutes had been allocated to that part of the program; one-third of 20 is about 7 minutes which certainly sounds better, but there was a problem with the dessert and by the time that was sorted out, our time was reduced to two-and-a-half minutes. Hardly worth the effort.

I ended up simply sharing an anecdote about my first teaching job. When I took the job, I had no qualifications and no experience. I accepted the job on the Sunday and was in the classroom on Monday with thirty little boys hanging on my every word. Still, it seemed to work out and I ended up teaching for 45 years.

Sunday, July 16

Word Nerds love to use big words but are often reluctant to display their knowledge for fear of being tagged, well, 'nerdy'.  But, when it comes to criticising Donald J Trump, there are not enough words in the dictionary to satisfy the commentariat.  No reason, then to hold back.  Drag out all the dusty, little-used epithets so that your comments don't just sound like all the others.

This week, 'kleptocracy' was getting a run.  This means 'rule by people who are raiding the public purse', e.g. Donald Trump.  Why don't we hear this word more often?  Maybe, because it's the norm, in our society at least.  Another word in this set, applied to Donald J, is 'plutocracy', government by the wealthy.  After all, says the President, you wouldn't want a poor man to be in charge of the finances.  There's also 'autocracy': rule by just one person.  Donald might love that but there are probably too many checks and balances in the system. Although, moving against the free press is a good first strategy to change the situation.

He hasn't tried 'theocracy', government on behalf of God but, who knows what's in his head.  My personal favourite is 'kakocracy', government by the wrong people. It's a wonderful word and so relevant in today's climate.  Of course, what we should be striving for is 'meritocracy', government by the most qualified.  Singapore has that aim written in to its constitution, using university qualifications as an independent measure but I suspect that would throw up its own problems.

In any case, DJ Trump went to college and, according to him, was in the top 15% of graduates.  The fact that there's no evidence of that claim doesn't stop him from asserting it's true.

Who would have thought there are so many flavours of democracy!

Saturday, July 15

In a week where the fighting continues in the Middle East, there is more stupidity from the Trump family,  Alan Jones tells Josh Frydenberg he has to go, the in-fighting among the Liberals reaches a new low and one of the more intelligent senators from Western Australia finds out he is not eligible, it is good to read a story from the US which restores faith in the human spirit.

As reported by Time magazine, in a MacDonalds drive-through line in Indiana, a woman noticed that the shabby car behind was being driven by a man with four young children.  She decided she would pay for his order as well as her own.  The fellow was so touched he decided he would pass on the kindness, and it caught on.  A total of 167 people repeated the compliment before the chain was broken.

What about the 168th?  Was he really broke and couldn't afford it?  Or was he so stingy he couldn't bring himself to pay for someone else?  My guess is that he was a politician who was so used to other people paying for him, he thought nothing of it.

Back to the negative stories of the week.  It was good to see Katherine Murphy of the Guardian calling out Alan Jones for his arrogance in believing he can tell politicians what to do.  This is the low-life who recommended our elected Prime Minister, Julia Gillard, should be put in a chaff bag and dropped in the ocean, and who told Malcolm Turnbull his career was over when Tony Abbott replaced him as Leader of the Liberal Party.

Josh Frydenberg is an energetic, principled Minister in the Government, the first Liberal politician to make an honest effort to put a reasonable policy in place to deal with climate change.  Alan Jones is a small-minded, nonentity with a radio show. I know which of the two is adding value to our society, and it ain't AJ.

Thursday, July 13

Our grand-daughter, Madeleine, said goodbye to Tasmania on Tuesday, driving her car, laden to the gunwales, on to the Spirit of Tasmania to sail across Bass Strait to Melbourne, the first leg of an epic trek to Brisbane.  I use the word 'trek' advisedly because I was very much put in mind of the intrepid Boers as they prepared to face the savage jungles of Africa in search of a better life.

Her little red car was chock-a-block with partner, Josh, baby Macie, 2 dogs and all their worldly goods, with Madi driving.  On their way to the ferry terminal at Devonport, they called in to say farewell.  Marilyn thrust extra food upon them and room had to be found.  There was just a touch of hysteria but, eventually, they disappeared down the drive.

We've had regular updates as to their progress: they arrived in Melbourne yesterday morning and drove to Robinvale near Mildura, to visit her other grandfather (also John).  By lunchtime today, they were in Hay, heading for an oversight stop in West Wyalong (population 2600, 5 pubs and three licenced clubs).  I suspect they will keep heading  north on the Newell Highway, through Narrabri and Goondiwindi,before hitting Brisbane.

It hasn't been easy for them in Tasmania.  Josh has had trouble finding work and, now there is a baby demanding to be looked after, they think there will be more opportunity in a larger city.  Margaret, Madi's other grandmother, can offer them accommodation for a time and that will give them some breathing space to get organised.

This is a photo of Macie, in her travelling outfit.

Wednesday, July 12

I've found a book called Word by Word, sub-titled The Secret Life of Dictionaries, written by Kory Stamper.  I grabbed it with glee.  I regard myself as something of a Word Nerd and there's nothing I like more than a book which helps me indulge in the guilty pleasure of sneering at less fortunate people  who don't know the difference between bought and brought, and when to use 'less than' and when to use 'fewer than'.

I'm still in love with Lynne Truss, the author of 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves: the Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, who recommends biblical smiting of people who can't be bothered learning how to use commas and apostrophes correctly.

Kory Stamper, on the other hand has been a disappointment.  Instead of supporting my secret vice, she denigrates those of us who insist that we are the only ones who are right.  In an early chapter she outlines how spelling and grammar and punctuation have evolved over the centuries and our modern 'rules' have more to do with practices adopted by newspaper editors and university professors than any historical precedent.  Is nothing sacred?

Ms Stamper is a lexicographer, who makes her living updating dictionaries.  She is one of those responsible for identifying new words to be added to the language and seems to spend her working life scouring sources to find new uses of existing words and new words that people are using.   As it happens, she works for Merriam-Webster.  That's an American dictionary so it won't be as authoritative as the OED, for example.  I'm sure they wouldn't put up with the heresies she is spouting. 

I'm not even half-way through the book yet, so it might get better but in the meantime, I feel that the best I can say is that her book is drab, dreary, dull, ho-hum, humdrum, mind-numbing, tedious, tiresome and wearisome. (synonyms courtesy of Merriam-Webster Thesaurus)

Tuesday, July 11

Good on Malcolm Turnbull who has made a speech in London reminding members of the Liberal Party where they came from and why they are called  'Liberal'.  He reminded all of us of what was in Robert Menzies' mind when he established the party, not the stultifying conservatism of the U.K. Tory tradition, but the centrist idea of working towards the common good which developed in the Victorian-era as 'liberalism'.  Menzies was a progressive leader who had the foresight to frame the Australian society which, in many ways, is the envy of the world.

John Howard started the rot, pushing the party further to the right and unravelling the philosophy of allowing all to share in the benefits of the growing economy.  It's been downhill from there and the modern Liberal Party has become a haven for the mean-spirited, a party which looks to Rupert Mrdoch for spiritual guidance and lists among its heroes Bronwyn Bishop, Tony Abbott and Peter Dutton.

Good luck, Malcolm, but I wonder whether you could only make such a speech at the safe distance of England and whether you will have to replace the muzzle when you come home

Sunday, July 9

It's almost lunchtime here and the temperature outside hasn't risen above 3 degrees; there is still a heavy fog hanging around.  The people across the way have lit a fire but the smoke can't get away in the heavy air so the building is shrouded in a grey cloud.  I hope no one there suffers from asthma.

The 'gentlemen you refer to', as Mr Turnbull calls Tony Abbott, is still in the news as he continues his sabotage mission, aided and abetted by his media mates.  Clearly their aim is to undermine Malcolm Turnbull and they don't seem to care what damage they cause to their party along the way.  Bill Shorten must be ecstatic as he sees his political enemies doing his work for him: self inflicted instability in the Libs, the Greens and, as always, One Nation.  Barnaby Joyce seems to be doing alright but you can never tell with the Nationals.

Mr Turnbull's refusal to use the name of Mr Abbott has the commentators in a lather, with frequent references to Harry Potter where it is forbidden to speak the name of the dreaded Lord Voldemort.  The ancient Hebrews, of course, had a superstitious fear of saying the name of God and used a code name, YHWH, instead.  Does Mr Turnbull fear that calling his tormenter by name will rain fire down on his own head, or is it simply a snide way to de-personalise the enemy?  Or is he just providing copy for the media to distract them from real issues?

Isn't it time we had a new High Commissioner in London, or Reyjkavik?  Mr Abbott would be ideal.

Saturday, July 8

It's my turn to present a 3-minute talk to a Rotary meeting as part of a campaign to make new members feel they know a bit about the old hands.  I have a couple of weeks to prepare it but I'm already worried about how it will turn out.  The concept, for a start, is questionable.  Why 3 minutes?  Is it like a woman's skirt - long enough to cover the essentials but short enough to be interesting?  Or is it the anticipated length of time before the audience gets bored?

It's not like the twenty-minute PowerPoint presentations I do from time to time where I have a certain amount of information to cover, and some visual connection to hold the attention.  Nor is it like the chats all of us have at the dinner table or over coffee where we take it in in turns to share anecdotes from our respective lives.

It certainly doesn't have the scope of a full-blown biography and it can't compare with the stream of consciousness stuff of a blog like this one. So, how do I approach this?  What do they want to hear?  More importantly, what am I prepared to tell them?  How do I make it interesting enough to hold their attention?  

We've had some crackers in the past.  One member used her three minutes to list all the schools in Tasmania where she had taught.  Another fellow said, " I went to Meander Primary, then Deloraine High School, then worked on the family farm.  I married Tammy in 1972 and we have 2 kids.  What else do you want to know?"

I know it's useful if you can claim acquaintance with someone famous.  People are always interested if you can say you sat beside Beyoncé on a plane flying to Mudgee and that anecdote could conceivably take up half of the allotted time. But, sadly, it didn't happen.   Marilyn and I had dinner with Sir Edmund Hillary once but it was in 1968 and all I remember of the encounter is that he was tall - 15 seconds tops!

No doubt I'll muddle through.  I can't guarantee it will be memorable but, if I avoid embarrassment, that will be enough.

Wednesday, July 5

Last week should have been my last time to drive the bus for the local old dears to go swimming in Launceston but their regular driver returned from holiday and rang to ask if I could do just one more.  It's not an imposition and it gets me out of the house for a few hours.

I generally sit in the cafe while they have their hydro-something class - hydrology ? hydroponics?

 - read my book, have a coffee, etc, and watch the world go by.  They have their lunch around the pool and we're generally ready to leave by 2.45.  Today, a delegation came to ask whether I would consider taking on the driving job on a regular basis; Maureen, after all, is getting a bit old, and she's not very good at parking.  So, that's my Wednesdays sorted out for the foreseeable future.

We've been watching Outlander but have given it up, after reaching episode 15 of the first series.  I know Scotland in the 18th century was a bloodthirsty place, but the gratuitous violence in the show is too much.  We decided to go in a different direction while watching a red coat officer gleefully nailing the hero's hand to a table.

So now we're watching Pride and Prejudice and Netflix is lining up similar offerings for our future viewing pleasure.

Sunday, July 2

The Rotary Changeover Dinner last night was a bit unusual.  We often have as many as 100 people, including our own members and spouses, local dignitaries such as the mayor and sundry politicians, and others who have some other associations with club.  It's a formal occasion, and people dress appropriately.

We were surprised when the venue was announced as the Empire Hotel, and doubly surprised when we were told to wear something orange or green.  St Patricks's Day was in March surely!  The Empire is a very attractive pub but their largest room will only seat about 50, and we have over forty members, not counting spouses.

Well, there were about 60 squeezed in, some of the expected faces didn't appear, and there wasn't the formality of previous years.  Still, the dinner was good, we had a chance to catch up with people we hadn't seen for a while and we got home at a reasonable hour.  The mystery of the Irish theme was revealed: the out-going president is called Muldoon, and the incoming one has Irish ancestors.  Our dessert was a chocolate mud cake, iced like a leprechaun's hat.