Saturday January 1

 

It looks like Marilyn and I will have an extended Christmas this year.  We’ve come across a collection of TV Christmas Specials on Acorn TV, there are 19 in all so, if we dole them out carefully, we might retain the Christmas spirit for up to a month.

 

We watched Hercule Poirot last night and a Brokenwood Mystery this afternoon so we’re off to a great start.  Others we look forward to include Miss Phryne Fisher, Detective Murdoch, and The Detectorists.  We’ll have covered the UK, New Zealand, Australia and Canada before we’re finished.  I wondered why there are no US productions in the collection until I realised Acorn TV is about the UK and its one-time colonies.

 

No doubt, if I look harder on the internet I’ll find some cheery US offerings as well.

 

Happy New Year, whoever you are!

Friday, December 31

 

Since joining the Writing Group and being committed to write an 800-word story for every Friday meeting, I’m always on the look-out for good ideas.  Some of my fellow scribes only write about their own lives, others regurgitate stories from history but I think, if the stories are to be worth reading, they need to be varied and a little quirky.

 

So, I was delighted to read an interesting phrase in a novel I'm reading. Written on a sign in an outside toilet of a remote house is the injunction:  ‘Please replace the stone on the seat – it is to keep out the mink.’  Surely, I can turn that into something worth reading, I thought.  The very idea of a mink, the creature which provides luxurious fur for the wealthy and glamorous, being regarded, in some places, as a pest which breaks into toilets has the makings of a good yarn.

 

The novel, The Ice Twins, is the story of a couple who inherit a house on an island off the coast of Scotland and decide to live there.  So, I have a setting – Scotland – where mink run free.  Now I need a plot.  The couple might be in danger from a storm, or be cut off from the mainland by bad weather.  There might be smugglers who want to use the island as a base, or a boatload of refugees from Eastern Europe might be shipwrecked there and need assistance.  Is it during World War II and German commandos have their eye on the place?

 

Maybe the couple are fleeing to the island after a personal crisis and are looking for a fresh start and will find redemption in the company of seals and seagulls.  I don’t get too bogged down at this early stage; I’m more inclined to start writing and see where it leads.

 

I’ve used the phrase ‘Please replace the stone ….’ as the opening line and have reached 564 words without any enthusiasm for what I have written.  I think I’ll regards this as just another dead end and put this idea aside for the time being.  Maybe I’ll come back to it later, or maybe not.

Wednesday, December 29

 

Jamie and Nera invited us out for lunch today; they had ‘discovered’ a new casual restaurant in Launceston which Jamie said made the best Eggs Benedict he had ever eaten.  Nera rang this morning to make a booking and we arrived at the agreed time.  The restaurant was busy but eating-out has become the national pastime it seems and we weren’t surprised.  New restaurants always attract a bit of interest when they first open and things settle down when they become more established.

 

The fellow who seemed to be the boss looked around and said, “I’ll put you at this table at the front,” filled a carafe from the kitchen sink and grabbed a handful of menus.  The table he took us to was obviously where people hung about when they were waiting for their takeaways.  It had the Covid check in signs in one corner and four low, plastic stools to sit on.

 

Obviously, our booking had been overlooked and drop-ins had taken up all the more comfortable tables.  We said ‘Naah!” and moved on.  We ended up in the dining room of the Silos Hotel, built in a couple of Victorian-era grain silos on the north bank of the Tamar.  The food was excellent, reasonably-priced and the ambience better suited our mood.

Tuesday, December 28

 

When you’re rapidly approaching 80 years of age, there are not many activities left that you can take part in safely.  No more skydiving or mountain climbing, no more white-water rafting or marathons; a walk around the block is about as much as your tired old body can handle.

 

Happily, one of the most enjoyable activities is still attainable – going out for lunch!

 

The sun was shining yesterday so we went out for lunch to the Basin Café at the Cataract Gorge.  We didn’t tell anyone in case they wanted to join us and we didn’t want to make a party of it.  Anyway, it’s easier to get a table for two even if you haven’t booked.

 

The Cataract Gorge is Launceston’s treasured jewel.  It’s just a few minutes from the city, and has, thankfully, been preserved from the developers who want to cash in on its potential.  You can swim there, in the river or a pool, there’s a chairlift and walking tracks, a couple of cafes and peacocks strutting around.

 

The Basin Café on the southern side of the Gorge is a favourite place for Sunday lunch.  Everyone was wearing their mask and the staff were not uncomfortable about reminding people about the new regulations. There were a couple of family groups and it seems this is a favourite place for celebrations.  Marilyn likes to make up stories about the groups, identifying the daughter who organises it and the grand-dad who is paying for everyone.  There is always a reluctant attendee and a black-sheep cousin who wants to make sure his legacy is secure.

 

Marilyn ordered scrambled eggs with feta cheese and I had seafood chowder.  The bill was not ridiculous and we returned home very satisfied.

Monday, December 27

 

I read an interesting article this morning about words which linguists call ‘orphaned negatives’, words like kempt, ruly, ept and gruntled.  These are real words which are no longer used though their opposites unkempt, unruly, inept and disgruntled are still popular.  We can add to these ruth, feck and gorm, and wouldn’t it be great if we could trot these words out at the appropriate time in our conversation?

 

I remember my mum would use the word ‘ruthy’ meaning someone who was compassionate so there is hope for the words yet.

 

Discombobulate is a wonderful word too, and we never hear ‘combobulate’ but the article mentions that Mitchell airport in Milwaukee has a ‘recombobulation area’ where passengers can release some of the tensions of air travel.

 

Of course, the English language is adopting new words all the time, many acquired from other languages.  Churchill used the term ‘black dog’ to mean depression, the new OED has curmudgeonly, mumpish, crumpsy, nettlish, porcupinal and spleenical, all meaning irritable.  I might be described as a ‘cacafuego’ (a person who passes comment on subjects they know nothing about).

 

Did you know that cacklefarts are eggs and that snottingers are handkerchiefs? 

 

But my favourite is a word from the Philippines: ‘gigil’, the irresistible desire to squeeze something cute.  Now how can I drop that into conversation?

Sunday. December 26 (2)

 

We’ve just come home from seeing West Side Story at our beautiful classic Star Cinema in Launceston.  We were trying to work out when we saw the original and, going on when it was first released in Sydney (1962) we reckon it was close to 60 years ago.  But what an impression this movie made on us then!  We saw it more than once and each time we were elated when we left the theatre, singing the songs and copying the dance moves.

 

This latest version is every bit as good and makes you wonder why Spielberg bothered to make it.  Reading the reviews of it in the press, it is not achieving the sort of attendance figures that might be expected.  Some reviewers are saying that people are going off remakes but I suspect that 60 years is just a bit too much time between one version and the next. 

 

 This version is darker than the original; the storyline is essentially the same but the violence is more intense and it’s that which sticks in your mind when you leave the theatre.  When we emerged into the daylight back in 1962 or 3, our heads were filled with the music and the dancing and the joy of being alive.  Today, we had the images of the shooting and the stabbing and the violence.  Maybe it’s just me but I’m sorry now that I tampered with those wonderful memories.

Sunday, December 26

 

Boxing Day and the sun is shining!  Marilyn and I are off to see the new, Steven Spielberg version of West Side Story this afternoon; we hope it’s as good as the original.

 

Christmas Day went off without a hitch. We were looking after Archie because Jamie and Nera were having a party on Christmas Eve and it’s better for him if he’s not there.  I took him for a walk quite early on Christmas morning and was surprised at how quiet the streets were.

 

There were no kids on bikes riding around the streets in their pyjamas, no impromptu cricket matches on front lawns and not even the sounds from open windows of happy children opening presents.  I tend to see the image of kids riding bikes around the streets in their pyjamas as a metaphor for Christmas Day but that probably just confirms my status as an old fuddy-duddy living in the past.

 

I saw only one other human being: a man getting into his car.  I thought he lloked a bit furtive but that's probably just my imagination.  Had he been up to no good?  We muttered Merry Christmas at each other and continued on our respective ways.  Even the usual dogs which bark at Archie on this walk were safely locked up.

 

Marilyn had baked a piece of ham so our breakfast was hot ham on croissants – wonderful.  Prawns and pasta salad was a perfect Christmas Dinner for the weather.  We had planned to watch Love Actually in the afternoon but became engrossed in our respective books until Jamie and Nera arrived with presents, and to pick up Archie.  They had brought a present for Archie: a Doggy Christmas Stocking filled with doggy games.  Archie was like an excited child watching each item spilled on to the floor, grabbing each one in turn and giving it a chew.  He quickly identified a favourite - a piece of green knotted rope - and took it to his bed for a good gnaw.

After they had gone home our evening was spent watching the Royal Command Performance which has become something of a tradition in our house.

 

No doubt we could have found more to do but sometimes less is more and in these Covid times, we are glad that we can enjoy each day as we do.

Saturday, December 25

 

 

 

A very Happy Christmas to Everyone who reads this.

 

Friday, Decmber 24

 

 

After yesterday’s (very biased) list of the ten best Christmas poems, I went looking for the ten best poems I could find written by Australians.  It wasn’t easy.  Banjo Paterson wrote a couple: Santa Claus Comes to Camp was written during the first World War and Santa Claus in the Bush where he, bizarrely, gives the farmer and his wife a Scottish accent.  

 

It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
When the wheat was ripe and tall,
A stranger rode to the farmer's gate —
A sturdy man and small.

"Rinn doon, rinn doon, my wee son Jack,
And bid the stranger stay;
And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne,
For the morrow is Christmas Day."

 

Henry Lawson’s poem, A Bush Fire, was set at Christmas time but, apart from those, most other stuff is very lightweight.

 

There are parodies of northern hemisphere poems with an Australian flavour: the most famous probably being Six White Boomers (written by a convicted paedophile) where kangaroos replace the traditional reindeer.  Tim Minchin’s White Wine on the Beach, like Boomers is a song but better captures the essential nature of a winter celebration translated into a summer setting.

 

But, for me, the best of all the Australian Christmas poems is Les Murray’s The Barranong Angel Case.  It’s too long to reproduce in full but here’s the beginning.

 

You see that bench in front of Meagher's store?
That's where the angel landed.
What? An angel?
Yes. It was just near smoko time on a sale day.
Town was quite full. He called us all together.
And was he obeyed?
Oh yes. He got a hearing.
Made his announcement, blessed us and took off
Again, straight up.
He had most glorious wings . . . .
What happened then?
There were some tasks he'd set us
Or rather that sort of followed from his message.
And were they carried out?   
At first we meant to,
But after a while, when there had been some talk
Most came to think he'd been a bit, well, haughty,
A bit overdone, with those flourishes of wings

Thursday, December 23

 

Every now and again you come across one of those insufferable people who seem to be good at everything.  Today, it’s Allie Esiri.  She’s a British person with a good degree from some posh university, married to a merchant banker, published author, actor in TV dramas, popular guest on talk shows, etc.  Her latest publication to hit the shelves (just in time for Christmas!) is Christmas Poems, following on from Shakespeare for Every Day of the Year and A Poet for Every Day of the Year.

Here is her list of the ten best Christmas poems:

1.         Ring Out Wild Bells by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

2.         Talking Turkey by Benjamin Zephaniah

3.         A Visit from St Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore

4.         The Oxen by Thomas Hardy

5.           Christmas by John Betjeman

6.         Christmas Carol by Paul L Dunbar

7.         The Christmas Rose by Cecil Day Lewis

8.         I Saw a Stable by Mary Coleridge

9.         Journey of the Magi by TS Eliot

10.      A Christmas Poem by Wendy Cope

At first sight, it’s a very ‘safe’ list of mostly well-known English middle-class Establishment writers with a nod to the US with the ‘done-to-death’ Moore poem which starts “Twas the night before Christmas …” but the inclusion of Dunbar is inspired.

    Ring out, ye bells! 

     All Nature swells

With gladness at the wondrous story,—

   The world was lorn,

   But Christ is born

To change our sadness into glory.

 

   Sing, earthlings, sing!

   To-night a King

Hath come from heaven's high throne to bless us.

   The outstretched hand

   O'er all the land

Is raised in pity to caress us.

 

   Come at his call;

   Be joyful all;

Away with mourning and with sadness!

   The heavenly choir

   With holy fire

Their voices raise in songs of gladness.

 

   The darkness breaks

   And Dawn awakes,

Her cheeks suffused with youthful blushes.

   The rocks and stones

   In holy tones

Are singing sweeter than the thrushes.

 

   Then why should we

   In silence be,

When Nature lends her voice to praises;

   When heaven and earth

   Proclaim the truth

Of Him for whom that lone star blazes?

 

   No, be not still,

   But with a will

Strike all your harps and set them ringing;

   On hill and heath

   Let every breath

Throw all its power into singing!

 

It’s interesting that Wendy Cope made the list and her poem is fairly innocuous.  Pam Ayres might have made more of it.

 

At Christmas little children sing and merry bells jingle,
The cold winter air makes our hands and faces tingle
And happy families go to church and cheerily they mingle
And the whole business is unbelievably dreadful, if you're single.

 

Wednesday, December 22

 

Nobody buys me Christmas presents any more but I still like to check the web for the latest gadgets that I would like to have.  There’s so much around but not a lot of interesting stuff.  Here are a few I came across this week.

NUUBU – an all-natural, eco-friendly solution to relieve your body of toxins.  It seems like some sort of pads for your feet which you spread with this solution, attach them to your soles in some way and leave them for a while.  I can imagine wearing them watching television except that the magic of our relationship seems to be diminishing anyway and wearing these unsightly objects certainly wouldn’t help.

PEEPS – designed for cleaning glasses.  Soft carbon microfibres attached to a plastic applicator cleans both sides of lenses at once.  I suppose I’d have to keep it in my pocket with all the other stuff I can’t do without: comb, handkerchief, keys, and so on and I wonder how this gadget is better than a tissue.

KEYZMO - Advertised as being perfect for outdoor adventurers and handymen so clearly aimed at people like me, the ad asks the question, ‘what do a dangling wire, a broken bicycle and a bottle of beer have in common?’  I don’t know but, clearly, Keyzmo plays some part in the answer.  Yes, Keyzmo is a vaguely key-shaped mini-tool which will solve all those problems and others.  Do people really carry things like this around in case they come across a broken bicycle?

Tuesday, December 21

 

Within hours of the first planes arriving when Tasmania opened to the world on December 15^th, we had two confirmed cases of the Omicron variation of Covid.  It’s not surprising: the Government must have known it would happen and the systems were already in place to deal with it.  The two victims are in quarantine, contacts have been isolated and safety measures have been tightened.

 

Mostly, in our little bubble we remain unaffected by what’s happening in the real world but we can’t stay immune for ever.  Tomorrow is our Probus Christmas lunch and we’re going to a pub in Latrobe for a change. Because of the Omicron scare, the government has decreed that masks will be mandatory for people meeting in public indoor spaces, like hotel dining rooms.  Of course, we can remove our masks for eating but it’s still a pain.  Two or three people have pulled out of attending because they don’t want to take any chances. 

 

We’ll still be there; you only live once and we’ve had our booster shots.

 

We have decided, though, to cancel our trip away to Richmond.  With regulations in place, lots of places will shut and having to wear a mask everywhere we go is just too much bother.  We could see ourselves tired of going out and forced to sit on the bed in our hotel room watching rubbish on a small TV when we would be much more comfortable in our own home, watching the same rubbish on a bigger screen.

 

Shame really, but we’ve cancelled the hotel booking and will stay home.  When we rang the hotel to give them the bad news, the manager said that everyone else was cancelling too.  It must be hard being in the tourism business.

Monday, December 20

 

I thought it was just me but I read this morning that on-line retailers are missing out on millions of dollars worth of Christmas sales because potential customers hate having to have their shopping experience spoiled by the demand for them to provide their password.  It’s true: you find just the thing you are looking for at a great price, click the BUY button and your heart sinks when you are asked for your log-in and password.

 

If I could use a generic, easily remembered combination of letters and numbers, I would be reasonably happy but they always want more.  There is nothing more annoying than being told by an inanimate website that my password is inadequate.  It’s sneering taken to a new level.

 

I always remember the magazine ads from the 1950s featuring the sad sack who suffered from having sand kicked in his face at the beach.  ‘Face up to the bully,’ it said.  ‘Sign up for the Charles Atlas course and never have trouble with bullies again.’

 

Password arrogance is the new bullying but where is the 21^st century equivalent of Charles Atlas to provide a solution?

 

I wasn’t surprised with the tone of this article.  I love Amazon and Kogan and eBay but the on-line experience is not always wonderful.  I can only imagine how much better my life would be if I could have all the wonderful things that are only available on-line if it really took just one click of a button.

Sunday, December 19

 

It used to be a ‘thing’ to drive around the suburbs in the weeks before Christmas looking at the extravagant Christmas light displays that some householders set up. Local newspapers and radio stations would alert people to the addresses worth visiting and there was a real sense of community as people gathered to Oooh and Aaah at the magic before them.

 

Maybe it doesn’t happen so much now or maybe we don’t bother finding out about them.  Without children in the house we become a little blase about Christmas believing we’ve seen it all before.

 

I was reading an article about how people are now taking to social media to share their display ideas. Tracy from Moranbah in Queensland calls herself a ‘Christmas addict’ and is already planning her extravaganza for next year.  She frequents the group ‘Christmas Mums Australia’ which has 49000 members.  One woman in the group has had her display up since July because ‘it gave her something to do.’  If you want to know whether it is still acceptable to hang candy canes on the branches of the Christmas tree or where to buy gold sequin Santa hats in Perth, this site is the place to look.

 

Another site, ‘Outdoor Christmas Decorating’ was started by Chrissy Nuts (probably not her real name) and now has more than 2000 members.  Apparently, she has 17 Christmas trees on display in her house, along with life-sized polar bears, penguins and musical elves. She’s waiting for the delivery of a huge candy nutcracker that she’s been paying off all year.  It doesn’t say whether she has a husband.

Saturday, December 18

 Yesterday, when I was listing some of the ways in which we have spent Christmas Day in the past, I neglected to mention perhaps the most interesting of all - the Christmas we spent in Balatan in the Phillipines.  Nera's family is one of the most respected in the area.  Members of the family have fishing boats and employ many locals, one uncle was the mayor, Nera's mother runs a medical centre and her father owns a number of small shops and houses which he rents out, so the famliy is highly-respected. and admired.

Marilyn and I were staying in a house that Jamie and Nera own a couple of doors away from her parents and were looking forward to enjoying Christmas Day with the family.  Preparations started on Christmas Eve when a whole cooked pig was delivered; this would be the centrepiece of the meal which would be eaten at midnight.  Nera's mother and sisters spent hours preparing various traditional dishes while those not involved sang Karaoke using a machine which I had been coerced into hiring.  It's not usual to close doors and windows in this part of the world, so all the locals who heard the music gathered outside in the street and joined in with the singing.

As midnight struck, we were encouraged to start on the food.  The pig had been beheaded and the head was placed proudly in the centre of the table.  There was a thin beef soup and rice dishes, of course, and various leafy vegetables which I didn't recognise, as well as lots of sweet bread and fruit.  Marilyn and I had no appetite to eat at midnight but we needn't have worried about the food being wasted.  At about 8 in the morning, all the locals who had been hanging about outside all night, joining in our singing and listening to our conversations, were invited in to have their share of the food.  This is the tradition in rural areas of the Philippines; those who have food, are happy to share it with those who don't.

On Christmas Day, all the shops are open for their annual sale.  We visited the SM Mall in Naga and there was hardly room to move in the shops.  

This was not at all like the Christmases we experience in Australia but, in some ways, it was one of the best Christmases we have ever enjoyed., and certainly one of the most memorable.

Friday, December 17th

 I've been trying to pinpoint the time when our Christmas celebrations started to become the low-key event that it is now.  It's been a gradual process affected by a number of issues: the children, and even the grandchildren, have grown up, our wives have become tired of slaving over ridiculous Christmas dinners, more suited to Edwardian England, and we are no longer intrigued by surprise gifts.

For us, 1987 seemed to be a turning point.  In that year, we moved to Townsville, Jamie went to college in Wagga and Dad died.  Although we all met for Christmas in Gwynneville that year, as we had done many time before, the joy seemed to have disappeared.  

Looking back on memorable Christmases since that time, none of them have featured a huge turkey or a man in a red suit.  One time, Marilyn and I sat under a tree in Sorell in Tasmania, with a newspaper-wrapped pile of prawns and a bottle of NZ Sauvignon Blanc, other times we joined the raucous crowd at the Wrest Point Casino.  In Townsville, we had Christmas dinner with various friends, often around a pool and, back in Tasmania, we often enjoy informal events with just the handful of family who happen to live in the same town: Jamie and Nera, or Madeleine and Josh

This year, we will be away from home.  We might find a restaurant in Richmond with room for the two of us on Christmas Day or we might fall back on our usual favourite: a heap of prawns, some nice wine and something Christmassy on the TV.  I have a copy of Love Actually which has, apparently, become the Christmas favourite in the UK for years. 

Perhaps if our great-grandchildren, Macie, Juniper and Silas lived around the corner, we'd still be haunting the toy shops, sussing out the variety of Santa Clauses on offer, and sweating over a hot stove on Christmas morning.  But, they don't so we will just have to enjoy our low-key, muted Christmas celebration again this year wondering about what might have been.  There's a lot to be said about our mobile society but the days when several generations of a family lived in the same village brought benefits as well.  Instead of carefully choosing gifts, wrapping them, putting them under the Christmas tree and watching them being torn open by bleary-eyed, children in their pyjamas, we transfer some 'funds' by EFT and imagine what might be taking place on Christmas morning, hundreds of kilometres away.  The best we can look forward to is getting a thank-you in due course.  

Modern times!

 

Thursday, December 16th

 

Christmases took on a whole new flavour in the early-1970s when there were young children once again in the picture.  All of a sudden we were involving ourselves in the manic celebration which Christmas had become, checking out the latest must-have toys, and putting larger items on lay-by, hoping they would be paid off by Christmas day.  Visiting Santa Claus in the local department store became a tradition.  No ‘Working with Children’ card in those days – just a vaguely jolly bloke in a red suit who had to suffer hours of being nice to unpredictable children.  It was not unusual for our children to see 4 or 5 different Santas in one year; how did they reconcile this anomaly in their minds?

 

It became difficult when Marilyn and I decided that we would move to Tasmania when Jamie was turning 6.  His grandparents were devastated that he was being taken to what they saw as the other side of the world so we made a solemn promise that we would make sure he would always be in Wollongong at Christmas.

 

We had, of course, underestimated how expensive it would be to keep that promise.  Air fares alone ran into many hundreds of dollars and it was not unusual for us to book only one-way fares, leaving us with some cash in hand for spending money when we arrived.  We depended on booking the return fares in January and putting the cost on the credit card trusting that they could be paid off in due course. 

 

Christmas should be the happiest time of the year but the shine is taken off a bit when you are forced to count the cost.

Tuesday, December 14th

 

We’re really into the Christmas countdown now although it has nothing like the excitement of Christmases Past.  Nowadays, we don’t get exercised about buying presents; we’re more likely to spend any money we have spare on a lunch out together or a holiday.  We don’t plan a huge Christmas lunch with turkey, ham, 6 vegetables, trifle, pudding, crackers and funny hats.  No, our most regular Christmas dinner now is based around a kilo or two of the biggest prawns we can find.

 

Our Christmas tree is about 90cm tall. It has tiny flashing fibre-optic lights built into some of the branches and sits happily on a sideboard year after year, spreading Christmas cheer to all and sundry.  It’s been years since we’ve had a ‘real’ tree, shedding needles everywhere, and discarded like thousands of its mates on the 6^th of January.

 

We don’t get up any earlier on Christmas morning because there are no children in the house desperate to find out what ‘Santa’ has brought them.  We do tend to dress a little more tidily in honour of the significance of the day but it’s no big deal.

 

I don’t remember what Christmas was like when I was very young.  In Scotland, of course, it was winter so there would have been snow but what we now think of as a ‘traditional’ Christmas is based on two books: one English and one American, so it’s unlikely they had much of an influence in Scotland.  ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’, the poem by Clement Clarke Moore, lays out the procedure for Christmas in fine detail and A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens fills in the gaps. 

 

I do remember two books which I probably received as Christmas presents and brought with me to Australia: one was Rubalong Tales by Enid Blyton, and the other was an illustrated version of Oliver Twist, adapted for ‘Young Readers’.  The Enid Blyton has faded from my memory but the Dickens clearly made a strong impression on me.  I can remember clearly the way the characters were dressed, how angry I was at the behaviour of Mr Bumble and my mixed emotions when I read about the Artful Dodger.  Dickens' description of Fagin coloured my feelings about Jewish people for years. 

 

                                                                        …. To be continued

Sunday, December 12th

 

It’s Sunday, December 12^th. I’ve been up since 7 and it’s now 8.50am.  I’ve watched the ABC news on TV, browsed the online Guardian and decided that I don’t need to know anything more about the state of the world.  We have Archie with us at the moment; he’s been through to say Good Morning but has again retired to the bedroom where Marilyn is catching up on her reading.  I’m in the habit of taking her 1.5 cups of coffee in the morning which keeps her going until she feels the need for breakfast, and allows me an hour or so to get myself into gear for what the day might bring.

 

In fact, we have no plans for the day.  The sun is shining so we might get out, perhaps taking Archie for a walk somewhere.  Or maybe not.  Checking our diaries we have nothing much planned for the next few days.  We’ll get booster Covid shots on the 17^th and are meeting friends for lunch on the same day; our Probus Christmas Party is on the 21^st and we are heading for Hobart on the 23^rd.  We decided to go away for Christmas this year for a change. Jamie and Nera are always busy with their friends at this time of the year and we don’t like to gate-crash their parties so have booked accommodation at Richmond so we can ‘do our own thing’.  We’re looking forward to seeing the new West Side Story at the State Theatre on Boxing Day.

 

If things had been different, we might have flown to Brisbane to see Madeleine and the  great-grandchildren, or to Wollongong, or we might even have lashed out and flown to Christchurch or Tokyo.  Instead, we’re limited to what our small state can offer but that’s not too much of a problem.  We’re at the stage where we enjoy our own company and don’t need other people around.  It’s nice, of course, to have others to talk to but sometimes it’s just too much bother.

 

I sent out our usual Christmas letter yesterday and it was great to receive an immediate response from our friend Lynne in England.  She said she couldn’t sleep, decided to check her emails and was delighted to receive our missive.  I wonder how many more people will take the trouble to respond.  I hadn’t realised how much I look forward to getting feedback but I’m now posting stuff on the internet almost every day and, so far as feedback is concerned, I might as well be putting my words straight into the bin.

 

My last post on The Joy of Retirement was read by 4 people, the one before by 7 and the one before that by 13.  Who are these people?  Are they real people or are they Chinese bots trawling the internet looking for secret information?  Does the Australian government routinely check what their citizens are writing in case a plot is being hatched secretly?  If they are real people, why don’t they identify themselves?  Is checking my blog regarded as a secret vice, best kept under the covers in case loved ones might get the wrong idea?

 

I kid myself that I write the blog, and things like the Christmas letter, for my own pleasure but I routinely check for any feedback.  Sadly, feedback is rare. We seem to have become a society whose members are programmed to consume media that is presented to us, but not expected to respond.  What was once regarded as good manners, to answer letters received, is now no longer seen as necessary.  We have become the ultimate consumers.

I Am Not Yet Dead

 

At my Poetry Group this week I read a poem by Louis McNeice.  It is called  I Am Not Yet Born and was written in the last few months of World War 2.

I am not yet born, O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat, or the rat, or the stoat, or the clubfooted ghoul
come near me.
I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope
me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood baths roll me ….

 

It’s powerful stuff and I was astounded to hear that our tutor, a Canadian woman who now lives in Tasmania, has written an ‘answer’ to it.  It’s published in her new book The Longest Conversation.

 

I am not yet dead, so hear me

Let not my senses dull to disappearance

O let me hear, O let me see

Until the darkness comes.

 

I am not yet dead, don’t ignore me

let not the fact that I’m not rich diminish me;

I worked for my money half a century

paid my debts to Caesar,

worked even longer for no money

to pay all other debts,  and still do;

I am not yet dead, and I am not useless …

 

I bought her book last week and am reading it one poem a day, but hadn’t reached page 77 where the poem is printed.  It’s extraordinary that, of all the poems I might choose, I settled on one with such a connection to our tutor.

The Christmas Fairy

 

Today was the last of our Writing sessions for the year and we all presented our very short stories on the theme of Christmas.  As usual, some were better than others; I wrote on the topic of The Christmas Cat, drawing for inspiration on my Aunt Mabel’s evil Chino.  One of the other participants, who has some connection with Scotland, amused us all with a poem she had found:  The Christmas Fairy.

 

I am a little fairy
On tap o' the Christmas Tree
It's no' a job I fancy
Well how would you like tae be me?

Aw tarted up wi' tinsel
It's enough to mak ye boak
An’ a couple o' jaggy branches
Rammed up the back o' yer frock.

 

An' these wee lights a'roon me
I canna get ma sleep
An' there's the yearly visit
Fae Santa ......Big fat creep!

On Christmas Day A'm stuck up here
While you're a' wirin' in
An' naebody says, "Hey you up there
Could ye go a slug o' gin?

 

It's nae joke bein' a fairy
The job's beyond belief
You've got to go roon' the wean's beds
And lift their rotten teeth

But o' a' the joabs a fairy gets
An' I've mentioned only some
The very worst is sitting up a tree
Wi' pine needles up yer bum 

 

When a' the fairies meet again
By the light o' the silvery moon
Ye can tell the Christmas fairies
They're the wans that canna sit doon

The Christmas tree's a bonny sight
As the firelight softly flickers
But think o' me A'm stuck up here
Wi' needles in ma knickers.

 

So soon as Christmas time's right by
An' A stop bein' sae full o' cheer
A'll get awa back tae Fairyland
An' A'll see yous a' next year.