Tuesday, December 1st

 Marilyn slaved in the kitchen all morning and, as a result, we each enjoyed a slice of Apple and Rhubarb Crumble Cake for afternoon tea.  If you did a time and motion study on the effort which went into the production of the cake you would come to the conclusion that it wasn't worth it.  And that would be a sensible thing to say.  Time would certainly be better spent in doing something else.  There are any number of bakeries out there who do a wonderful job of creating delicacies and who depend on our custom to stay viable. Surely, it's our patriotic duty to buy our cakes rather than bake them ourselves.

And yet, where can you buy an Apple and Rhubarb Crumble Cake?  I'm a great fan of rhubarb even though it seems to have fallen out of fashion.  I think I first enjoyed it back in Scotland where my grandfather grew it in his back yard.  I remember he used to use a wheelbarrow to cover it in bad weather.  I also remember the joke he used to tell, which is just as funny today as it was in 1950.  The man next door looked over the fence and said, "Your rhubarb's looking fine this year, Sandy.  Is it true that you put horse manure on it?"  

"Aye!" said Sandy.

"That's funny," said the neighbour. "We prefer ours with custard."

We've always been lucky that we have known people who grow rhubarb so I haven't had to buy the $5 bunches from Woolworths, but the other week I was given a couple of crowns by a fellow I met while working at the exams so,  as a new adventure I might start growing my own.  I fancy the new above-ground gardens to save the serious bending over and Jamie found a local teenager who is making suitable boxes from recycled pallets.  $40 seems reasonable for a 1m square box.

A 1m x 1m x 60cm box will need 24 Bunnings bags of top soil to fill it; at $4 each bag, that's $96.  But Jamie tells me the local nursery will sell me that volume of soil for $60 and lend me a trailer to bring it home.  That's at least $100 I've spent already, equivalent to at least 20 bunches of Woolies rhubarb which is always fresh and doesn't need any more manual labour that carrying it home.  Have I bitten off more than I can chew?

Saturday, November 29, 2020

 Although I always have one or two fiction books, usually crime novels, on the go, I am always on the lookout for an interesting non-fiction book for a change.  I've enjoyed some of the tell-all books about the disastrous Trump presidency and I like biographies of interesting people.  Sometimes a title will grab my attention as did 'A Brief History of Everyone Who Ever Lived' I stumbled across in one of the classrooms where I was supervising exams the other week.  We're not allowed to read in the exams but I absorbed enough from the cover to know that it was about genes and how they impact on our history.

The clincher was a recommendation on the cover from Brian Cox: 'You will be spellbound', and I was.

Beautifully written by Adam Rutherford, it is over 400 pages long and explores how the human animal has grown and developed and how the study of our genes throws light on our history.  I read it over three days and, genuinely, couldn't put it down.

This is Day 74 since my knee operation and it's fair to say that I am fed up with limping, walking with a stick and dealing with a stiff joint.  I've finished with my group Physio class though I have one more individual session next week.  I may never be able to dance the jitterbug again but I'd just like to have my mobility back as it was.  I'm told that I must be patient; it will be all right in the end.

We've watched some interesting TV recently, including Season 4 of The Crown and Joanna Lumley's latest spectacular, The Silk Road.  Once we moved past Venice and Turkey, which wer a bit ho-hum, we travelled into a part of the world we know very little about, and it is awe-inspiring - the history of Samarkand and the extraordinary modernity of Azerbaijan really opened our eyes.  We thoroughly recommend the show.

November 13, 2020

 Somehow this story has been overlooked so it will end up out of order.  It is an attempt at writing in the Travel Article genre.

BACK ON DRY LAND                                                                              13^th NOVEMBER, 2020

 

Now that we can see that the influence of the Covid Pandemic is starting to wane, many of us are looking at the possibility of overseas travel and are starting to wonder whether there may be bargains to be found as operators desperately  attempt to attract paying customers.  Favourite venues like Bali, Thailand, and New Zealand will no doubt recover well but there is a serious question mark hanging over the Seniors’ Favourite: Cruising.  Pre-Covid, cruise operators could pretty well guarantee filling their enormous ships with elderly passengers who were not too demanding, didn’t insist on entertainment 24 hours a day, went to bed early and didn’t eat much.  It was a relatively easy way to make money and if the crews had the inconvenience of dealing with the body of an occasional ninety-year old who had passed away, so be it.

However, when Covid has, in its turn, passed away, I want to suggest that the thoughts of would-be holiday-makers will not be on the high seas but will come back to dry land, and the more adventurous will be looking beyond the old favourites to see what else might be available. 

We don’t have to fly to the other side of the world to find an enjoyable holiday.  Right on our doorstep is a vast, almost untapped tourist mecca, whose people, mostly, speak English, where a pretty good hotel bed might cost $AU50 and a decent meal can be had for $20.  I’m talking about the Philippines.  Don’t be concerned about the newspaper reports regarding the crime rate and the murderous policies of the President.  If normal care is taken and you take advantage of local guides, your holiday will be one to remember.

First-time travellers will want to see the capital city.  Manila is a sprawling hotch-potch of a city, with enormous slum areas but also some of the world’s best shopping precincts.  Choose a hotel in Makati and employ a local company to show you the sights.  There is plenty to see around Manila Bay, and don’t miss the town of Tagaytay and shopping at the Mall of Asia.

Better still, though, avoid Manila entirely and take a connecting flight from the airport to one of the thousands of islands.  Cebu, with its perfect white sand beaches is always popular with international tourists  but has always been particularly attractive to younger people who enjoy showing off their tanned bodies so, for older people, I recommend Palawan as a much better option for an unforgettable tourist experience.  It’s only a ninety-minute flight from Manila in a modern aircraft but be aware that locals flying home from Manila always take the chance to stock up on Krispy Kreme donuts which take up too much room in the overhead lockers.  You’ll be asked to check in even your cabin baggage for storage in the plane’s hold and it’s a good idea to comply.

Make sure you’ve arranged to be collected at the airport by your guide.  Whole families turn out to welcome back people who’ve been away, and the crowds at the airport can be quite daunting.  You might find yourself booked into an excellent hotel in the capital, Puerta Princesa, or one of the many, cheaper, resorts along the highway leading out of town.  Either is OK.  The resorts are of a lower standard but clean and comfortable for a couple of nights.

There is lots to do but don’t miss the famous Underground River tour. The river flows through limestone so, over the centuries has carved a huge cave which enters the sea not far from the capital city.  You’ll be taken in a traditional outrigger canoe into the cave and navigate a couple of kilometres along its length.  There are bats and other creatures, and the usual features of limestone caves.

Life in these out-of-the-way places in the Philippines hasn’t changed much in hundreds of years and the people haven’t been tainted by the excesses of modern life.  You’ll feel refreshed after your time here and astounded by the beautiful places you have seen.  You can be satisfied, too, that your Australian dollars have made a difference to the lives of people who normally survive on very little.

Monday, November 23, 2020

 I thought I'd get an early start on this week's story and had an idea I'd try a poem.  Unfortunately, it got a bit out of hand and it turned out not to be suitable for that group.  However, here it is.   I'm not sure what the title is all about.

             INVICTUS INTERRUPTUS                                   NOVEMBER, 2020

 

In the fullness of time I shall have my reward

For the difficult road I have travelled

You will see that, at last, my worries have passed

And the knots in my brain have unravelled.

 

It’s no easy task to have chosen this path

But I saw it, at first, as worth doing

I felt that my skills would outweigh the ills

That are part of the life I’m pursuing.

 

It started off fine, all roses and wine

But it didn’t take long to come tumbling.

All the joy that I struck, soon came unstuck

But there’s no point at all in my grumbling.

 

And as years followed year, I saw my hopes disappear

And I watched the demise of my dreaming

My job was a chore, my life was a bore

And some days I just felt like screaming

 

So now every morning I walk through the gate

And I know I will go through the motions

My classes are dull, drive me out of my skull

My despair is as deep as the oceans.

 

My home life’s no better, it lurches along

No highlights to give me some pleasure

There’s no joy in my life, I pity my wife

How long since she called me, “My treasure”?

 

Still, I must look ahead, with no fear or dread

The future’s as bright as I make it

But, when all’s said and done, life is no fun

When you’ve lost all the courage to fake it.

 

And a teacher I’ll stay, ‘till my dying day

Though I’ve lost all the spark and the passion.

I won’t be dismayed by how little I’m paid

And still play my part … in a fashion.

Friday, November 20, 2020

 Life is getting back to normal with the usual; Writing Group today.  I've chosen the topic "How the Other Half Lives'.

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES                                                            20 NOVEMBER 2020

 

My first teaching job was at a small privately-owned school in Randwick, NSW.  I wore a good suit to the interview and had always prided myself on my careful speech so I felt that I gave the impression of being an appropriate person to work in a fee-paying school in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs.  It must have worked as I was appointed to the position and was told I would start the following day.  I didn’t know at the time that the previous teacher had had a heart attack and the Principal was desperate to find a cheap replacement in a hurry.  I was flattered that I might be considered for this position and was happy to accept a salary of 20 pounds per week which was a bit less than I had been earning in my previous job.  I   knew the position had not been advertised and I only knew about it because I had received a phone call from the college where I was studying for my teaching qualification encouraging me to apply.  At that stage I had attended only a handful of lectures so was hardly a prime candidate for the role.

Nonetheless, I was thrown in the deep end, and it was not just in an educational sense: I was being dropped into a different social world from the one I had been brought up in.  My family had emigrated from Britain in the early 1950s.  My parents had both left school at 15 and we had lived in a rundown tenement building near Glasgow in the dark days following World War 2.  Emigration was an escape.  With no capital behind us, we were fortunate to be allocated a house in a Housing Commission suburb in Wollongong and my father travelled on the train each day to the steelworks at Port Kembla.  Most of my friends came from a similar background and yet, suddenly, I was being thrust into living and working in one of the most affluent areas of Australia. 

The parents of my students were all wealthy, educated, professional people who took it as their due that they would have access to the best that money could buy, be it housing or holidays, entertainment or education.  Many parents were from Europe: refugees, mainly from Italy and Greece, Hungary and Palestine.  Coogee Prep. School was hardly in the same class as some of the better-known independent schools but, through some long-standing arrangement, Coogee Prep students had guaranteed access to both Scots College and Sydney Grammar.  Parents who lived around Randwick and Coogee found it convenient to have their young boys at a local school where they would receive a good grounding for their chosen secondary school.

It’s fair to say that I was welcomed warmly by the parents and I received frequent invitations for meals.  Perhaps, some parents had an ulterior motive and were hoping that their child might receive some favoured treatment but I feel the invitations were genuinely given.  When, after a year or two, my wife had joined me and we set up in a flat in Coogee, the invitations increased.

For the first time in my life I saw something beyond the rather narrow horizons of an industrial city built around mining and steel-making.  We saw that not all homes are the same.  When money is taken out of the decision-making process, the opportunities are limitless.  We met people who lived in traditional suburban homes, and grand Federation mansions, in modern architect-designed display homes and high-rise apartments.  We were introduced to the delights of the theatre.  Although we were always on a budget, we had the opportunity to learn about drama and musical-comedy and even ballet and opera.  In our frequent dinner invitations, we learnt about different food styles.  We ate Japanese food for the first time and Greek.  Wine became a normal part of our diet and we learnt how to tell a good wine from a more ordinary one.  We heard different styles of music and broadened our taste beyond the Top 40 and Folk Music we were used to.

As our careers took us to private schools in different parts of Australia we saw more and more of the lifestyle enjoyed by those who had an above-average income.  Better still, we were able to indulge in that lifestyle ourselves.  In Queensland, we sailed in the Twilight Races on Townsville Harbour and caught coral trout on the Great Barrier Reef.  In NSW, we attended a party at Jimmy Barnes’ house and inadvertently ate hash cookies.  We fished for trout in a private lake in the Snowy Mountains.

Through friendship with a pilot, we’ve been upgraded on flights and were guests of honour at a traditional Japanese banquet in Kanazawa where over 50 tiny, exquisite courses were served. One of the richest men in the Philippines invited us to a birthday party on his estate.  He and his wife collect religious art and the walls of his house were covered with priceless paintings rescued from churches in the Philippines and elsewhere.  The food was served, spread out on a table and eaten with the fingers.

At another wealthy man’s dinner party in the Philippines, the dining table incorporated some mechanism which groaned throughout the dinner and flashed coloured lights. The house where we ate is one of several he owns and is only used for dinner parties.  Back in Tasmania, we’ve dined at Government House and spent the weekend at the Governor’s holiday shack at Swanwick, trying to cook scallop soup over an open fire.

They say that it’s dangerous to have champagne tastes on a beer income but we’ve thoroughy enjoyed our experiences with how the other half lives.

 

Saturday, October 24th

 

 

I needed an ultrasound on my ankle and my GP sent me to a clinic in an unfamiliar part of town.  We had no trouble finding it and presented ourselves at the reception area.  It was a good-size room with the most prominent feature being an enormous Old English Sheepdog, sprawled across a mattress along one wall.  The creature’s 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.

While I was waiting, an elderly woman came in, 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 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 said, “Hi, my name is Mandy.  Do you need a hand to take your trousers off?”

Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?

Friday, 9th October

 Time drags a little when you're recuperating and the weather has been pretty miserable, confining us to indoors more than we might like.  To fill the time, I've been browsing our family tree and one interesting line caught my eye.  I've always been aware there's a strong Irish flavour: my grandfather's name was Donachie and he was descended from Owen Donachie, born around 1842 and who moved to Scotland around 1860, working as a farm labourer in Ayrshire.  Owen was my great-great grandfather. I was delighted to find that he was born in the famous Irish town of Longford.

There's a nice symmetry that some 160 years later, Owen's descendants have settled in another town called Longford.

Friday, October 2nd

 It's another quiet day in Longford and my recuperation continues.  I'm not getting out much but I'm told that the weekly special at the cafe is Curried Rabbit Pie.  It's nice to think that some local kids might have delivered the results of their trapping to the cafe but Longford has the largest abattoir in Northern Tasmania so an occasional twenty-minute run of rabbits is probably not unlikely.

I'm supposed to complete a series of exercise three times a day but the success of that depends on getting an early start on the first round.  If I prevaricate, and attempt the first lot after morning tea, I'm likely to run out of time.  Sadly, exercising has never been a passion of mine and any excuse is reached for when it comes to the crunch.  

Today should be the first day of my return to Writing Group; it will be held at the normal venue, with all sorts of Covid-19 restrictions but it's just too hard to contemplate.  Friends, Jim and Di, have sent me a couple of books to read to assist in my understanding of what an essay is so I'd rather spend some time on that.  One of the books is the Boyer Lectures of Geraldine Brooks and the other is by Clive James.  Now, he is an author worth imitating.

First, though, thirty minutes of exercise with a new gadget, recommended by the physio at the hospital.  He smiled at me, as young fit people are wont to do and said, "Maybe you could borrow a skateboard from your neighbour's kid."  He didn't call me Grandad, which I appreciated but I didn't appreciate the patronising tone.  What I needed was a dolly: 300mm square, flush top, 4x casters and a hole, 2000Kg rating, but he clearly thought the name 'dolly' might confuse me.

Jamie popped into Bunning, spent $16 which affected our trade imbalance with China but just what I needed to help me practice my 'foot slides' and 'knee bends.'  The dolly is a great example of effective industrial design so I can muse on that as I carry out my rotations of 15 forwards and backwards.

Sunday, September 27th

 This is Day 12 of this chapter of my life and things are going as they should.  I had been warned that a knee replacement is much more difficult to deal with than a hip and I am 9 years older to boot.  No matter, as Sonny said in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, "It will be alright in the end and, if it is not alright, it is not yet the end."

I can accept that but I would like to see some glimmer that the end is at least almost in sight.  What I'm having most trouble with is my lack of  flexibility in my back muscles.  So much depends on a strong back to deal with crutches and I'm very much lacking in that department.

Marilyn says we have been in the unit for 6 weeks already. We are co comfortable, it's hard to believe that we haven't lived here for ever.  

Recuperation means that I have plenty of time to catch up on reading and writing, and we've taken to watching Schitts Creek on Netflix.  It's an appalling show but we're hooked.  I compare it to I Love Lucy where a bunch of bizarre characters get themselves into crazy situations and have to work their way out - with modern ideas of sexuality to add an element of shock factor.

Thursday 24th September, 2020

 It's nice to be home.  While I was absent, the blinds were fitted to the new house and a couple of bedlamps appeared in the spare room.  I don't think there's much more be done until we can tick it off as being ready to live in.  It is a particularly comfortable home and a great place for an aging patient to recover.  And, we're ready to welcome visitors as soon as the Premier gives the nod.  He's saying it will be December before he raises the drawbridge  We can only wait and hope.

Jamie is not working today so is coming over to check that everything is as it should be for my recovery.  There are no stairs and the showers are easily accessible, with no sills to negotiate.  He's already installed a grab rail in one bathroom and will have a look today where else they may be needed.  It's been great to have someone to take on the responsibility for any building work.  I've never been very good at that sort of thing, anyway, and am well past it in my current recuperative state.

An hour after I arrived home yesterday, I had a call from the local Health Centre.  They had booked me in for a Physio appointment in a couple of weeks.  To save me making the 12-minute trek into the General Hospital, the Physio would see me in Longford.  Love it!

Wednesday, 23rd September, 2020

I managed to publish the two posts I had written in hospital.  My hotspot wouldn't work so I've waited until I arrived home.  They're out of order but, in the grand scheme of things, that's not particularly important. 

The last few days were uneventful; hospitals are busy places and I have great respect for the nurses who juggle the demands of their patients making sure that everyone gets a fair shake.  The constant pain made me nauseous and I couldn't eat the food that was brought around but, luckily, Marilyn found some fresh Californian grapes in the supermarket so I didn't starve.

All I craved was some scrambled egg and now that I'm home, it's being cooked as I speak.

I must say I have great respect for Australia's public health system.  From the initial assessment to the preliminary seminar when the process was explained, it has been flawless.  I waited less than a year and was able to have my choice of surgeon.  And everything is on hand in the hospital.  I was able to speak to any specialist I desired and the physios came to my bed.  That's service!  the fellow who ran the seminar even came to visit to see that I had everything I needed.  His name was Dan.

There's no doubt that the key to their success is clever recruitment.  My anaesthetists included Nazeem and Keiko, and the radiologist was a Pom.  There were any number of Chinese nurses on the wars, all professional and cheerful.  being in hospital isn't fun but the staff do their best to ease the pain.

When I was leaving I was taken down to what they called The Transit Lounge where I finalised the paperwork, had a glass of OJ and waited until Marilyn rang to say she was in the carpark.

Sunday, 19th September, 2020

I'm going to write this blog, assuming I can eventually hook in to the hotspot on my phone to upload it.  Of course, that eventuality depends on a confluence of events over which I have little control so I can only hope that goes well.  

I was first into the theatre on Wednesday morning, when the surgeons were at their brightest and the knives at their sharpest.  Everything seemed to go well and I awoke a couple of hours later in a private room.  Private room?  How did this happen?  It couldn't last and before long I was shuffled into a 4- bed ward when someone was found to be more deserving of a private space.

All the other patients were men, but that didn't last; there are two women in here now and I know they resent the lack of privacy.  The older woman across from me had a bad night and I suspect she is embarrassed to show her frailty in front of male strangers.

I have physiotherapy  each day and that is torture but necessary if I intend get home tomorrow, which is the current plan.

Monday, 21st September

This is the morning of Day 6 - Monday - of my sojourn in hospital.  I'm told I can go home when I've shown that I can cope with crutches.  I'm keen to display my expertise but I've only had one brief opportunity and that was on Saturday.  All of yesterday was spent staring at the ceiling thinking of what I could have achieved with a reasonable opportunity.

It's no wonder  that there are so many books written and movies made about hospitals: here is displayed every human emotion and there is an unlimited number of story lines for the most jaded scriptwriter.

If you want humour, or tragedy, human interest or pathos it's not hard to find a good example in a hospital. Opposite me is an elderly woman, born in 1929.  She's physically frail but mentally sharp as a task.  By the sound of her voice, she has not been well-educated but not much has passed her by.  She needs an MRI scan and the doctor has been asking her to recount her medical history: ninety years of it.  You can hear her making connections in her head to pinpoint when she had her hysterectomy,  using her son's age at the time to narrow it down. "He's 60 this year and I remember he had a bike for his 8th birthday so it must have been 52 years  ago.   Remarkable! 

The Physio test hasn't gone well and  I'll be here for at least one more day.

Friday, September 11th, 2020

 Marilyn and I had an hour to waste between appointments yesterday so stopped in to Mowbray for a cup of coffee.  There was a time, say twenty years ago when we first moved there, that the only food available in the town was Hungry Jack's but there has been real boom in the takeaway market in recent years. As part of its Refugee Settlement program the Australian Government singled out Launceston to take hordes of migrants from Nepal and Bhutan and they've made a real difference to the flavour of the area.  The older migrants have found it hard to integrate, keeping their language and even their style of dress, but the younger ones have integrated well, getting jobs, buying cars and hanging out like the rest of us.

We met one the recent incomers yesterday at the coffee shop we went to.  He took our order - two coffees and some fruit toast - and went off to prepare it.  When it came, we were delighted to find that his interpretation of 'fruit toast' was a toasted sandwich, stuffed with sliced banana and pineapple.  His offsider, a young Australian woman, gently took him aside to explain that the Australian version of fruit toast is a slice of bread with a touch of cinnamon and three or four sultanas.  I think I prefer his take on it.

I'm reading a book by Stuart MacBride at the moment, set in Aberdeen.  One of the characters is sent off to buy some takeaway: Haggis balls, a Macaroni Cheese Pie and a deep-fried Mars Bar.  Hmm.  I don't know what to think of that.

Wednesday, September 9th

 There's not a lot of variety in our lives at the moment.  It was a break from routine to move from Dilston to Longford but, now that the first rush is out of the way, we fall back into the normal day-to-day activities which rule our existence.

Except, yesterday we received an invitation to attend the Annual Induction Ceremony of the Rotary Club of Calamba, Philippines.  It's a bit hard to fly there at the moment but we were able to be present through the magic of Zoom.  The whole Ceremony enterprise was taken very seriously; we even had a dress code.  No sitting around in tracky pants for us.  I was expected to wear a traditional Barong Tagalog and Marilyn a short, formal dress.

A friend reminded me that it didn't matter what I wore from the waist down because it wouldn't be seen on the screen; like the old joke about newsreaders wearing pyjama bottoms with their suit jacket and tie.  It might have been fun to play that game, maybe wear a kilt, for example, but I did the right thing: black formal pants, appropriate shoes, and barong.  I had had my hair cut on Monday so I thought I looked pretty sharp.

Marilyn took it seriously too and wore a very pretty summer dress she last wore to a wedding in January 2019.  We didn't anticipate that we would both experience an odd problem.  Our 'formal' shoes have not been worn for months; instead we have been wearing flat-soled casual shoes everywhere. As soon as I tried to walk, I couldn't get my balance.  The tiny heel on the shoes was enough to throw me off-kilter.  Marilyn was fine until today when she complained of pains in her calf muscles. Is this all part of getting older or are our bodies evolving to accommodate our new, less-formal lives?

Most of those involved in the Induction Ceremony were gathered in a hall in Calamba but there was a handful, like us, who were involved through Zoom.  Our faces were displayed down the side of the screen and we could be heard if we chose to speak up.  The ceremony was in three parts: the first part was a welcome to the Rotary District Governor and the Club's reporting to him on what had happened in the previous year and plans for the next.

The third part was the Club's reflection on the year's work and recognition of what had been achieved.

The second part was what interested us, when new officers were sworn in and we might see our friends parading around or talking.  In fact, the small speakers in my computer, together with the mixture of English and Tagalog being spoken made it quite difficult to follow what was going on.  Nevertheless, it was a wonderful experience and we need to look at ways of doing it again.

I had to log out a few minutes before the end because I had a 'phone call from the hospital to tell me my knee replacement surgery has been scheduled for next Wednesday, 16th September.  Oh, joy!

Friday, August 21

We've moved in to the new abode in Longford and there is a lot to report.  However, the internet is not being connected until next Thursday so it is likely I won't have much to say until then. 

Saturday, August 15th (2)

 Jamie sent us a photograph earlier this week asking 'Is this the fellow who is buying Dilston?  It was; I think Jamie had met him on the banks of the South Esk River as he was holding a trout he had caught.  By some extraordinary coincidence, the buyer is from a Filipino family and is a Facebook buddy of Chrislin, Nera's sister.

We dropped some stuff off at Jamie's today and Francis (that's his name) was visiting. I know that Tasmania is a small place but there are 87000 people in Launceston!  My preference would be to sell the house to a total stranger and never see them again, just in case something goes wrong.  However, it seems Francis has been welcomed into the fold of the Filipino community and it is likely we will see a lot more of him.

Saturday, August 15th 2020

 I decided to write this week's story in the form of a post that I might make to the blog.

It’s Wednesday already and I think I had better make a start on doing my homework for the Friday morning Writing Group.  As usual, the topics don’t immediately grab me and I let them sit in my sub-consciousness while I have a cup of coffee.  Not yet inspired, I make the tentative choice of Poem for an August Afternoon but there’s no verb in the title so I’m not sure whether I should ‘find’ a poem or ‘write’ a poem but it’s a writing group so probably the latter. Anyway, I’ve no idea what to write so I’ll check Google to see whether someone else’s writing might be the spur I need.

I quite like the poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne:

In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there.

… but it’s not what I’m looking for.  Maybe it’s too English so I turn to the New World and find this little ditty by Paul Laurence Dunbar:

When August days are hot an’ dry,
I won’t sit by an’ sigh or die,
I’ll get my bottle (on the sly)
And go ahead, and fish, and lie …

Then, of course, I realise, they’re both writing for the Northern Hemisphere where the weather is warm.  Those poems certainly don’t reflect a Tasmanian August.  Here, in Australia, and especially in Tasmania, August is generally one of the colder months and I certainly won’t forget that just  last week we had the worst snowstorm in my memory.

I go straight to my old favourites, Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson, and there’s stuff there about Winter, but not specifically mentioning August.  Roderick J Flanagan, an ex-patriate Irishman, in his poem Australian Winter, tries hard but his language is a bit flowery for my taste:

The hoar-frost marks the grassy lawn at morn,
⁠But fades when the first matin beam appears,
Till earth grows bright, as those erewhile forlorn,
⁠Joy when their hope a sunlit aspect wears.

In some ways, August seems to be the forgotten month for poets in the Southern Hemisphere – not quite Winter but not yet Spring.  We imagine we’ve put the worst of Winter behind us and are now in some sort of self-induced hibernation until the first daffodil and wattle blooms tell us that Spring is here.  It’s disappointing that poets seem to ignore the special flavour of a Tasmanian August- that never-ending dullness and dampness -so I have marked this month in Tasmania with an attempt at a haiku:

Grey skies overhead

Spreading their gloom on the world

A slough of despond.

Saturday, August 8th (2)

 The Lift Attendant is the title of this week's Writing assignment.  It mentions Anthony Horderns store in Sydney and the woman who told me last week that she had had her honeymoon at the Three Sisters Motel in Katoomba, thanked me for reminding her that she had been taken to Anthony Horderns for her school uniform.  It seems that I am inadvertently writing her life story.

On the wall of her apartment, Rose had a framed poster showing the magnificent Anthony Horderns Building in Brickfield Hill in Sydney.  This was where Rose had begun work as a shy 16-year old many years before.  She had only worked there for a few years before marriage and her husband’s career took her overseas, but those few years had left her with very happy memories and a sense of satisfaction and achievement.

Rose’s husband worked in the Diplomatic Service so they spent a lot of time overseas, mainly in smaller countries in South America and Africa.  They had never been offered a plum posting to somewhere like Washington or London; these were reserved for favourites of the Government of the day or, more often, as consolation prizes for leadership contenders who were becoming too dangerous, or failed cabinet ministers who had to be shuffled out of sight.

There had been dangers, of course, in some of the out-of-the-way places but excitement and satisfaction as well.  Her husband’s generous salary and retirement benefits had also made it possible for Rose to enjoy this spacious apartment with views of Sydney Harbour.  Sadly, her husband was gone now, a victim of a fever picked up in years past.  Their only daughter, Sylvia was married to an international businessman and was living full-time overseas.  Sylvia rarely visited but phoned regularly and Rose was now getting the hang of Skype.

On most days, Rose was up early.  She dressed carefully, always with hat and gloves, and caught the train to St James Station to spend part of the day at David Jones department store.  Of course, it wasn’t up to the standard of Anthony Horderns but at least it had tried to maintain something of the classic setup that Rose had grown up with.  She always had tea and a scone in the small café and made a point of travelling from floor to floor in the wood-panelled lifts.  She had visited the monstrous Myer Store once (although it had been called Grace Bros in her day) but she couldn’t tolerate the immense escalator which dominated the centre of the store.  The escalator was always so busy she thought that some people travelled up and down all day, never getting off to browse the departments.

Wandering around David Jones, on the other hand somehow reminded her of her younger days.  Growing up in the suburbs, Rose had always enjoyed the trips with her mother to Anthony Horderns.  On these visits, she always wanted to spend some time on the Sixth Floor where she gazed in awe at the impossibly glamorous ladies who shopped there.  They were matched only by the immaculate shop assistants in their crisp black dresses, with their heeled shoes and refined voices.  Rose was too young to realise that the adopted accents were laughed at by the socialites of the North Shore and Eastern Suburbs.  To become one of these ladies in black became Rose’s burning ambition.

She was sad when Anthony Horderns closed down and especially when the landmark building was demolished to make way for another modern eyesore.  It would have made a wonderful apartment block and Rose would have loved to have lived there.  Now she only had her memories, and the poster on the wall, to remind her of a special milestone in her life.

One day, there had been a whisper around the floor that management was looking for a new Lift Attendant. Like most other big stores, Anthony Horderns had, until that time, employed ex-soldiers for these jobs, giving them a uniform and a stool to sit on if they needed to rest their legs.  Now, it was said, a new young director wanted to change the image of the store and employ someone younger.  Of course, the invitation to apply was only extended to the young men on the staff.  It had never occurred to anyone in authority that it might be a suitable job for a woman.

When Rose applied, many eyebrows were raised, but the young director recalled a trip he had made to Japan and how he had been impressed with the attractive, friendly, female lift attendants there.  They even bowed when people entered the lift, though he thought that might be too much to ask in Australia.  Rose was appointed to the role: the first female Lift Attendant employed by Anthony Horderns, and probably the first in Sydney.

Rose often thought there were three parts of her life: she was Mrs Avery, wife of His Excellency, the Australian Ambassador, she was Sylvia’s mother, but she was also Anthony Horderns’ first female Lift Attendant.  It was not a bad score-line.

 

Saturday, August 8, 2020

I understand that the Flat White coffee was invented in Australia and has become a favourite choice in the US, UK and other places frequented by Aussies.  If this true, it is a cause for national celebration, for the Flat White is an invention to stand alongside the Hills Hoist and the Victa Mower.

The sad thing is, though, that the Flat White is so poorly regarded in its home country.  I would have thought that the defining feature of a Flat White is that it is flat – no froth nor foam, just a warm coffee- and milk-flavoured drink with no frills.  Those of us who now order Flat White are usually escapees from the days when the best you could hope for in a café was a poorly frothed latte.  The introduction of the Flat White was as important an event to us as the arrival of the first cargo of coffee beans to Australia.

So, why is it that most of the national fast-food chains don't understand the distinction between Flat White and other lesser coffees and think it's OK to send out a Latte?  If I had wanted a latte I would have ordered one.  Apart from the fact that a latte has, on average, about 40% less drinkable coffee in the same size mug, it's much less satisfying than the true-blue Aussie Flat White, on any number of levels.

Those of us who choose to wear a moustache, and I apologise to my female friends if they think I am being sexist (but you could have a moustache too if you worked hard enough at growing one), but we are particularly disadvantaged by the café owners’ confusion between a Flat White and a Latte. They are not interchangeable!  There is nothing worse than having the constant reminder of a sub-standard coffee trapped in the hairs on your upper lip.

You might say I should complain to the barista, or send the inappropriately named coffee back.  But I don’t blame the hapless, lowly paid employee. No, I blame the greedy multi-national who owns the coffee shop and is saving money on staff training.   In the meantime, I’ll keep recording the delinquent cafes on my black list and frequent the patriotic little coffee shops where they take pride in their work.

Wednesday, August 5th

The weather forecaster last week predicted that we would have Arctic winds in Tasmania with snow down to sea level. We laughed, never having heard of snow on the beaches here.  One day in West Hobart we had snow in our garden and Jamie and I skied down to the city but that was a rarity and quite a bit above sea level.

Last night's report said 0 degrees in Dilston with sleet and I don't think I've seen that before.  This morning, we are in a snowfield and roads all around us are closed. We just above sea level here so I'll never sneer at weather forecasters again.

The writing exercise last week was The Presence and again I delved into my memory for details.

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.

When I read it to the group, one woman admitted that her honeymoon had been at the Three Sisters Motel in Katoomba and she remembered that the beds would vibrate if you put 20c in a slot.  I wish I had that information before I wrote the story.