Wednesday, July 29th (2)

7.36pm - update.  The buyer of the Dilston property heard this evening that his loan has been approved so all is clear for us to finalise our offer on the Longford unit.  Great news!

There's a lot of numerology in play here: 77 days since we put Dilston on the market, the buyer received his approval at 7pm, in the 7th month, on the 29th day (9 - 2 = 7).  But we're not superstitious.

Marilyn says she wants to start packing tonight but I think she's kidding.

Wednesday, July 29th

It's been 11 weeks since the For Sale sign was planted in our front lawn - 77 days of waiting for something to happen.  There have been some periods during that time when we thought that it would just be a matter of days and our waiting would be over but there have also been disappointments.

We think that we've been patient; after all, we thought it would take up to a year to sell the place.  But the early interest and a genuine offer within days raised our expectations, so now we're impatient to move on.  Today, Marilyn rang Jamie to say we're getting anxious, Jamie rang Matt, the agent, to say we're getting anxious, Matt rang the buyer to say, "They're getting anxious" and the buyer rang the bank to ask if there's any news, the sellers are getting anxious.

The bank has given a verbal assurance that everything is on track and we'll have official confirmation that the buyer's loan has been approved by COB tomorrow.

The question is, is that enough for us to allow ourselves to feel excited?  Is it OK to start firming up our plans, and to start ordering the shiny new bits of furniture we have picked out?  Above all, can we start packing?  Probably not, and we can surely hang out for another 24 hours.

Monday, July 27th, 2020

We still wait patiently for the key news that will re-start the process of getting us into our new home.  The buyer of the Dilston property is waiting to hear that his application for a mortgage loan has been approved before we know that we are clear to go.  We've been told, unofficially, that the approval is finalised but there has to be a signature and a stamp on a particular piece of paper before it is official.  There are just three people in Tasmania authorised to sign that paper and they are all working as hard as they can to catch up with a backlog.

With interest rates as low as they are, hordes of people are applying to re-finance their current mortgages and this has caused a 'temporary slowdown' in the speed at which approvals are given.  We continue to wait.

My writing group topic last week was The Paddock and my mind went straight back to the paddock opposite our first house in Gwynneville.  I have to stop writing nostalgic pieces but I couldn't resist this one last time.  It's not 100% historically accurate but I hope reflects the mood of the time.

There were well over 100 houses planned for the new subdivision which would help cope with the flood of migrants from Europe, and the first row of eight dwellings opened in the middle of 1953.  There was something special about this group: all the others in the subdivision would be fibro with tin roofs and seemed to look inwards but this first group were brick and tile and sat with their backs to the rest, bravely facing north.  They looked fairly substantial but none of them had a garage or even a driveway, foreshadowing what a future Federal Treasurer believed: that ‘poor people don’t drive cars’.

When the dust settled, and the lucky families moved in, they included nine children altogether: 7 boys and just 2 girls.  Gradually, relationships started to develop and, like children everywhere, they assessed their environment and started to take control of it.  The real focus of their interest sat opposite the houses and was, from Day 1, known as The Paddock.  It was part of a working farm but the fences were easily breached and the area offered wonderful opportunities for creative play.

At the heart of The Paddock was an enormous Moreton Bay Fig tree.  The buttressed roots were great for cubby houses, and it was easy to clamber into the lower branches.  In childish imagination, the tree became a pirate ship, or an enchanted castle or a besieged fortress.  One morning in Spring, a fledgling magpie was found under the tree and the girls fussed over it hoping to save it.

Activities in The Paddock were determined by the seasons.  Summer brought blackberries and scratched arms and stained fingers.  Summer was also the time for cicadas; their noisy chorus was almost deafening when the sun shone.  Their names were evocative: Green Grocer, Floury Baker and Double Drummer.  The story had circulated that Black Prince cicadas were in demand for medical research at a laboratory in Sydney and were worth money, so the children collected them in shoe boxes.  Sadly, nobody knew how to get the creatures to the mythical laboratory so they were released back into the wild.

By May, thoughts turned to Empire Day.  Patriotic teachers had filled the children’s heads with thoughts of Empire but the big attraction of the day was the anticipated bonfire and fireworks.  Weeks were spent gathering wood, stacking it carefully, watching the weather, dreading that it would rain on the day.  One year an over-enthusiastic member of the group thought it would be sensible to check that the wood was actually flammable, so put a match to the pyre several hours before the celebration was to take place.  The other children had always been a little suspicious of William anyway, because he was an only child and everyone knew that children who had no brothers or sisters were spoiled.

By September, they could expect to find mushrooms popping up in the paddock.  One of the older boys said that they grew there because of the number of cow pats around but the younger ones didn’t know whether it was just a story.  Eagerly gathered mushrooms were delivered to the mums who were suitably grateful.  However, the mushrooms never appeared on their dinner plates and the mums used to say that “Dad had them for breakfast before he went to work and he said they were delicious,” or “I chopped them up fine and put them in the stew.  It really improves the flavour.”  Sometimes the more cynical children wondered whether they had ended up in the garbage bin or were buried in the compost heap when no one was looking.

By the time the school holidays came around in December, all the children wanted to do was swim.  There was a creek running through the paddock and a couple of spots where there was enough water to immerse a small body or two.  A couple of the older boys built a canoe one year from a sheet of roofing iron retrieved from the farm rubbish pile, but it was never a success – it was unstable and always leaked.

Childhood is a very short part of your life and the children, one by one, moved on to other interests.  The paddock evolved into a new life too.  It is now part of a large University campus.  It was deemed that the Moreton Bay Fig was too dangerous and, with thoughts of the litigation which might occur if a branch fell on to a student, the University authorities resolved it be chopped down.  The creek, too, has disappeared, running now through pipes, underground.

A couple of the original children enrolled at that university in their later years and became notorious for regaling  fellow-students with stories of how it used to be when the ground where they were sitting was just a paddock.  Just a paddock, indeed!

Sunday, 26th July, 2020

Somewhere I heard that people were looking back to see what were the top music hits being played at the time of their birth, in the hope that they might find an explanation for how their lives had turned out..

I decided this was worth following up; there's nothing much else to do as Covid-19 stalks the land.  Wikipedia helped us out.  Both Marilyn and I were born during the Second World War so I imagined big band tunes would be the go.  In 1943, the year when I was born, White Christmas ruled the airwaves right into January but, by February, when I was born, it had been replaced by 'I Had the Craziest Dream' by Harry James and his Orchestra. I don't think that particular song has made much of an impression and it's a bit of a stretch to see how my life might have been coloured by it.  And yet .....

Marilyn on the other hand, born in 1944, has a different story.  Coming up to the date of her birth, the big hit was 'Don't Fence Me In' by Bing Crosby and, in March it was superseded by 'Rum and Coca Cola' by the Andrews Sisters.  Now, there are a couple of great songs to build a life's philosophy on!

Sunday, July 19th

We need to get some extra furniture for the new unit. There’s a second bedroom for a start and we’ll take the chance to replace some other bits and pieces which are getting a bit shabby.  Jamie wanted to show us a new dining room suite and lounge he and Nera have ordered so we ended up in Harvey Norman, along with dozens of other people, clearly with nothing else to do.

I hadn’t made the connection that there had been a second round of stimulus funding last week and the recipients had all turned up to Harvey Norman to splash out.  I remember, when Gerry Harvey was asked his thoughts on Covid-19, he said he saw it as an opportunity.  His sale of freezers, for example, had gone up 4% and he was going to gather a big percentage of any other money the government doled out.

I don’t think he actually said he was laughing all the way to the bank but that was the gist of his comments.  I know the money is meant to go around but just wish that less of it was going to stick to Gerry Harvey’s greedy fingers.  When the ALP provided their stimulus package in 2008, the criticism was that most of it was spent on big TV sets, probably from Harvey Norman.  Nothing changes.

We’ll probably end up buying the furniture from Hardly Normal because Jamie will add it to their order and negotiate a discount.  I’m past worrying about such unimportant matters.

Friday, July 17th

One of the topics for the Writing Group this week was The Windfall.  I didn't want to write about winning the lottery or inheriting a fortune, because everyone thinks of that so I churned out the following and I think my fellow writers appreciated the attempt at humour.

The Beatles were wrong, you know, when they sang ‘All You Need is Love’.  Nigel and Cindy had plenty of that in the early 1970s but, as they soon discovered, it didn’t pay the rent or the grocery bill.  They had a new baby and, inevitably, Cindy’s contribution to the family income had been cut back, and with a baby, there’s always more expense: baby blankets, and nappies and so on.  They had moved away from their families when Nigel took the new job at the private school in Sydney so they couldn’t, any longer, ‘drop in’ on their Mums and Dads, or even their friends, for a free meal when finances were tight.

It seemed to have been a widespread problem.  Nigel’s brother was very vocal about some of his friends who happened to drop in regularly on Thursday nights when they were getting a bit short of cash, especially as they would hang around until good manners insisted that he had to invite them to stay for dinner.  Nigel and Cindy sympathised with the friends and their plight the night before pay day because they were all struggling in the same way.

Cindy’s mother was probably wiser than the Beatles because one of her sayings was, “You can’t live on love.”  She used to say it, with pursed lips, if she caught Nigel and Cindy buying something she thought was trivial, like new wallpaper for the baby’s room or a bottle of cheap wine.

Life wasn’t all bad.  Luckily, Nigel was able to do some private tutoring on one afternoon a week with one of his students whose parents had a fish and chip shop; they never let Nigel leave their home after the lesson without a parcel of their choice fillets and best chips.  That was always Nigel’s and Cindy’s most anticipated meal of the week.  Tutoring opportunities came up from time to time but this source of income was unreliable and Nigel needed something more regular. Several times he had approached his principal to ask for a raise but was always solemnly told that it was just not possible, before the principal drove away in his BMW to his million-dollar home on the foreshore at South Coogee.  Just when Nigel was thinking that he needed to look for a change of occupation, into something which paid better – maybe taxi driving - the principal approached him with an interesting offer.

“There’s a flat belonging to the Randwick Presbyterian Church which has just become available,” he said.  “They won’t charge you any rent if you help out with the cleaning and maintenance of the church.  They’ll even pay you a few dollars a week for your efforts.” 

 

Maybe, in his own way, Nigel had been praying for a windfall to get them out of their predicament but, as the old saying goes “God helps those who help themselves.”  Instead of a win in the lottery or the death of a long-forgotten aunt who had remembered him in her will, Nigel was offered an opportunity and, as the mafia used to say, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse.  It worked out well: without rent to pay and with a few extra dollars in hand each week, their lives changed for the better.  Within two years, Nigel and Cindy were able to move into their own home and, although they have never been wealthy, they have never again been in need.

Fifty years later, Nigel was reading the book ‘A Bigger Picture’ by Malcolm Turnbull and was intrigued to discover that Malcolm had been one of the regular attenders at the Randwick Presbyterian Church in the early 1970s while he was boarding at the Sydney Grammar School boarding house just around the corner.  It gave Nigel a warm glow to think that he had been responsible for polishing the pews where the future Prime Minister had rested his bottom half a century before.

Wednesday, July 15th (2)

I was checking back through previous posts to see whether I had written anything about the lecture on the Carnival Spirit and I discovered that Malcolm Fraser had died in March of the year.  The venerable political commentator, Alan Ramsay had written the following and I thought it worth repeating here.  It's especially appropriate because the papers regarding the dismissal of the Whitlam Government have just been released.

Whatever you thought of his politics and his seminal role in the vice regal dismissal of the Whitlam Labor government almost 40 years ago, John Malcolm Fraser was, above all else, a genuine liberal in the best sense of the word. Thus he goes to his grave appalled, surely, by the oafs, boofheads and lesser ninnies that not only control the Liberal Party and conservative politics in this country these days, but take their disgrace to the summit of running Australia too.

How could it have come to this, J.M. Fraser must have wondered, constantly, in more recent years, as political behaviour, state and federal, from top to bottom, in our parliaments and out, and right across the three major parties in our democracy, became uglier, greedier, less inclusive, less civil, less caring, more irresponsible, more ill-mannered, more shrill, more ratbag, and wholly more venal, indeed blighted in any and every way you care to look at what is happening to national political life in this country?

Wednesday, July 15th

We watched an episode of Extreme Railways last night which was shot in Argentina.  During his time there, the presenter visited an historian who told him of the belief that Adolf Hitler managed to escape to Argentina in 1945, lived there openly for many years and died in Paraguay in 1972.  We'd heard this story before, in a lecture we'd attended on the Carnival Spirit cruise ship on its way to Singapore in August 2015. 

We were impressed then with the evidence so, now that I have more time on my hands, I'm going to follow up as best I can.  The internet has pointed me to a book: Grey Wolf - The Escape of Adolf Hitler by Simon Dunstan and Gerrard Williams.  Like everyone, I enjoy a good conspiracy theory and I expect to be enthralled by this one for the next few days.

We're going out for lunch today with Jamie and Nera, to a new fish restaurant called Reel.  It could be good.

Tuesday, July 14th

Time is dragging now as we work through the difficulties of isolating ourselves together with the interminable waiting for the house sale to resolve itself.  We console ourselves with the thought that we would be a lot worse off if we lived in Brazil or USA or even UK.  At least we can still do our own shopping, go for a walk or even have a cup of coffee at a favourite cafe.

We've been watching some shows on TV, with titles like Mighty Trains and Extreme Railways.  There's a bit of heroic talk about how big the trains are and how much load they can carry but, in reality, the programs are set in some of the most exotic locations in the world, so we've become armchair travellers.

Some programs are a bit more mundane than others.  One we saw this week showed the trip on a little 2-carriage train from Inverness to Edinburgh.  I did this trip when I went to the UK but I fell asleep after we left Aviemore, so I have no memory of the places we passed.  It was good to fill the gaps in my recollections.

I was missing one series of Extreme Railways and checked whether our local library might have a DVD of it.  No luck, but there was a book about the whole program so I borrowed it.  It's interesting enough but some nit-picking, pedantic, train-spotting anorak who had borrowed the book previously has gone through and made some alterations and corrections to the text in cheap blue biro. 

In the chapter on Australia where the driver of the Ghan says, "God, you look rough!" the critic has carefully scored out the word 'God'.  In another section, the author  says "the Russian alphabet is different to any language" and the anorak has crossed out 'to' and written 'from'. Maybe he's suffering more from the social distancing than we are.

Sunday, July 12th

We had lunch out yesterday with two other couples at Golden Valley, just outside of Deloraine.  The property, owned by one of the couples, is built on the shore of a small lake which they share with 3 or 4 other neighbours.  The lake is totally enclosed by private land so is not spoilt by fisherman and picnickers leaving their rubbish.

In conversation, one of the other fellows, who is a local farmer told us about the new toy he has bought: a self-propelled rechargeable wheelbarrow - clearly the rural toy for the man who has everything.  Paul found it in a catalogue but had trouble convincing the local suppliers that such a thing existed.  However, one was sourced and is being delivered soon.

It's just like a noirmal wheelbarrow with a wheel at the front and 2 handles at the back. but the front wheel is attached to an electric motor and, instead of two legs to keep it level, it has two more wheels.  The motor is driven by two rechargeable batteries.

We asked him why he needed such a thing, knowing that the farm has tractors, quad bikes and various trailers but he told us a story which explained it all.  With the cold weather, they are using quite a lot of wood in the house, not only for the various fires, but also for the old- fashioned fuel stove in the kitchen.  He had noticed that his wife, Cate, was having trouble pushing the wheelbarrow full of wood from the shed up to the back door, so he thought she might appreciate a bit of help.

I don't know whether he managed to find a pink wheelbarrow, or whether it's a gift for a birthday or wedding anniversary but it does show that, in the countryside, romance is not dead.

Saturday, July 11th

The weather is awful this morning: cold and bleak.  Jamie and Nera have gone to Hobart for the weekend to celebrate their 6th wedding anniversary but, of course, when they announced to their friends that this was their plan, everybody wanted to get in on the action.  So now there are 24 of them, staying at the one hotel and desperately looking for restaurants which can cater for such a big crowd.

Marilyn and I are going out for lunch today, to friends in Deloraine.  It will be nice, of course, but there's also an attraction in staying home, with the heater on, catching up with a good movie on TV. 

Yesterday's topic for my writing group was The Bungalow and here's my effort.  It's intended to be the introductory chapter for a much longer story if I ever feel the urge to write it.

Charles checked his mail box every morning although he rarely received anything more than advertising circulars, or reminders of bills due, or hopeful missives from charities about the continuing need for fortunate individuals like him to share their clearly undeserved wealth. Even birthday cards now came by email.  Each morning, though, he wondered, “Will there be something exciting in the box today?”  And, this morning, surprisingly, there was a real letter.  As he took it from the box, Charles thought “and an answer came directed, in a writing unexpected”.  How extraordinary, he mused, I haven’t read Banjo Patterson since I was at school and, yet, the famous words just popped into my head.  The letter was unexpected, though not hand-written, in fact, quite official looking but with an unfamiliar stamp.  

Giving himself a shake, Charles turned the letter over and noted it was from a firm of solicitors in Delhi, of all places.  Immediately, he wondered if it could be about his mother’s sister, Eloise, who had followed in the footsteps of The Beatles and vanished into India all those years ago.   She was the only possible connection he might have with India. His mother was long gone so he must now be Eloise’s only living relative.  He hadn’t thought about Aunt Eloise for years; better open the letter and see what it was about!

Dear Sir, it read, it is our sad duty to inform you that our client, your relative Eloise Parker has recently passed away and the purpose of this letter is to inform you that she has left you the entirety of her estate, in particular a small dwelling in Kashmir.  Enclosed is a cheque representing the balance of her available funds less the amount of our fees.  It would be appreciated if you could contact us at your earliest convenience to inform us of your wishes in regard to the Kashmir property.

Well, that’s the last thing I expected this morning, thought Charles.  I thought Eloise had died years ago.  I suppose I’ll just write to these solicitors, tell them to sell the house and send me the money.  What do I want with a house in Kashmir, for goodness sake?  A bit of extra cash will be useful. On second thoughts, though, I could use this cheque to fly to Kashmir, see the house and have a bit of a holiday at the same time.

Three weeks later, Charles arrived in Delhi, and met the solicitors who had arranged onward travel for him to Kashmir, and a guide to make sure he arrived there safely.  India was a shock to his senses: the noise, and the crowds of people and, above all, the smells, but Kashmir was heaven on earth.

The town where Eloise had ended her days was on a lake.  The air was cool and scented with exotic flowers.  There were houseboats on the lake and the guide explained they were a popular tourist attraction.  After his long journey, though, Charles was anxious to see his newly acquired house.  It stood in a clearing surrounded by tall trees.  From the depths of his memory, Charles dredged up the recognition that this was, in fact, a traditional bungalow, a house built in the Bengali style: it was one-storey, squarish, with verandahs on two sides.  The roof was thatched.  There was a feeling of tranquillity about it and some words came, unbidden, to his mind:

“There is sweet music here, that softer falls,

Than petals from blown roses on the grass.”

Poetry again, thought Charles, but Tennyson this time.  He realised that his plan to sell the house was not as cut and dried as he had thought.  This house … this ‘bungalow’ … had an attraction which Charles could already feel working on him.  How was he going to deal with it?

Friday, July 10th

The agent who's selling our house turned up yesterday with the buyer and one of his mates who is a builder.  If we had known they were coming, we would have cleared out but the agent apparently forgot to ring us.   No matter, it was good to meet the young fellow and to hear how excited he is with his new challenge.

He brought the builder along to advise him on how would be the best way to extend by adding another bedroom or two.  We had always said we build on to the back of the house, to make it more of a square shape, but the builder said he would recommend driving a corridor through the existing toilet and build on the back, adding two bedrooms and a full-size bathroom.  We're pleased he was complimentary about the quality of the existing building and that it was very suitable for extending.

The young fellow already owns (or is buying) a house in Launceston and is using the equity in that property to help him buy this one.  He intends to live here and rent the other.

We can feel that D-day is not far away and can't wait to start packing.  We've already cleared the shed of all our junk and the house will be a doddle compared to that task.

Monday, July 6th

The caravan seems to be moving again with regards to the sale of our house. Seven or eight people came through for an inspection during the week, several of them for a second look and the agent received three or four firm offers.  One fellow offered $5000 more then the asking price, and had already spoken to his bank so his offer was accepted.

Because this second offer has happened so quickly, there is still a chance that we will get the Longford unit.  Jamie managed to get the developer to agree to keep our offer open but we're not holding our breath.  It's out of our hands and we just have to let matters unfold.

This week's topic for the writing group was Black Pearl and here is my 566-word effort:

One time, in our travels, we found ourselves in the Philippines.  On this particular day, we were travelling to the island of Mindoro and we had been promised that it was famous for its white sand beach and its black pearls.  Locals told us the pearls were found in the Sulu Sea and were better quality than the more famous Tahitian black pearls.  But they would say that, wouldn’t they?

There were regular modern ferries which travelled to the island and the fare was only $8 but our hosts were determined to give us an experience to remember, so we lined up on the beach to embark on a traditional wooden banca.  We removed our shoes and I rolled up my trouser legs as the waves seemed to be getting higher.  It was Typhoon season and being on the open sea in a wooden boat didn’t appeal to me.  However, after a rather wet trip, we arrived safely and took a jeepney ride to the famous beach.

We had been warned about the hawkers who went along the beach looking for tourists to scam.  All the markets and street pedlars in the Philippines, it seems, are controlled by criminal gangs from Mindanao.  Young people are recruited to spend a few months in some market or resort area trying to extract money from tourists looking for a bargain and it wasn’t long before a clean-cut young man accosted us, saying “Would ma’am like to see some beautiful black pearls?”

My wife was unsure, remembering her grandmother’s warning that black pearls were unlucky but he reached into his bag, took out a velvet pouch and revealed a full string of black pearls.  He whipped out a cigarette lighter, ran the flame along the pearls to prove they were real and suggested a price. My wife was smitten and would have accepted but I know what is expected and suggested a lower price. We haggled for a bit and soon agreed on what was fair.  

Buoyed by my success I decided I needed to buy a watch and asked him if he had an Omega Chronograph.  “Yes, sir,” he replied, hurrying away and coming back with a stunning watch and quoted what I thought was a ridiculously low price.  More haggling ensued and agreement was reached.  The watchband needed a link taken from it so the young man crouched down on the sand and took out the appropriate tools from his bag and the job was done.

It was time for lunch so we headed off to find our friends.  We had clearly been identified as ‘soft touches’ so were surrounded by other hawkers as we headed for the restaurant.  They jostled us, pulled at our clothes to attract our attention and generally were a nuisance but eventually we arrived where we were going.  I was keen to show off my new purchase but, when I held up my arm, the watch was gone!  During the short walk from the beach to the restaurant, the watch had disappeared from my wrist.

I know it was a scam, and I can’t work out how they did it, but I hate to admit I have been fooled so I am blaming the incident on the Curse of the Black Pearl.  I know my wife agrees because she has never worn the pearls since, just in case something else goes wrong.