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.